Page 18 of Inheritance
This was never about me getting back in touch with myself through painting like he made me believe. This had nothing to do with me.
I pressed my hands to the dresser, grounding myself. I needed a drink. I needed air.
The door clicked shut.
I didn’t turn. Just gripped the edge of the dresser and stared into the mirror.
He stood a few feet behind me, relaxed.
He tilted his head, studying me the way a predator studies prey.
"You think I dismissed you. That I only care about money," he said, voice smooth. "You misunderstand."
I scoffed.
He stepped forward with care in his eyes. "You wanted me to say it was ruined?"
"No." Too fast. Too defensive.
His gaze sharpened.
"You’re a perfectionist."
I stiffened. "So?"
Another step. Then another. Until I could feel his warmth. His scent wrapped around me, masculine and dark.
I swallowed. "You don’t care about my painting. Or my effort. Just your money. You made me think it was about me. So you could use me."
His eyes held mine in the reflection.
"That’s not true," he said calmly.
"But it’s not a lie, is it?"
His fingers closed around my wrist. Not hard, but firm enough that I couldn’t ignore it. He made me face him.
“If you only accept perfection, you’ll judge everything good for what it lacks, and never be satisfied.”
I didn’t flinch, but my shoulders dropped. What he said was true, but it didn’t change what I felt. I was still mad. Still wounded, but his words landed deeper than I wanted to admit.
"Then why have me do it at all?" I asked. My voice had lost its edge. It just sounded tired. "Why not have Damien throw paint at a canvas and call it good?"
He let out a low laugh. Then, softer than usual, he tucked a stray hair behind my ear. Part of me wanted to press my face against his palm. I didn’t.
"Now that," he murmured, "would be perfect."
The corner of my mouth twitched, but it wasn’t a smile. Not really.
"If it were perfect, like you wanted, and you looked at it a year from now, all you'd see would be the flaws you missed. I never needed the painting to be perfect, and I don’t need you to be perfect either.”
I turned back to the mirror. His reflection hovered just over my shoulder. He didn’t touch me this time. Just stood there, watching me.
My throat tightened. I stared at the mascara-smudged girl in the mirror, wondering when I started needing his approval. When I began measuring myself by his gaze.
His hand was around my wrist again. His voice dropped, low and steady. “You did enough. More than enough. One flaw doesn’t ruin a painting—or you.”
My chest ached. I wanted to believe him. I couldn’t.
