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The Painter (7)

In one swift moment, a bang was heard, and the whole dining table came crashing down, sending a wave of shock throw Dorothy.

She had seen this happen so many times, but she could never get used to it. He promised to change.

He said he was going to be better, but after two years and nothing had changed.

The last time, it was the TV that suffered it, which took a while to replace, and now, the dining table had also felt the impact of Paul’s fist.

The table was ruined; dinner was ruined too.

“You love being a whore, eh? You love letting different men run their hands all over your body under the guise of art, right?” He barked the vile words pacing the dining room.

The words made her feel she had just been prickled with over a hundred pins.

“I am not a whore, Paul!. I am not! I love art, and you know it!” She yelled at him.

He scoffed before he said, “Oh c’mon. You’re just using art as a cover-up. You enjoy the way these so-called artists of yours touch you.”

He then grabbed her shoulder
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