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.