Page 17 of Inheritance
He took in the room with one sweep, me, the painting, the ruined corner, the panic still thick in the air.
Damien shrugged. “Little accident. No big deal.”
“It’s ruined,” I said, my voice hollow. “I’m sorry, we can’t go to the auction.”
Gabriel moved toward me, his presence steady and unhurried. He didn’t react, didn’t rush to inspect the damage, didn’t offer reassurances.
He simply stood beside me, staring at the painting in silence.
He said nothing for what felt like forever.
“It’s fine.”
My head snapped toward him. “What?”
“It’s good,” he repeated, voice calm.
I searched his face for any indication that he was lying, but there was nothing. No irritation. No disappointment. Just calm, unwavering certainty.
But that made no sense.
It wasn’t fine. It wasn’t good.
A muscle in my jaw tightened. “I worked all week on this,” I said slowly. “It was almost perfect.”
"It doesn’t need to be perfect," he said.
The words stung, though I wasn’t sure who I was angrier at, him, myself, or Damien.
Behind us, two men entered with a glass frame the size of the canvas, designed to protect the wet paint without touchingit. They moved with practiced efficiency, lifting the painting, securing it inside, and sealing the frame in a padded crate.
I watched them work, my stomach knotting as reality sank in.
Damien smirked. "Told you."
I barely heard him. I turned back to look at Gabriel, desperate for something, anything, to make this make sense.
"Go change into your dress," he said smoothly. "Put your makeup on. Look the part."
Something in me snapped.
That was it? After everything?
A week of work, pushing myself to the brink, agonizing over every stroke. It was ruined, and all he had to say now was get dressed?
I turned sharply and stormed out without another word.
I barely remembered the walk back to our room, his room. Everything was a blur. The scent of polished wood and stale cigar smoke clawed at my lungs.
When I reached the door, I shoved it open, hands shaking.
The room was dim.
I stood in the middle of it, breathing hard.
In the mirror, my reflection stared back: flushed cheeks, parted lips, frustration etched deep into my face.
Meaningless. All of it, meaningless.
