CHAPTER 7

The Fragile Artist

Roman's POV

The hallway stretched in eerie silence, broken only by the faint whisper of Naomi's footsteps as they faded into the night. She hadn’t returned to her room, not that I expected her to. Her retreat was different tonight, more desperate.

A dim light glowed through the crack of an open door as my hand touched the doorframe of one of the mansion's less-used wings. I heard a faint, hardly inaudible rustling. My heartbeat accelerated, but I couldn't explain why.

What is she doing here?

Slowly, I pushed the door open and entered the dark studio. I was struck by the smell of oil paints and turpentine, which blended with the subtle floral perfume that followed her around.

She held a paintbrush, her shoulders shaking, and her back bent. Her brushstrokes on the canvas were erratic and frantic, as if the emotions she was experiencing were bursting forth in colors she could not control. Strands of her hair were falling over her face, somewhat untied.

I was struck by the sight. My so-called wife, Naomi, appeared small and delicate like a bird attempting to fly while having broken wings.

Then she broke the silence with a shaky voice. "Camille, you didn't have to say those things to me."

I felt a sudden and unpleasant twinge of remorse at Camille's name. But, I did not permit myself to feel guilty. Still, the tenderness in her voice awakened something in me.

“I’m not... nothing. I’m not worthless,” she whispered, the words shaky as if trying to convince herself.

Her brush clattered to the floor as it dropped from her hands. Her palms pressed against the easel's edge as she slumped forward. "Why did I have to go through this?"

The pain in her voice was like a dagger cutting through the icy barrier I had painstakingly built. Her head spun around as I walked into the light, my shoes scuffing the floor.

"What are you doing here?" Her tear-streaked eyes flashed with alarm as she demanded.

I waited for the weight of my presence to settle before responding. "I would rather ask, what are you doing here?"

She quickly wiped her face and turned away. "I needed space."

“This is where you came to find it?” I asked, gesturing to the abandoned studio. “In the middle of the night, alone?”

Her fingers clenched into fists at her sides as she tensed up. "Where I go is none of your business."

“Everything you do in this house is my concern,” I replied coldly, taking a step closer.

Defiance flashed in her eyes as her head whipped around. “Why? Because you own me now? Is that it?”

The bitterness in her tone caught me off guard. Her protestations were more like whispers than outright statements, and she had always been submissive. But, something had changed in her tonight.

I leaned against a workbench edge with my arms crossed. “Is that how you see this? Ownership?”

Her chuckle was hollow and sad. " “Isn’t it? You bought my life. My choices. My future.” Her voice broke. She returned to the canvas, gripping its edges as if they were the only thing keeping her grounded.

“I gave your father an opportunity to save himself,” I said, my tone clipped. “It’s not my fault he used you as collateral.”

The words hit her like a physical blow, and she flinched. Her fingers whitened as she tightened her hold on the canvas. “And you took the deal without a second thought. Do you even realize what you’ve done to me?”

I clenched my jaw. “I gave you stability. A life without debt collectors knocking at your door. That’s more than most would’ve offered.”

Her eyes were flaming as she spun around. "You call this stability? Living in a cage made of gold? Surrounded by people who look at me like I don’t belong? Are you even aware of how embarrassing this is?

Her tone of accusation touched a nerve. “You think I owe you sympathy?”

“I think you owe me a shred of humanity,” she snapped.

Once again, I was taken aback by the intensity of her voice. I wasn’t used to her fighting back,and part of me hated how much it intrigued me.

Her breathing was ragged, her chest rising and falling as if she’d run a marathon. She turned back to the canvas, her movements frantic, almost desperate. “You don’t get it. You’ll never get it.”

“Then explain it to me,” I said, my voice softening.

Her brush hovered above the canvas as she froze. She turned to me slowly, with a look of despair and rage. “Why? So you can use my pain as leverage, too?”

“I’m not cruel as you think I am,” I said evenly.

Her chuckle sliced through the tension like shards of glass. “You’re exactly cruel the way I think you are. And the worst part? You don’t even care.”

Her words were a challenge, a dare for me to deny. But, I didn't. since she wasn't totally wrong.

"I care more than you think." I was surprised when I finally admitted.

Her expression was one of disbelief as she gazed at me. “You don’t care. You just don’t want your pawn falling apart before she’s useful.”

The final words broke her voice, and the raw vulnerability in her eyes was like a kick to the stomach.

I stepped toward her, getting closer till I could see the tears clinging to her eyelashes. “You’re not a pawn, Naomi.”

"Yes, I am," she said in a tremulous whisper. “And you’re the one pulling the strings.”

Her words weighed heavily on the air. For a moment, I didn’t know what to say.

“You think life’s fair?” I asked finally, my tone sharper than I intended. “It’s not. But you don’t get to break every time it gets hard.”

Her eyes burned with unshed tears, but she would not let them fall. “Easy for you to say. You’re the one holding all the cards.”

I took another step closer, until there was barely any space between us. “Then take them from me.”

Her breath caught, and she looked into my eyes as if trying to figure out what I was saying. "I can't."

"You can," I asserted. "You just don't want to."

Her lip quivered, and I thought she might finally start crying. But she didn’t. She turned back to the canvas, her shoulders slumping in defeat.

"Go away, Roman," she said softly, without emotion.

For a moment, I considered staying, pushing her even harder. However, I hesitated for some reason because of the shattered manner in which she stood with her head bent.

“Fine,” I said finally, my voice cold. “But don’t expect me to come running the next time you decide to fall apart.”

Her silence was deafening as I turned and left the room.

But, the image of her weak, stubborn, and completely disoriented remained in my mind as I moved down the corridor. I couldn't get rid of the agony in her voice or the fire in her eyes, no matter how hard I tried.

She wasn’t just a pawn in this game.

And that realization terrified me more than anything else.