Chapter 2

Chapter 2. Mixed feelings.

Am I being selfish? Should I just accept this fate to save Dad... and Damian?

But if I do, what happens to me?

I don't want to disappear, swallowed by someone else's name. I want to leave my own mark—my own story. My signature, inked into the script of time.

A gust of wind brushed against Emily's skin as she sat by the riverbank, the water rippling under the twilight sky. The world around her was quiet, but inside, her thoughts raged like a storm.

Then—

"There you are, my little princess. I've been searching for you."

Damian.

She didn't turn. Didn't answer.

Damian sat beside her, silent at first, watching her wrestle with emotions she refused to share.

Finally, he sighed. "Emily, please—"

Before he could finish, she wore her shoes and walked off, fast.

Damian groaned. "Oh, come on!"

He picked up his pace. So did she.

"Emily!" he called, jogging after her.

She walked faster.

"Are you being serious"? 

Now she was speed-walking.

"Emily, for the love of—"

Now she was full-on power-walking.

A few onlookers chuckled.

"Is this a romantic chase?" someone whispered.

"Young love," another sighed dramatically.

Damian, breathless but determined, broke into a jog.

Emily's eyes widened. Oh no.

She sprinted.

"EMILY!"

The whole riverbank turned to watch.

One guy, holding an ice cream cone, muttered, "Damn, she's fast."

A woman shook her head. "If only my husband chased me like that."

Finally—out of breath and out of excuses—Emily stopped.

Hands on her hips, she glared at Damian. "Are you happy now?"

He doubled over, panting. "No. I think I just aged ten years."

The bystanders clapped.

Someone yelled, "Marry him already!"

Emily groaned. "Ugh, this is ridiculous."

Damian straightened, still wheezing. "Says the girl who just tried to outrun a conversation."

Emily sighed, finally letting him catch up.

"Let's not do this back and forth. Mrs. Stone called to confirm if we're still in for the deal. The hospital called too." He inhaled sharply. "They're sending Dad off today. No drugs. No care. No treatment."

Emily's breath hitched.

"What do we do, sis?" His voice wavered. His eyes glistened, though no tear fell.

He was trying to be strong.

"I know I might not be the best big brother," he murmured, "but please… see this from my point of view. You may not love him now, but one day, you might. Trust me."

Emily laughed—a hollow, bitter sound.

"Trust you?" Her voice was sharp, laced with unshed tears. "I lost that when you sold me off to a wheelchair-bound heir. Damian, this isn't the life I planned for myself."

She took a deep breath, steadying herself. "I'll be taking my paintings to sell later today. I can raise money until Dad gets better. Please, trust me on this."

Damian ran a hand through his hair, his shoulders tense. "Emily, we're running out of time. I don't want us to lose on both sides."

Silence.

Then—his jaw clenched, and disappointment clouded his face.

But he forced a smile. A fake one.

"Fine," he said. "Since this has been resolved, are you coming home now?"

Emily softened. "Yes. Let's go home. I need to finish my paintings and take them to the Torrance Art Museum."

She wrapped her arms around him, holding him tight—like someone who had won a fortune.

The alarm blared.

Emily jerked up, she blinked, disoriented. Then she sounded panic.

"Oh no," she breathed. "I didn't finish!"

No time.

She gathered the five finished paintings and rushed to the museum, her heart pounding.

Inside, the gallery was nearly empty—except for a few visitors murmuring near famous exhibits.

Emily set up her paintings, paid her small entry fee, and waited.

Hours passed.

No one even glanced at her work.

She bit her lip, fingers tightening around the edge of the table.

The curators would soon ask her to leave.

Then

The sound of polished shoes against the marble floor.

She turned.

A man approached.

Tall. Elegant. His suit was tailored to perfection, sculpted to his frame. He had an air of effortless power—the kind that made people step aside without him asking.

But it was his eyes that made her shiver.

Still. Deep. Like waters that ran dangerously silent.

He stopped in front of her display, hands in his pockets, studying her work.

"Interesting," he murmured.

Emily swallowed. "Excuse me?"

"Your work it feels caged."

She blinked. "Caged?"

He gestured at one of her paintings. "The strokes fight for freedom, but the structure holds them back. The colors reach beyond the canvas, yet they hesitate." His gaze flicked to her. "Just like their creator."

A strange unease crawled up her spine.

"How much?" he asked.

Hope flickered. "Two hundred dollars each."

He didn't react. Instead, he said, "I'll take them all for fifty."

Her stomach dropped.

"Fifty?" She gave a breathless laugh. "That doesn't even cover my supplies."

He tilted his head. "Do you want to sell, or should I go?"

She gritted her teeth. "At least a thousand."

His expression remained unreadable. "Fifty-five."

Anger and desperation clashed in her chest. "That's an insult."

He studied her. "You look troubled. Is it just the money?"

She hesitated. Then, before she could stop herself

"My father is sick. Debt collectors are circling like vultures. My brother is willing to sell me into marriage just to clear our debts." She exhaled. "To a man in a wheelchair."

Silence.

Then—

"What's your name?" he asked.

"…Emily Jackson."

His lips curled.

"Emily." He said it slowly, like testing the weight of it on his tongue.

"I'm Olivia Mays."

The name sent a shiver through her.

"I like you," he said. "So let's change the deal."

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping just enough to make her skin prickle.

"I won't marry you," he murmured. "But for one night, I'll pay you $2,500—for the artist… and her art."

The words hit like a slap.

Her stomach twisted. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

Her pulse pounded.

"You'd pay $2,500 for one night—but not $1,000 for my paintings?" Her voice shook. "That's—"

"Cruel?" he finished for her. "Or just honest?"

She clenched her fists. "I can't do that."

He smirked. "Then let's do $600. No games. Just the paintings."

Her throat tightened. "No."

"Shame," he murmured.

Then

Her phone rang.

Again.

And again.

A sense of dread curled in her gut.

Slowly, she pressed it to her ear.

The news hit like ice.

And her blood ran cold.

"Oh no…" she whispered.

Why?