Something about it made my stomach turn. I forced my voice to stay steady. “One painting doesn’t prove anything. If she doesn’t have the skill, she won’t be able to fake it forever.”
Darell’s expression darkened instantly.
“Margot is still young. I can help her grow at her own pace," he reasoned. “That painting was just a birthday surprise. She likes attention, so I pulled a few strings to give her a moment in the spotlight. Nothing wrong with that.”
Then he looked me over, cold calculation in his eyes. “But your little comment just now gave me an idea.”
He let out a slow, chilling breath. “My dear sister. Margot doesn’t have your natural talent… so she might need you to help her out a few more times.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He gave a cold, empty smile and grabbed my wrist.
“You’ve been living in my house all these years. Consider this my way of collecting rent. Fair, don’t you think?”
I struggled to break free, but his grip didn’t budge.
Pain surged through me, and with it came tears I couldn’t stop. I didn’t know how to respond—how to make sense of this version of him.