He Forced Me to Paint Until My Last BreathChapter 1
Regina's POV
After being diagnosed with a terminal illness, I made the decision to finish one final painting—my last masterpiece—before quietly disappearing from the art world.
But on the very night my piece was released, I was accused of plagiarism.
My stepbrother presented my draft—the one I’d revised countless times—as proof that I had stolen the work from his female junior, a fellow art student.
Trolls swarmed me online. Reporters cornered me in public. And through it all, he stood by my side—not to protect me, but to force me to publicly apologize and admit to something I didn’t do.
When I was too weak to even stand straight, he locked me in a basement and demanded I keep painting, just so his beloved junior could have more of my work to use.
Eventually, I broke. My body and mind were shutting down. In a daze, I begged him for help.
But he didn’t even look at me. He just stood there, calmly counting my finished pieces.
“Why is the quality slipping? Did you forget everything I taught you?” His voice was cold. “Regina, don’t make me disappointed in you.”
Then, he stopped in front of my latest painting.
“This one rose,” he said, “is the only one that’s barely passable.”
The crimson rose on the canvas was still wet. I had painted it using my own freshly spilled blood.
My voice was barely audible as I pleaded, “Please… let me go. I can’t take this anymore.”
But he just stared at me with icy eyes.
“You’ve always faked illness to get sympathy. I’m not falling for it.”
What he didn’t know—what he refused to believe—was that this time, I wasn’t pretending. I was really dying.
——
"You know,” he said casually, “to make it big in any industry, talent alone isn’t enough. You need a story that grabs attention. Something dramatic.”
“Anyway, since you’re quitting, why not do me one last favor?" he asked, changing the topic. "Help Margot make her debut by passing your legacy on to her. Wouldn’t that be a nice gesture?”
Darell Reynolds lounged on the sofa, staring straight into my eyes with smug satisfaction.
The so-called “evidence” he used to destroy me was scattered across the floor. If he’d actually bothered to look closely, he’d have seen that every stroke—every color—was filled with pieces of him.