Chapter 4

The days that followed were a special kind of hell. Liam, encouraged by my passive behavior, started bringing Scarlett to the penthouse more and more often. He would parade her around, showing off his art, showing off me, his pet artist. He framed my paintings of her and hung them in the most prominent places.

"See?" he would tell her. "My whole world revolves around you."

And I would have to stand there and smile, pretending it was a beautiful, romantic tribute instead of a calculated strategy for my escape. Scarlett, for her part, reveled in it. She would look at me with open contempt, making passive-aggressive comments about my work, my clothes, my very presence.

"It must be so hard," she said to me one afternoon, while Liam was on a business call in the other room, "to live in a man's house, knowing you're just a temporary amusement."

"I'm an artist," I said, my voice tight. "This is my studio."

"Of course, dear," she said with a condescending pat on my arm. "Whatever you need to tell yourself."

I retreated into my work, the canvases becoming my only sanctuary. But even that was tainted. Liam would stand behind me, criticizing my brushstrokes, suggesting changes. "More red," he'd say. "Make it more passionate. Like Scarlett."

I felt like I was being erased, my own artistic vision buried under layers of his obsession. My art was no longer mine. It was a three-way conversation between his desire, her influence, and my desperation. The "Muse" system would occasionally flash a message in my vision: [Endure. The goal is near.] It was the only thing that kept me going.

One evening, I was feeling particularly weak. I hadn't eaten much all day, too stressed and nauseous from the constant emotional pressure. The smell of the turpentine was making my head spin. I was standing on a small step ladder, reaching for a high corner of a large canvas, when the room tilted violently.

My vision went black for a second. I swayed, my hand losing its grip on the brush. I heard Scarlett let out a small, theatrical gasp.

Before I could fall, Liam was there. He grabbed my arm, steadying me. "Chloe! What's wrong with you? Be careful!" His voice wasn't filled with concern, but with annoyance, as if I had almost damaged a piece of his property.

He helped me down from the ladder, his grip still tight. "You're pale. Go lie down." It was an order, not a suggestion.

I stumbled towards the bedroom, my body trembling. I heard Scarlett's voice behind me, dripping with false concern. "Oh, the poor thing. She works so hard. Maybe she's not eating properly. You should take better care of your... artist, Liam."

Liam's response was a low murmur, but the message was clear. He was placating Scarlett, reassuring her. He didn't come to check on me. I lay on the bed, the cold, empty room swallowing me whole. He had promised me a gallery show, a real one, to showcase the new work. "Soon, Chloe," he'd say. "When the collection is perfect."

But I knew "perfect" meant "perfectly reflective of Scarlett." I closed my eyes, a bitter taste in my mouth. A gallery show. It felt like a promise to a child, a treat for good behavior that would never actually materialize. It was just another tool of his control, another string to keep me tied to him.