Page 131 of Mine to Ruin

“Black is the most intimate color, with the most variations, and the most mysterious one. It expresses sorrow like nothing else.”

“And what does it say about you?” His fingers grip my chin, and I stare right into the eyes I saw my future in, but now its green’s hazed with conflict.

“There isn’t a black in the world that can express my sorrow.”

He cups my face and for one divine second, I lean into his touch, and his eyes clear of the fog. It happens simultaneously, the realization. I see my eyes reflect in his, with the memory of him ripping my heart out.

I push at his chest, both of us panting. “Leave.”

He tears himself off me, and I can breathe through the cracks in my lungs.

Mad as it is, it’s like I need to expunge this poison from my bloodstream. After another sleepless night and another black painting, I get in the elevator and slide my key card in. I storm into his office and clear his desk, but he doesn’t even twitch.

“I trusted you,” I say. My heart hammers in my chest.

He shoots up and slams his hands against the desk.

“You fucked my brother. We’re even.”

On Tuesday, it’s him who storms into my studio, tugging at his collar to call on a composure that threatens to tip over.

“So, lover boy left you alone here?”

“He is not my lover boy. Get out.” I turn to him, and I squeeze my eyes at his nearness, his breath hot on my neck, taunting my senses. I swallow my weakness for this man wrapped in a hundred layers of hate.

On Wednesday, I bolt through his office door and flick a strand of hair back.

“What happened to your mistress?”

He taps a finger on his lips, his eyes searing me with that undiluted anger. “At least she didn’t fuck my brother.”

On Thursday, he stomps in my studio and says, “Start fucking painting something I can work with.”

Don’t break down in front of him. He’s a sickness that spreads through my body and it kills me. I raise my hands in the air, desperation shouting out of me.

“I can’t! Don’t you see it, I can’t! This is all I have left in me.”

He shuts the door behind him, and I drop on my knees and sob.

On Friday, I find him in his armchair, and I dart to him, snatching the glass from his hand. I throw back the whiskey and put my hand in his face.

“You put it on my finger, you take it off.”

“You’re big enough. Did you fuck my brother with my ring on?”

He stands up, towering over me, caging me between his hands and his desk. I place my hands on his chest to push him away, but feeling his heart hammering under my fingers, I do nothing.

His breath turns shaky. “You fucking destroyed me, Ellia.” My name tears through the room like a fatal bullet through flesh. He backs up, his hand shooting to the wall to support him.

On Saturday, I rush to open the door, it’s like I have a fever inside to fight with him, but my blood runs cold when Richard blocks my way out.

“May I come in?” He must read the confusion and adds, “It won’t take long. I am here to make you a proposition.” He swaggers inside and I cross my arms over my chest. My pain must have switched the rational side of me off.

“You’ll marry my son,” Richard tells me.

“Excuse me?”

“Kian has to get married.”

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