And me? I didn’t have much time left anyway.
Still, I looked him in the eye and hoarsely said, “I’ll do what I promised.”
That finally seemed to satisfy him. He gave a curt nod.
“Good. That’s what I like to hear. Margot made this meal for you. Say what you want, but she’s the only one still thinking about you. Be grateful.”
He tossed the food container on the table and left without another word.
That night, I picked up the brush again and painted until I was shaking. Hunger got the best of me eventually, so I caved and ate the meal.
So no, I wasn’t someone with unbreakable pride.
The next few days, it was the assistant who brought me food. I could barely see straight anymore, but I didn’t let myself stop. Not even for a second.
He said once we were even, I could go. So I kept painting—pouring everything I had into it.
Time blurred, and I just remember blood splattering on the canvas. I wiped my mouth, smearing the red across my hand, and kept painting like nothing had happened.
When I finally finished all twenty paintings, I told the assistant to send Darell a message, telling him I’m done and to come pick them up, and let me go.