Regina's POV

He looked at me with furrowed brows and roared sharply, “Why won’t you just apologize? If you’d admit it, everything would fall into place. But no—you had to screw things up now of all times. Was it really that hard to help out? Are you really that selfish? So obsessed with your pride that you had to humiliate her like that?” he roared.

My heart, already broken beyond repair, still managed to ache.

Then my eyes drifted to his neck—faint red marks, unmistakably fresh, deliberately left visible.

Something about it made my stomach turn. I forced my voice to stay steady. “One painting doesn’t prove anything. If she doesn’t have the skill, she won’t be able to fake it forever.”

Darell’s expression darkened instantly.

“Margot is still young. I can help her grow at her own pace," he reasoned. “That painting was just a birthday surprise. She likes attention, so I pulled a few strings to give her a moment in the spotlight. Nothing wrong with that.”

Then he looked me over, cold calculation in his eyes. “But your little comment just now gave me an idea.”

He let out a slow, chilling breath. “My dear sister. Margot doesn’t have your natural talent… so she might need you to help her out a few more times.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He gave a cold, empty smile and grabbed my wrist.

“You’ve been living in my house all these years. Consider this my way of collecting rent. Fair, don’t you think?”

I struggled to break free, but his grip didn’t budge.

Pain surged through me, and with it came tears I couldn’t stop. I didn’t know how to respond—how to make sense of this version of him.

I was twelve when Mom and I first moved into this villa. I was shy, quiet, and scared. And he was the one who smiled and said, “Don’t be afraid. This is your home now.”

Those memories crashed into me like a tidal wave, blending with the cruel reality in front of me.

Maybe it was the tumor messing with my mind. Maybe that’s why everything felt so blurry and surreal.

“Be good, little sister,” he said, his tone soft but laced with threat. “All I’m asking is that you paint a few more pieces. I’ve taught you for years—it’s time to see what you’ve really learned.”

He was right. He taught me how to paint. I owed everything I knew to him.

So if he asked me to pay him back… how could I say no?

He led me into the basement storage room, where abandoned easels gathered dust.

Darell’s voice was calm as he said, “Margot and I will be staying in the country for the next two months. During that time, you won’t have to do anything else. Just paint.”

“I’ll have food and clothes brought to your room. When you’ve turned in work I’m satisfied with—when your debt is paid—I’ll give you money, and we’ll be done,” he added with a blank face.

It hurt. Like every nerve in my body was screaming.

But I kept my head high, stared straight back at him, and said, “We’ll be done? Fine. I’ll paint for you these two months—and after that, we’re even.”

It wasn’t such a bad deal.

A fair trade, almost.

He gave a cold nod. “That’s more like it. That’s the sister I know.”

Just then, his phone rang. He answered, and a sticky-sweet female voice came through the line.

“Darell, when are you coming back? I cooked a whole meal just for you. I even made your favorite—spicy crawfish. But I burned my hand in the process. You’ve been gone forever just to grab your ID. I miss you.”

Darell’s cold expression melted instantly, his voice tender. “I’m already on my way back, baby. Why didn’t you tell me you got hurt? I’ll take you to the hospital as soon as I get home.”

He didn’t spare me a glance as he walked out, and the door to the basement clicked shut—and locked.

There were no windows.

Facing a blank canvas, I picked up the brush, and the first stroke landed with a hollow sound.

That night, I tore up painting after painting, until the tears ran out and all I felt was empty.

Regina's POV

I don’t even remember when I closed my eyes. Maybe I passed out as the illness had gotten that bad.

When I finally woke up, Darell was standing in front of me, face like a thundercloud.

“This is what you call keeping your word?” he snapped, eyes sweeping over the mess on the floor. “You just made a mess here!”

His voice was low and angry. “Do you still think you’re a kid? That throwing a tantrum will get people to coddle you and clean up your mess?”

My vision was blurry, but his voice rang loud and clear. I wanted to respond—wanted to explain—but my throat was raw. The taste of blood and rust even clung to the back of it. No words came out.

He was wrong about me.

I’d never been the kind of girl who threw tantrums. Not once. I’d always been the type to make myself small, to please others, to keep the peace.

Funny, he was the one who once told me, “A girl with her own personality, who knows how to speak her mind, is so cool.”

But I guess that version of him only existed in my memories. The kind I seemed to be the only one holding onto.

“Regina,” he said coldly, “playing mute won’t get you anywhere. I taught you how to paint—I know exactly what you’re capable of. Twenty paintings in two months. If you can’t deliver, don’t blame me for being ruthless.”

I raised my head, still dizzy, wanting to ask what he meant—what exactly he’d do.

He saw through it instantly. “No need to guess. Whatever it is you fear most... it’ll happen.”

What did I fear most?

Then, my thoughts drifted back to that year I transferred to that elite school. I’d been bullied mercilessly and taken so many awful, degrading photos. Back then, I was too ashamed to tell anyone about it.

I feared those pictures getting out, feared my mom finding out and calling me a disgrace, an embarrassment she couldn’t afford.

She was always terrified I’d upset the Reynolds family and get us both thrown out.

And then there was my stepfather... He’d walk in on me changing, more than once. I was terrified of him.

Luckily, Darell had noticed something was off. He dug into it, found out everything, and dealt with it quietly. I still remember what he said after.

“Don’t be scared. I took care of it. Whatever you’re afraid of—I’ll handle it.”

So what exactly did he mean now, when he said I’d face my worst fears?

I didn’t want to guess anymore. It didn’t matter.

My mom was gone. My stepfather was living abroad. There was no one left here for me to be afraid of.

And me? I didn’t have much time left anyway.

Still, I looked him in the eye and hoarsely said, “I’ll do what I promised.”

That finally seemed to satisfy him. He gave a curt nod.

“Good. That’s what I like to hear. Margot made this meal for you. Say what you want, but she’s the only one still thinking about you. Be grateful.”

He tossed the food container on the table and left without another word.

That night, I picked up the brush again and painted until I was shaking. Hunger got the best of me eventually, so I caved and ate the meal.

So no, I wasn’t someone with unbreakable pride.

The next few days, it was the assistant who brought me food. I could barely see straight anymore, but I didn’t let myself stop. Not even for a second.

He said once we were even, I could go. So I kept painting—pouring everything I had into it.

Time blurred, and I just remember blood splattering on the canvas. I wiped my mouth, smearing the red across my hand, and kept painting like nothing had happened.

When I finally finished all twenty paintings, I told the assistant to send Darell a message, telling him I’m done and to come pick them up, and let me go.

I didn’t want to die in that rotting basement. The debt was paid. It was time to leave.

I had just drifted off to sleep on the squeaky cot when I heard his voice again—sharp and disgusted.

“This? You dare show me this and ask me to ‘check it over’? The colors, the composition—everything’s a mess!”

“Regina, you did this on purpose, didn’t you? You think putting out garbage like this won’t ruin Margot’s reputation? All those techniques I worked so hard to teach you—what, did you feed them to the dogs?” he thundered.

Regina's POV

I don’t know why, but my eyes drifted to his ring finger.

There was a ring on it now—silver and gleaming, shining so brightly that even through my blurred vision, it stood out like a spotlight.

He glanced over the paintings and flatly said, “Only this one with the roses is halfway decent. The rest? Complete garbage.”

His silhouette moved between the canvases, growing fuzzier and harder to follow. Eventually, I just closed my eyes.

“Darell,” I said quietly, “I can’t paint anymore. Please… let me go.”

I wasn’t lying. Maybe the tumor had grown too fast, too wild, clouding my eyes, fogging up my brain.

I couldn’t see clearly. I couldn’t paint well anymore.

“If I still owe you, I’ll pay it off in the next life,” I said. “But let me leave now. I just want to go somewhere with flowers.”

There was a long silence. Then I heard a laugh, sharp and mocking.

“Regina, if I’d known you were this good at acting, I wouldn’t have wasted my time teaching you to paint.”

Then, he became serious as he added, “But playing the victim won’t work this time. Margot’s competition is next week, and she can’t afford a single mistake. That means you’re not leaving—yet.”

He tossed something on the table. “The prompt’s over there. Finish the painting. When it’s done, have the assistant call me. Don’t make me come all the way out here for nothing again—or else…”

I didn’t catch the rest. His voice faded out.

And suddenly, everything went quiet.

That’s when I saw it—my own body, lying motionless on the cot. Pale. Lifeless.

So I really was that sick.

Was it that obvious?

Then why hadn’t Darell noticed?

I didn’t get it.

My vision cleared completely, more than it had in weeks. Everything became sharp, almost unnaturally so.

I looked carefully at my paintings. He hadn’t been wrong.

Aside from the one with the roses, the rest were chaotic, soulless.

I couldn’t even believe they were mine.

What a joke.

Even in death, my soul stayed behind, still clinging to regret. I couldn’t do anything but sit there, waiting.

The assistant came by the next day with food, but he didn’t notice I was dead.

For days, he came and went, never even glancing in my direction. Just dropped the meals off and left, like clockwork.

It wasn’t until the seventh day, right before Margot’s competition, that Darell finally showed up.