I was twelve when Mom and I first moved into this villa. I was shy, quiet, and scared. And he was the one who smiled and said, “Don’t be afraid. This is your home now.”
Those memories crashed into me like a tidal wave, blending with the cruel reality in front of me.
Maybe it was the tumor messing with my mind. Maybe that’s why everything felt so blurry and surreal.
“Be good, little sister,” he said, his tone soft but laced with threat. “All I’m asking is that you paint a few more pieces. I’ve taught you for years—it’s time to see what you’ve really learned.”
He was right. He taught me how to paint. I owed everything I knew to him.
So if he asked me to pay him back… how could I say no?
He led me into the basement storage room, where abandoned easels gathered dust.
Darell’s voice was calm as he said, “Margot and I will be staying in the country for the next two months. During that time, you won’t have to do anything else. Just paint.”
“I’ll have food and clothes brought to your room. When you’ve turned in work I’m satisfied with—when your debt is paid—I’ll give you money, and we’ll be done,” he added with a blank face.
It hurt. Like every nerve in my body was screaming.