Chapter 2The Last Canvas

Ethan Vance was the heir to Vance Corp, a generations-old financial giant. Hailey Carter was the receptionist at one of his companies.

I found out during a major charity gala. Ethan slipped away early. When I went to look for him, I heard them through the hotel room door—a chorus of gasps and moans that stopped my heart. I wanted to kick the door down. I wanted to run away. I wanted to plug my ears until they bled. But I couldn't move.

On the drive home, Ethan and Hailey sat together in the front. Ethan’s face was flushed with the goofy, manic glee of a teenage boy in love.

Back at the penthouse, he slapped a psychiatric report onto the coffee table.

“Hailey has severe Bipolar Disorder. She needs stability. She needs a wedding. I’m her boss; I have a responsibility to care for my people. You, Clara, are and always will be the real Mrs. Vance. A true Vance wife is poised and generous.”

My whole body shook with rage. He knew a fake wedding would make me the laughingstock of the entire East Coast elite.

Then, Hailey had the audacity to ‘request’ that I paint their engagement portrait. Ethan didn’t know this, but Hailey and I went to the same art school. She was rubbing my face in it.

I slapped her. Hard. Right then, I decided to break the engagement. Hailey could be the real Mrs. Vance soon enough.

But as I was consulting my lawyers, my world crumbled again.

My parents’ small art gallery—a place I loved more than anything—was deep in high-interest debt. The loan sharks found them. They dragged my father in front of my mother, beating him until I was forced to watch. I cracked my head open begging them to stop.

My parents were broken, hysterical. “If you’re still his fiancée, he’ll help us! Do you want to see your father beaten to death?”

I drove to Ethan’s office and knelt outside Hailey’s door for an entire night, begging him to come home.

His secretary delivered his message: “Mr. Vance is deeply troubled that you refused the portrait, which triggered a severe episode for Ms. Carter. He is currently apologizing on your behalf.”

He cared for her that much. A few days later, he came home, drunk, and fell on me. He tore at my clothes, yelling Hailey's name as he used me. I didn't fight him. I let him take it all out.

My love died in that moment.

When the sun rose, I finally agreed to paint the wedding portrait. I was a fool to think I could salvage a clean break.

As my agonizing scream faded into a gurgle, Ethan held up the canvas, presenting it like a trophy to the Queen: Hailey.

“Haiz, I promise you, at our wedding, you will look exactly this beautiful.”

Hailey smiled coyly, but her voice was a chilling whisper. “Ethan, I’m grateful for the wedding. But when Clara’s other hand can paint again, I’ll tell everyone the truth and give the painting back to her.”

Ethan froze, then his face turned dark as midnight. “Clara Reynolds, you’re still clinging to the idea of painting?”

My vision was swimming, my consciousness dimming. My head, sticky with tears and snot, shook weakly on the floor.

“Don’t pretend to be helpless now. My commitment stands: you will remain the nominal Mrs. Vance. The wealthy socialite.” He focused on meticulously smoothing a loose strand of hair from Hailey’s face. “But for Hailey to be the sole creator of this masterpiece, you must never pick up a brush again.”

“The Vance wife has plenty of help. You don’t need hands anyway.”

He turned and waved his goodbyes, dismissing me like a stray dog. “Lose the other hand too.”

I gasped. My consciousness snapped back. The first wave of pain had been unbearable. I couldn't survive another.

I thrashed wildly, spewing frantic apologies to him, to Hailey—but they only had eyes for each other. They didn't hear my blood-gurgling pleas.

The iron pipe went up again. Rusty, smeared with my own blood.

CRUNCH!

“!!!”

CRUNCH!

“AAAGH!”

CRUNCH!

“AAAHHHH!!!”

Ethan’s voice drifted over: “Keep going. Make sure every hit is solid. Ensure she can never recover. Don’t stop until I say so.”

CRUNCH! CRUNCH! CRUNCH!...

The world was a kaleidoscope of color. My throat tore with inhuman sounds. I prayed for oblivion.

It felt like a lifetime until Hailey finally winced. Then, Ethan graciously granted my reprieve.

I was a dead weight on the floor, my hands twisted into grotesque, broken claws, like mismatched roots of some strange vine. They stood over me, picture-perfect, their love radiating brightly, a glorious symphony witnessed by the wedding portrait.

I tried to move my lips, to speak, but no sound came.

Ethan instructed the guards: “Bandage her. And watch her. She is not to see a doctor until the wounds are healed. We can’t risk her being able to paint again.”

A guard uncorked a bottle and poured a liquid over my mangled flesh. I screamed, a final, ragged sound, and coughed up blood.

Ethan gently covered Hailey’s ears.

The pain was so absolute that I passed out.