CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE The Art of Unbecoming
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The Art of Unbecoming
I ruined everything.
Not intentionally, or violently, but quietly. Festering rot of inability.
I had sat here for hours – maybe more, I didn’t recall – surrounded by the tools that once bowed to my fingers. And yet, all I created was a goddamn mess. A chaos of colours with no voice. A battlefield of bleeding hues, and none of them brave enough to mean anything.
My knees ached from kneeling on the hardwood. My pulse trembled with the sticky guilt of wasted paint. And my throat… was thick with grief that didn’t sob. It curdled.
I stared at the canvas before me. No, wreckage of one. I tried. God, I tried. Dipped the brush, stroked the white, dragged colour after colour, and nothing came of it. No faces. No story. No ache poured onto the surface.
Just noises in my head.
Blues crashing into reds that looked more like bile than passion. A slash of ochre that meant nothing to me anymore. Smudges of viridian that taunted me with memories of Adrian’s laughter. It all stared back at me like strangers. And I? I felt like a fraud sitting among them.
I once sold a painting for twenty thousand dollars. I remembered the number because it made me vomit. Not from joy, however, but from the terrifying truth that I was no longer anonymous. I was wanted. Coveted and feared me.
And now? Now I couldn’t even paint a single thing without hating every second of it.
I was weak.
Pathetic.
A husk of a woman who once made colours weep on command. I used to paint with pain, and people called it genius. Now, all I had was pain, and it just made me still. Silenced and useless.
My fingers tightened around the edge of the canvas. And then something inside me snapped.
I tore the canvas in half.
The sound of it tore through the silence along with my frustrated grunts. My breath caught in my throat. With all the fury and shame and self-hatred I could muster, I threw it all at the door.
The moment it hit wood, the door opened.
And there she stood.
Elena.
Her expressions didn’t flinch. But I saw it. That small flicker of surprise. The tray in her hand trembled only slightly. On it, a tall glass of orange juice and perfectly sliced fruits.
Of course.
Everything here was perfect, except me.
I wiped my face. I refused to let her see the tears, even if they were still drying on my cheeks.
“I’ll clean it,” I muttered.
Elena stepped forward, calm as always. She set the tray down, watching me without judgment. Or maybe she did judge me. But she did it in silence.
“Master awaits you in his study,” she said softly.
My jaw clenched. I hated the way she said master, like I belonged to him. Like this was normal. Like I hadn’t desecrated a piece of myself in this room.
I didn’t answer. I just gathered the broken wood and mangled fabric. Hands stinging with splinters. My soul felt splintered, too.
Elena waited a few seconds longer, then added. “You should freshen up.”
I glared at her. Briefly. With the kind of contempt that had no real target. She was just doing her job. And I? I was the girl who couldn’t even do what she was born for.
The bathroom mirror was cruel.
It showed me a woman stained with colour she didn’t understand. Blue on her collarbone. Crimson down her forearm. Green smeared across her throat like ivy trying to strangle her.
I cleaned myself slowly. Methodically. Trying to erase evidence of who I’d become. I scrubbed the dried paint from my neck, my chest, and under my nails until my skin reddened and stung. But nothing worked. I was stained beneath the skin now.
I changed.
One of the dresses he’d brought. Of course it was revealing. Dark red. Silky. I was trying to do neither. But I wore it anyway.
Like a prisoner in uniform.
I didn’t touch the fruits or the juice. I didn’t deserve the softness.
I stormed down the hall, my feet silent against marble. Fury tucked behind every controlled breath. I didn’t wait for Elena. I didn’t even knock.
I pushed the door open and froze.
There were three people in the room.
Two women. And one man.
The man I recognised. The lawyer who brought the wedding papers. Sleazy smile, expensive watch, and looking uncomfortable for some reason.
But the women?
One was young, too young to be here. Slender, stylish, and lips painted the shade of coral.
The other… she was older. Beautiful in a quiet, aristocratic way, her features were sharp, but there was something so achingly familiar in the arch of her cheekbones. The shape of her mouth.
And then it hit me.
She looked like me.
Older. Hardened. And polished by the years I hadn’t yet lived.
I stood awkwardly, breath caught in my chest. I opened my mouth to apologise and step back, but his voice stopped me.
“Come in.”
Rough. Gravelly and absolute.
I lifted my head.
And saw him.
Zagreus Vitale, behind his mahogany desk like a monarch carved from dusk.
Sleeves rolled up, revealing those forearms, tanned, veined, and marked by living.
His powder blue shirt made his skin look darker, more severe.
The scar on his cheek caught the light, and my insides churned for all the wrong reasons.
His eyes met mine. Grey. Smouldering and commanding. Daring me.
I got the message.
Behave. Or bleed.
So I did what I always did lately.
I obeyed.
I stepped inside. Quiet as winter and small as guilt.
But my heart was beating loudly in my ears.
Because something was happening in that room.
And I wasn’t ready.