“This one rose,” he said, “is the only one that’s barely passable.”
The crimson rose on the canvas was still wet. I had painted it using my own freshly spilled blood.
My voice was barely audible as I pleaded, “Please… let me go. I can’t take this anymore.”
But he just stared at me with icy eyes.
“You’ve always faked illness to get sympathy. I’m not falling for it.”
What he didn’t know—what he refused to believe—was that this time, I wasn’t pretending. I was really dying.
——
"You know,” he said casually, “to make it big in any industry, talent alone isn’t enough. You need a story that grabs attention. Something dramatic.”
“Anyway, since you’re quitting, why not do me one last favor?" he asked, changing the topic. "Help Margot make her debut by passing your legacy on to her. Wouldn’t that be a nice gesture?”
Darell Reynolds lounged on the sofa, staring straight into my eyes with smug satisfaction.
The so-called “evidence” he used to destroy me was scattered across the floor. If he’d actually bothered to look closely, he’d have seen that every stroke—every color—was filled with pieces of him.