Chapter 3

A little while later, Richard came to my room. He walked in holding a new box, this one larger than the last. He looked uncomfortable, his eyes darting around the room before finally settling on me.

"Chloe," he started, his voice strained. "Ethan told me what happened. You shouldn' t have tried to give away the brush. It hurt my feelings."

He opened the box he was holding. Inside was a brand-new, expensive set of imported oil paints. "I got you these. To make up for it. But you need to understand, Tiffany is very sensitive. She' s been through a lot. You need to be the bigger person and go apologize to her."

I stared at him, my mind reeling. He was trying to buy my apology with a gift, while still insisting I was the one in the wrong. He hadn' t asked about my ankle. He hadn' t asked for my side of the story. His only concern was Tiffany' s fragile feelings.

"I don' t want them," I said, my voice cold. "And I' m not apologizing. You should give those paints to Tiffany. I' m sure she would be much more grateful."

Richard' s face hardened. The brief flicker of paternal warmth was gone, replaced by the stern mask of a disappointed businessman. "Don' t be difficult, Chloe. This isn' t like you."

"You' re right," I said, meeting his gaze. "The old Chloe would have done anything to please you. She would have apologized even when she was the one who got hurt. But she' s gone."

"What is that supposed to mean?" he snapped, his patience wearing thin. "I swear, ever since Tiffany arrived, you' ve been nothing but trouble. You' ve been spoiled, that' s the problem. We gave you everything, and this is how you repay us? With sullen moods and disrespect?"

The word 'spoiled' coming from him felt like a slap. Spoiled? I was the one being forced into a marriage to save his company. I was the one nursing an injury he refused to acknowledge. I was the one being emotionally abandoned for a girl who knew how to cry on cue.

He must have seen the shock on my face because his expression softened for a second. "I didn' t mean that," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "Look, just... please, go talk to Tiffany. For me." It was then, and only then, that his eyes fell on my tightly wrapped ankle. "What happened to your foot?"

Before I could answer, a frantic knock echoed through the door. A maid burst in, her face pale. "Mr. Miller! It' s Miss Tiffany! She fell into the garden pond! She' s not breathing!"

Richard' s face went white. He dropped the box of paints, the tubes scattering across the floor. Without another glance at me or my ankle, he turned and ran out of the room, shouting Tiffany' s name.

I watched him go, the sound of his panicked footsteps fading down the hall. The expensive paints lay forgotten at my feet. A bitter smile touched my lips. A sprained ankle couldn' t compare to a dip in the pond. As always, my pain was invisible.

I slowly began to pack. Not clothes, not personal items. I packed my art supplies. My sketchbooks, my charcoals, my canvases. Uncle David had promised me a place. He had sent over a beautiful, traditional dress for the wedding ceremony, a deep crimson silk that felt heavy and final. As I laid it out on my bed, I felt a strange sense of peace. I was sad, yes, but I was also free. I was leaving this house of pain and heading toward an unknown future. It had to be better than this. While packing, I noticed a small, beautifully crafted wooden box that Uncle David had sent along with the dress. It felt warm to the touch. I opened it. Inside, nestled on a bed of velvet, was a set of custom-made brushes, far more exquisite than the one Richard had given me. A small note was tucked inside.

It read: "For my brilliant artist. Your new life awaits."

A real tear, not a manipulative one, traced a path down my cheek. It wasn't a tear of sadness, but one of gratitude. Someone still saw me. Someone still cared. And that was enough.