Chapter 2 No.2

Arvin didn't sleep. The pain in his arm was a dull, constant throb, a physical reminder of the night's events.

He went to his studio, the only room in the mansion that felt like his. It smelled of turpentine and oil paint. Canvases leaned against the walls, most of them covered with white sheets.

His eyes fell on a small, velvet box on a shelf. He opened it.

Inside lay the "Heart of the Ocean," a sapphire and diamond necklace. He'd bought it for Jorja at an auction three years ago. He had used the entirety of his personal art fund, the money he'd been saving from private commissions. He'd wanted to give her something that wasn't from the Romero family, something that was just from him.

She had worn it once, to a gala. Then it had gone back into the box and into his studio, forgotten.

He closed the box. He would sell it. It would be the start of his financial independence. A way to sever the last tie of his own making.

He spent the morning packing. Not clothes, but memories.

He gathered the small, framed photos from his nightstand. A picture of them on their wedding day, her smile vacant. A candid shot he'd taken of her reading in the garden. He put them in a cardboard box.

He found the collection of dried flowers he'd saved from the bouquets she'd received and casually discarded. He had pressed each one. He swept them into the trash.

His gaze landed on a large, covered canvas in the corner. He walked over and pulled off the sheet.

It was the portrait of Jorja's father. The one that had started everything. It was a masterpiece of photorealism, capturing the late Mr. Romero's kind eyes and firm jaw. It was the painting that had indebted him to Elizebeth.

He looked at the kind eyes of the man in the portrait, then thought of his daughter's cold indifference. The memory of her turning her back on him at the restaurant, his arm searing with pain, returned with sharp clarity.

He picked up a palette knife. His hand trembled slightly. Then, with a sudden, clean motion, he dragged the blade across the canvas. A long, ugly gash tore through the face of Jorja's father.

He felt nothing. Just a quiet finality. He had paid his debt.

He left the studio and went downstairs. The house was quiet. He prepared breakfast out of habit. Coffee, black. Toast, lightly buttered. A bowl of fruit. He set it on the dining table.

Jorja came down an hour later, dressed for the day. She didn't look at him.

"Is Cale awake?" she asked, her voice bright.

"I don't know," Arvin said.

"He's staying in the guest wing. I told him he could use your study if he needs to work. You don't mind, do you?" She didn't wait for an answer.

His study. The place he had worked on his commissions, the place where he kept his art books and sketches. Invaded. Occupied.

"It's my birthday today, Jorja," he said quietly.

She paused on her way to the stairs, a flicker of annoyance on her face. "Oh. Right. Happy birthday."

She turned and went upstairs, her footsteps light. She had forgotten. Of course, she had forgotten. He had reminded her last week.

She came back down a few minutes later, holding a small tube. She tossed it onto the table in front of him.

"Here," she said. "For your arm."

It was a tube of burn cream. The same one she had insisted on getting for Cale's non-existent injury last night.

He picked it up. The plastic was cool in his hand. He looked at it, then looked at her.

She was already on her phone, smiling at a text.

He unscrewed the cap and methodically applied the cream to the raw, blistered skin of his arm. The sting was sharp. He did not flinch. Each dab of the cream was a confirmation.

This pain was real. Her indifference was real. His decision was real.