“Regina, if I’d known you were this good at acting, I wouldn’t have wasted my time teaching you to paint.”
Then, he became serious as he added, “But playing the victim won’t work this time. Margot’s competition is next week, and she can’t afford a single mistake. That means you’re not leaving—yet.”
He tossed something on the table. “The prompt’s over there. Finish the painting. When it’s done, have the assistant call me. Don’t make me come all the way out here for nothing again—or else…”
I didn’t catch the rest. His voice faded out.
And suddenly, everything went quiet.
That’s when I saw it—my own body, lying motionless on the cot. Pale. Lifeless.
So I really was that sick.
Was it that obvious?
Then why hadn’t Darell noticed?
I didn’t get it.
My vision cleared completely, more than it had in weeks. Everything became sharp, almost unnaturally so.
I looked carefully at my paintings. He hadn’t been wrong.
Aside from the one with the roses, the rest were chaotic, soulless.
I couldn’t even believe they were mine.
What a joke.
Even in death, my soul stayed behind, still clinging to regret. I couldn’t do anything but sit there, waiting.
The assistant came by the next day with food, but he didn’t notice I was dead.
For days, he came and went, never even glancing in my direction. Just dropped the meals off and left, like clockwork.
It wasn’t until the seventh day, right before Margot’s competition, that Darell finally showed up.
