Chapter 2

Pain.

It lingers in my wrist, sharp and throbbing, right where Neil's fingers had pressed against my bandages. Right where he knew it would hurt.

I should have broken his nose harder.

But no. I let that smug, bleeding bastard have the last word.

"Don't leave me again."

What the actual fuck was that supposed to mean?

I flick my lighter open—my lighter, thank you very much—and inhale deep, letting the cigarette smoke burn my lungs. It's not helping. My head is still reeling. My body still feels like it's vibrating with leftover adrenaline.

I don't know who Neil Varian is, and I don't care.

He's some new asshole who decided to make my life even worse. That's it. That's the end of the fucking story.

I exhale slowly, leaning back against the cold rooftop railing. The city stretches out below, neon lights blinking in the distance, a steady pulse against the dark sky. Everything looks so far away from up here—so small, so unreal.

I should stay here.

But then—

My phone buzzes.

I glance down.

One new message.

From him.

[Come home. Now.]

I stare at the screen.

Home? HOME?

If we're talking about a house full of marble floors, suffocating expectations, and a giant chandelier that serves no purpose other than making the place look like a villain's lair, then sure.

But a home?

That place hasn't been a home since my mother died.

---

The drive to the mansion feels longer than usual.

Not because of the traffic. Not because of the driver, who is expertly pretending I don't exist.

But because of the fucking silence.

The city outside the car window is loud—horns blaring, people shouting, the world moving at its usual breakneck pace—but inside? It's suffocating.

My fingers drum against my knee. My wrist still aches. The bruises feel heavier in this car, in this silence, in this inevitable trip back into hell.

I lean my head against the window, watching the streetlights blur.

[Come home.]

That's a joke.

This place isn't a home. It never has been.

When the gates finally open and the mansion comes into view, I resist the urge to throw myself out of the moving vehicle.

---

Walking inside feels like stepping into a mausoleum.

The air is stale, suffocating. Every step I take echoes like I don't belong. Which, to be fair, I don't.

The walls are still lined with her paintings.

At least, they used to be.

Now?

They're all covered. White sheets draped over the canvases, concealing what's underneath. As if pretending they don't exist will erase her completely.

My fingers twitch as I pass by them. I know what's under there. I know every stroke of her brush, every color she mixed with her own hands. My mother wasn't just an artist—she was a visionary. A woman who painted worlds that didn't exist, just so she could escape from the one she was trapped in.

And now, my father has buried them.

Just like he buried her.

The moment I step inside, I know where I need to go.

Straight to his office.

I don't knock. I don't need to. He's expecting me.

My father is seated behind his massive oak desk, flipping through documents like I'm just another inconvenience in his schedule.

He doesn't even look up.

"You look like a mess," he says.

I roll my eyes. "Wow, thanks, Dad. Really starting this conversation off strong."

His gaze flickers to my wrist. The bandages. His lips press into a thin line.

Ah. Here we go.

"You've been doing this again."

It's not a question. It's an accusation.

I don't reply.

His fingers tap against the desk—slow, rhythmic, controlled. Then, with the ease of someone completely unaffected, he picks up the ruler.

I swallow, my throat suddenly dry.

Not just any ruler. His favorite. The one with sharp edges.

"You think this makes you special?" he asks, voice flat. "You think this gives you an excuse to be a failure?"

"Geez, I don't know, Dad," I say, forcing a smile. "Maybe I just enjoy pain. Maybe it's my way of bonding with you since you do nothing but drag me to hell."

His expression doesn't change. He just gestures for my hand.

I hesitate.

But I know how this works.

If I refuse, it's worse.

So I extend my wrist.

The first strike lands. Sharp. Precise.

The second one stings more.

By the third, my fingers curl into a fist.

Not because I care.

Not because it hurts.

But because I hate that he doesn't.

---

I should've left.

I should've walked out and let the door hit me on the way out.

But no. Instead, I get dragged into dinner.

It's just me, my father, and my sister. Or as I like to call us: One emotionally unavailable tyrant, one overachieving princess, and one artistic failure.

The table is too long. The food is too expensive. The atmosphere is too suffocating.

I stare at my plate. The steak. The perfectly arranged sides. It looks like something out of a cooking show.

And yet—

I can't eat it.

I try. I force my fork into the meat, cut a small piece, chew.

And then my stomach twists.

I put my fork down.

"Not hungry?" my father asks, voice dripping with disapproval.

I say nothing.

My sister frowns at me. "You should eat."

"Wow, thanks, Doc," I mutter. "Diagnosis: Starvation. Treatment: Fork."

My father sighs, shaking his head. "This is why you're weak. You refuse to take care of yourself. You waste your time with that ridiculous art of yours—"

And there it is.

The real reason I'm here.

Not the self-harm. Not the mess I've become.

But the fact that I am not what he wants me to be.

"You think painting will get you anywhere?" His voice is sharp. "You were born into a business empire. That is your future."

I stab my fork into the table.

"No," I say quietly. "That's your future."

His jaw tightens. My sister shifts uncomfortably. She glares at me with a 'What the fuck are you doing again?' look.

I push my plate away.

"I'm done."

"You didn't eat," my sister says.

I stand up. "Yeah. Because I'd rather starve than choke on this conversation."

---

The moment I step into my room, I barely make it to the bathroom before I'm vomiting.

I grip the edge of the sink, panting, my entire body shaking.

Fuck. Fuck.

"I think I'm dying."

I press my forehead against the mirror. My reflection stares back.

Wide eyes. Pale skin. A fucking wreck.

"You're fine," I mutter. "You're fine, you're fine, you're fine—"

Except I'm not.

My chest tightens. My breath comes out shaky, uneven, wrong.

My vision blurs. The walls close in.

I slide down to the floor, gripping my head.

The smoke. The burning paintings. My mother—

Crawling toward me, reaching for me, her fingertips coated in ash.

The flames eat away at her paintings. At her hands. At me.

And suddenly—

Knock.

My head snaps up.

Not from the door.

From the balcony.

I force myself to stand, legs shaking. I stumble toward the glass doors, my breath still unsteady.

And there—

Neil.

Standing outside. Watching me.

A slow grin tugs at his lips.

"Evening, Charssein."

And just like that—

I forget how to breathe.

---

TO BE CONTINUED...