When I finally woke up, Darell was standing in front of me, face like a thundercloud.
“This is what you call keeping your word?” he snapped, eyes sweeping over the mess on the floor. “You just made a mess here!”
His voice was low and angry. “Do you still think you’re a kid? That throwing a tantrum will get people to coddle you and clean up your mess?”
My vision was blurry, but his voice rang loud and clear. I wanted to respond—wanted to explain—but my throat was raw. The taste of blood and rust even clung to the back of it. No words came out.
He was wrong about me.
I’d never been the kind of girl who threw tantrums. Not once. I’d always been the type to make myself small, to please others, to keep the peace.
Funny, he was the one who once told me, “A girl with her own personality, who knows how to speak her mind, is so cool.”
But I guess that version of him only existed in my memories. The kind I seemed to be the only one holding onto.
“Regina,” he said coldly, “playing mute won’t get you anywhere. I taught you how to paint—I know exactly what you’re capable of. Twenty paintings in two months. If you can’t deliver, don’t blame me for being ruthless.”