AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Doesn’t matter,” I answer.
I walk away and lock the door.
Chapter33
Hellie
Icry a lot that first day. Erick doesn’t come back. The look on his face as he turned to leave the room haunts me. It was so pained, like I stabbed him in the guts and kept on twisting the knife.
He doesn’t come back. He doesn’t ask me to explain. Food appears, carried up by Marina, who at least seems a little sympathetic. “Is he okay?” I ask her that night once dinner arrives. “At least tell me he’s okay?”
“Erick Costa is a very strong man. It’ll take more than you to break him.” She gives me a sad smile and leaves.
That doesn’t make me feel better.
I barely touch my food. I’m stuck in the room with nothing to do, my head going crazy, alternating between hating myself and hating Ren, even though I know it isn’t Ren’s fault.
He’s Erick’s best friend. He’s loyal to the Costa family above all else, and can I really be angry with him for testing me? I fell into the trap willingly with a big smile on my face.
I’m the one that tried to run.
I made that stupid decision, and it’ll haunt me for a long time.
To kill time, I take a long, hot bath. I try to relax, but I keep seeing Erick’s face, twisted in agony and rage and heartbreak.
I did that to him.
For a good reason. Not because of him, but because of that email, even though he doesn’t know that and I can’t ever tell him.
From his perspective, I tried to run because I wanted to get away from our relationship.
I debate telling him the truth. Over and over, I question my decision. If I tell him about my father’s email, he might actually understand why I did it. But no matter how I look at it, I keep coming back to the same facts. I can’t tell him, I can’t risk my father’s life, I can’t stoop to that level. I have to save myself and my father, even if it means losing Erick.
I try to sleep. It doesn’t go great.
The next morning, breakfast arrives, but I don’t recognize the guy that drops it off. He has big, dark eyes, dark hair, and glares at me like I’m an annoying hamster. “Eat, shower, dress. You have work in a half hour.” He leaves again, locking the door behind him.
I don’t understand what he means, but I follow his instructions anyway. Thirty minutes later, at exactly seven in the morning, the door opens again. It’s the same guy—broad, built like a bull, more shoulders and back and chest than head and neck, with arms like wrecking balls—and he gestures for me to follow. I walk after him to the studio.
“Work,” he says jabbing a hand toward my painting. “On the job. No other stuff. Boss’s orders.”
“Wait.” I look around in a panic. “Not my own art?”
“No. On the job. If I catch you doing anything else, I have instructions to lock you in your room. If it keeps happening, we’ll start taking away comforts.” The big guy leaves, closing the door behind him.
Something clicks. A lock slams shut.
I stare at the room. It’s as I left it, nothing changed, except I’m stuck here with that forged painting, the beginnings of a false Rembrandt, staring at me from the easel.
I take deep breaths. I try to gather myself together. But it feels like I’m sinking, when suddenly, in a complete blind panic, I rush to the rack of paints and fish around behind it, looking for the portrait of Erick I hid there.
It’s gone. I check all over, but it’s not in this room.
I slump onto my stool, feeling like I’ve been drained of everything. I stare at the canvas, at my job, but there’s no spark. There’s no excitement. Only dread. Only terror.
I don’t know how long I’m sitting like that before the door opens. Marina comes in with lunch. Tea and tuna sandwiches. “Eat and drink,” she says. “Yell if you need the bathroom. Tony will take you.”
“Alright.” I don’t even look over.
