A Painter's Revenge: Love Redeemed

This was my third wedding. Or, it was supposed to be. The white dress felt like a costume for a tragic play I was forced to perform in again and again.

Damian Avila, my fiancé, stood beside me. His hand, which should have been holding mine, was instead gripping the arm of Eileen Brandt.

"I can't breathe, Damian," Eileen gasped, her face pale. "Everyone is staring. She's staring."

She meant me. I was always the one she meant.

Damian turned to me, his handsome face tight with a familiar mix of annoyance and false patience.

"Alana, just for a little while. I need to get her out of here. She's having another panic attack."

This was the script. It never changed. Before I could say a word, he was already leading Eileen away from the altar, away from our guests, away from me.

But this time was different. He didn't just leave. He came back, his car pulling up beside me as I stood frozen on the church steps.

"Get in," he ordered.

I didn't move. He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my skin, and pulled me into the passenger seat. The silk of my dress tore with a soft, final sound.

We drove for what felt like hours, leaving the city behind. The road became a dirt track surrounded by dense woods. He stopped the car in a small, remote clearing.

"What are you doing, Damian?" I asked, my voice trembling.

"Eileen needs to let off some steam," he said, his voice cold. "And you need to learn your place."

He got out, came around to my side, and pulled me from the car. He had a rope in his hand.

"Don't fight me, Alana," he warned.

He pushed me against a large oak tree and tied my wrists together, pulling the rope tight around the trunk. The rough bark scraped my back through the delicate fabric of my dress.

A few minutes later, another car arrived. Eileen got out, her face no longer pale and panicked. It was twisted with a cruel smile.

She walked right up to me and slapped me across the face. The sting was sharp, shocking.

"That felt good," she said, shaking her hand. "But my wrist hurts now. I'm too delicate for this."

She turned to Damian with a pout. "Damian, my love, my hand is sore. Can you do it for me? Please?"

He looked at her, his expression softening into a look of deep concern that he never, ever gave me.

"Of course, Eileen. Anything for you."

He walked over to me. I looked into the eyes of the man I had loved, the man who had promised to protect me. I saw nothing there but cold duty to another woman.

"This is for upsetting Eileen," he said calmly.

Then he hit me.

His open palm connected with my cheek. Once. Twice. Ten times. My head whipped back and forth with each blow. The world blurred. I tasted blood.

He finally stopped, breathing a little heavily. He seemed satisfied.

My head hung low. My beautiful wedding dress was stained with dirt and now, my own blood.

All the fight had left me. My eyes were empty. I was done.

Damian reached out and gently wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of my mouth with his thumb. The gesture was so grotesquely tender it made me want to vomit.

"You know how fragile she is, Alana," he said, his voice a low murmur. "Her father was my mentor. I owe her this. I owe her everything."

He straightened up. "I'll be back for you later. Once Eileen feels better."

He walked back to his car, scooped a triumphant Eileen into his arms, and placed her gently in the passenger seat. As they drove away, Eileen looked back at me over her shoulder. She gave me a small, victorious wave.

The moment their car was out of sight, a wave of nausea and rage hit me. I coughed, and a spray of blood splattered onto the white dress.

My mind reeled back.

The first wedding attempt, a year ago. We were at the altar. Eileen, a guest, had suddenly screamed and launched herself at me, tearing at my veil and scratching my face with her long nails. Damian had rushed to her side, cradling her and whispering reassurances while I bled. I ended up in the hospital with deep scratches that almost scarred my face. The doctor had said I was lucky. I didn't feel lucky.

The second wedding, six months later. We tried a smaller, private ceremony. Eileen "accidentally" tripped while carrying a pot of boiling water for tea, aiming it directly at me. My best friend, Chloe, pushed me out of the way and took most of the burn on her arm. Eileen had gotten a few splashes on herself and cried out in pain. Damian, ignoring Chloe's serious injury and my terror, had punished Chloe for "assaulting" Eileen. He had broken her wrist in front of me while I begged him to stop.

Then, to appease Eileen, he had "accidentally" slammed a car door on my right hand. My painting hand. The one that had made me one of the most promising young artists of my generation. The bones shattered. My career was over.

That was the night I told him I wanted to end the engagement.

He had knelt before my parents and me, tears in his eyes, begging for one more chance.

"I swear, Alana," he had choked out. "It will never happen again. I love you."

I had looked at him then, at his perfect, convincing performance, and I knew. I knew it was all a lie. A bitter laugh had escaped my lips.

Now, left alone in the woods, the cold began to seep into my bones. The sky opened up, and a cold, hard rain began to fall, soaking my torn dress and plastering my hair to my face. My body shivered uncontrollably.

My vision started to go dark at the edges. I was losing consciousness.

No. I can't die here.

I bit down hard on my own lip, the sharp pain a jolt to my system. I had to stay awake. I had to live.

My parents. The thought of them finding me like this... The thought of what Damian would do to our family's business if I was gone...

It was the only thing that kept me holding on. But the cold was relentless. The pain was a deep, throbbing ache. My body was giving up.

My eyes closed.

The next thing I knew was a sharp pain, not from the cold, but from a needle in my arm. I was warm. Dry.

I slowly opened my eyes. The ceiling was white. The smell was antiseptic. A hospital.

I tried to move, but my body screamed in protest.

"Alana? Oh, honey, you're awake!"

My mother's voice, thick with tears. She rushed to my bedside, her face a mess of worry and relief.

"Don't you ever scare me like that again," she sobbed, clutching my hand. "If anything happens to you, I can't live, Alana. I can't."

I squeezed her hand weakly. My throat was raw.

"Mom," I rasped. "My phone."

It hurt to speak. I winced and tried to swallow, but my throat felt like it was full of glass.

My mother's eyes were filled with pity. She immediately handed me my phone from the bedside table.

I took it with a shaking hand. My fingers fumbled with the screen, but my resolve was firm. I dialed an international number I had memorized long ago.

It rang twice before a man's calm, low voice answered. It was Franklin Gray's younger brother, Leo.

"Yes?"

"It's Alana Myers," I said, my voice hoarse. "I agree to the marriage."

There was a pause on the other end.

"The conditions," I added, pushing through the pain. "All of my family's assets transferred to your accounts for protection. And you get us out of the country."

"Agreed," the voice on the other end replied without hesitation. The sound was deep and steady, a strange comfort in the chaos of my life. "The wedding will be in three days. I'll handle everything."

"One more thing," I said. "I need you to come get me. Personally."

"I'll be there."

The call ended. My mother looked at me, her eyes wide with a mixture of hope and fear.

"Another ceremony?" she whispered. "Alana, are you sure it will be okay this time?"

I just nodded, too exhausted to explain. I hadn't told her the whole plan. Not yet.

Just then, the hospital room door swung open.

Damian stood there, a bouquet of my favorite lilies in his hand.

My heart seized in my chest. A cold dread washed over me. He couldn't be here. Not now.

I shot a panicked look at my mother. She understood immediately, her face hardening as she stood between me and the door.

He can't find out, I thought frantically. He would never let me leave. He would lock me up, chain me to him forever. That was his version of love.

Damian walked into the room, his eyes filled with a theatrical sorrow.

"Alana, my love," he began, his voice soft and pleading. "I have to ask you something."

I stared at him, my body tense.

"Eileen and I... we're getting married. Tomorrow."

The words hit me like a physical blow.

"It's just for show," he rushed to explain, seeing the look on my face. "It's what her therapist suggested. A way to give her a sense of security so she can finally heal. Then, I'll divorce her and we can be together. Properly. I'll give you everything you've ever wanted."

He looked at me, his eyes begging for understanding. "I need you to be there, Alana. As Eileen's maid of honor."

The absurdity of it was so profound, it almost made me laugh. My maid of honor. At my fiancé's wedding to another woman. A woman who had tormented me, who he had helped torment me.

My heart, which I thought had been shattered into dust, felt a fresh, sharp pang of pain.

What was I to him? A toy? A pet he could abuse and then soothe with empty promises?

I remembered him whispering in my ear, "Alana, you're my world. My only one." A bitter lie.

A surge of rage, hot and pure, shot through me. I grabbed the water glass from my bedside table and hurled it at him.

"Get out!"

He dodged it easily, the glass shattering against the wall behind him. The room fell silent, the air thick with tension.

"Alana, be reasonable," he said, his voice calm, infuriatingly calm.

"The wedding is tomorrow," he continued, as if I hadn't just thrown a glass at his head. "I'll have someone pick you up."

He wanted to legitimize his relationship with Eileen while keeping me on a leash. He wanted the world to see me, his actual fiancée, blessing their union. It was the ultimate humiliation.

"You're both sick," I spat, my voice shaking with fury. "You and her. You're insane. And I'm not your cure."

I grabbed the pillow from behind my head and threw it at him with all my strength.

This time, he didn't move. The pillow bounced harmlessly off his chest.

"They're sending a beautiful dress for you to wear," he said, completely unfazed. "Lavender. Your favorite color."

He stepped closer. "After this is all over, I'll make it up to you. I promise."

"GET OUT!" I screamed, the sound tearing from my throat, raw and desperate. It echoed down the hospital corridor.

For the next few days, my hospital room became a stage for their sick play. Damian and Eileen visited constantly. They'd sit by my bed, holding hands, and talk about their wedding plans, begging me to participate.

Eileen would put on her best performance, her eyes wide with feigned innocence.

"Alana, please," she'd whisper, her voice trembling. "It would mean so much to me. I'm so scared. Having you there would make me feel safe."

Then she'd clutch her chest, her breathing becoming shallow, her body slumping as if she were about to faint.

The nurses and other patients would look at me with disgust. "That poor girl," they'd whisper. "And her fiancée is so cruel to her."

I was the villain in their story.

Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. During one of their visits, I looked Eileen dead in the eye.

"I hope you die," I said, my voice low and venomous.

Eileen's face crumpled. She burst into tears. "I can't do it, Damian! I can't marry you if she hates me this much! Let's just cancel everything!"

She ran out of the room, sobbing hysterically.

Damian whirled on me, his face a mask of fury.

"Why do you have to be so difficult?" he roared, grabbing my shoulders. "Can't you just endure it for a little while? For me?"

"I'm doing all of this so we can be together! Once she's better, everything will go back to normal! I promise!" His face was twisted, his eyes wild.

"And what if she never gets better?" I asked, my voice flat.

He faltered for a second. "She will. She has to."

I was tired. So tired of fighting. "Go after her, Damian," I said wearily. "Before she runs into traffic and I get blamed for her death."

That was all it took. He let go of me and bolted from the room, calling her name.

I looked at the empty doorway, my heart a cold, dead weight in my chest. I couldn't stand another second in this place.

I decided to check myself out. I packed my small bag, my hands moving with a new, firm purpose.

As I walked through the hospital lobby, I saw him.

Damian was standing by the information desk, a huge, happy grin on his face. He was handing out small, elegant boxes of wedding favors to the nurses.

"Congratulations on your marriage, Mr. Avila!" one of them gushed.

My blood ran cold. I fumbled for my phone.

A new message. From Eileen.

It was a photo. A picture of two hands, intertwined. On their ring fingers were matching wedding bands. Below the photo was another picture: their official marriage certificate, dated today.

The wedding wasn't tomorrow. It was today. He had lied. Again.

A bitter laugh escaped my lips.

A promise. He had promised me.

I gripped the handle of my small suitcase, my knuckles white. I looked across the lobby at him, at the man who was supposed to be my husband, now celebrating his marriage to another woman.

I remembered his mother, a stern, pragmatic woman, urging us to get married quickly. "A merger of families is a merger of companies, Damian. It's good for business."

He had held my hands and looked into my eyes with so much love it made my heart ache. "No, Mom," he'd said. "I'm marrying Alana because I love her. And I want our day to be perfect. May 20th. That will be our day."

I had asked him why that specific date. He had just smiled mysteriously. "It's a surprise."

I waited for that day like a fool. A sweet, naive fool. And on that day, he married Eileen Brandt.

My hand holding the phone trembled. A strange sense of relief washed over me. At least I hadn't signed any papers with him. I had dodged a legal nightmare.

A nurse walked past me, munching on a small, exquisite piece of candy. "Mr. Avila is so generous," she said to a colleague. "These are custom-made chocolates from Switzerland. They must have cost a fortune."

She noticed me standing there and offered me a piece with a kind smile. "Here, have one. It's a happy day."

I didn't take it. I just stared.

I stared at Damian. He was so caught up in his joy, he didn't even see me. He hadn't noticed me at all.

Then Eileen appeared at his side, looking radiant in a simple white dress. She stood on her tiptoes and gave him a shy, sweet kiss on the cheek.

He turned and wrapped his arm around her, his smile gentle and full of affection.

The head nurse came over. "So when is the big celebration? We all want to see the beautiful bride in her gown."

Damian beamed. "Next week. We're holding a grand ceremony and it will be broadcast globally. I want the whole world to see how much I love my wife."

He held Eileen's hand, looking every bit the proud, devoted husband.

I turned and walked out of the hospital.

When I got home, the lavender dress was waiting for me, laid out on my bed. The dress he wanted me to wear to his wedding.

I picked it up, carried it downstairs to the fireplace, and set it on fire.

The flames licked at the delicate fabric, turning it to black ash. I watched it burn, my face impassive.

Then I went upstairs and retrieved a large, heavy box from the back of my closet. It was filled with every gift Damian had ever given me. Each one was wrapped in a special paper, a deep, celestial blue.

"Why this color?" I had asked him once, tracing the silver star patterns with my finger.

He had kissed me then. "Because you're my sky, Alana. My everything."

I remembered the love in his eyes, the warmth of his hands. It all felt like a dream from another life.

I carried the box downstairs and dumped the contents into the fire. The flames roared, consuming the memories, the promises, the lies.

The past was ash.

I picked up my phone and made two calls. The first was to a real estate agent.

"I want to sell the house," I said. "Immediately."

The second was to the gardener.

"Remove all the blue hydrangeas from the garden," I ordered. "Dig them up. I don't want to see a single one left."

He had planted them for me himself, on his hands and knees in the dirt. "Because they're the color of your eyes when you smile," he'd said.

I don't need them anymore, I thought. I don't need him.

After everything was done, I felt a deep, profound exhaustion settle over me. I went to my empty room and lay on the bed.

I drifted into a restless sleep, only to be jolted awake by a feeling of being watched. A hand was stroking my hair.

I snapped my eyes open.

Damian was leaning over me, his face inches from mine. His breath smelled of expensive champagne.

I shoved him away, scrambling to the other side of the bed.

"What are you doing here?" I hissed. "You're a married man now, Damian. This is inappropriate."

I remembered, with a sickening lurch, that he still had a key. I made a mental note to change the locks first thing in the morning.

He stood up, looking hurt. "Alana, don't be like this."

He reached out to touch my hair again. "Just be patient a little longer. I'll divorce her, I swear. And then I'll give you the wedding of the century."

His eyes were filled with that same, intense love he had always shown me. It was a perfect performance.

"You were hurt," he said softly. "I know you were."

Suddenly, a piercing shriek came from downstairs.

"Damian! Damian, where are you? You promised you wouldn't leave me!"

It was Eileen. She must have followed him. She must have heard everything.

Her voice rose in a hysterical cry. "If you're going back to her, I'll kill myself! I'll do it right now!"

We heard the sound of footsteps running out of the house, followed by the squeal of tires.

My parents, woken by the noise, rushed into my room. They saw the two figures running out of the house and looked at me, their faces full of concern.

I was too tired for this drama.

"Change the locks," I said, my voice flat.

My parents exchanged a worried glance but didn't ask any questions. They just quietly left the room.

I pulled the covers over my head and willed the world to go away.