When Dallas and McAllister had brought Pratt’s businesses to my attention, I’d asked the question that the Saint James trial hadn’t answered. It was the same one that I knew Della had wondered but refused to verbalize. “What did Pratt have on Anthony to get him to do his bidding?” After both men looked into it, they realized…nothing. Pratt had nothing on Anthony, but the man I’d once called my closest friend hadn’t known that. He was willing to do anything for his family, even if it made him into the person he never wanted to be.
All for Elizabeth and Della.
“You’ve made too many enemies,” I stated, my own lips quivering from the smile I’d plastered onto my face. I didn’t want him seeing what I knew he’d done to Anthony, and to Della by default, make him think it changed me. He wanted it to. The Dick wanted me to be angry and lash out, but I wouldn’t give him that satisfaction, even if I did want to make him bleed.
“Your girl is going down,” he growled.
I didn’t believe him though.
Because my girl was the strongest person I knew.
Chapter Eighteen
Della
The hand reaching out to me was one I hadn’t seen in years, which was why I launched myself directly toward the open arms of the softest person I knew. Right before I made contact with my mother’s warmth, she said, “I told you to be better, sweet Della” and before I could tell her I was trying, she disappeared.
Bolting up in bed, I listened to the loud drumming of my heart as I took slow, deep breaths. I hadn’t realized I was crying until I swiped my face, feeling the damp cheeks that the backs of my hands were greeted with.
Curling the comforter closer around my body, I glanced at the time on my phone screen and blew out a breath. I hadn’t been asleep for more than three hours, but sleep would definitely be evading me now.
One glass of water later, I was standing at the doorway of my spare bedroom staring at the line of painted canvases that were resting against the back wall. Each one held different positions of the same ballerina slowly standing from the original bent over position I’d painted her in. I knew the easel held the final piece of the collection, a collection I named “Color Me Pretty”, except the dancer was standing tall and facing forward and her features…I hadn’t drawn them yet.
I walked over to examine how far I’d come the night before, when I’d decided to work on it to help me wind down after my last final, realizing shortly after I’d sat down to paint that I wasn’t in the right mindset to finish the series. I was tired, spent, and focused only on what my final grades would be. If it weren’t for Ribbons’ class, I wouldn’t have even stressed about it. But I’d barely passed the midterm exam and failed a few smaller quizzes that had come after. The paper we had to submit in person felt like a final send off between us, but I wasn’t sure if the weeks of effort and research I’d put in was even worth it for somebody like her.
Potential, I’d scoffed to myself. Hadn’t she told me she thought I had it once? That was worse than hearing half the things the tabloids said about me. They talked about my body and attitude, not my inability to learn or be successful as if I were hopeless altogether.
At two in the morning, I’d found myself walking into my bedroom and digging through my closet for something that I hadn’t held in my hands in a long time. Making my way back into the spare room, gripping the purple compact mirror that my mother always kept in her purse, I opened it and exhaled softly.
The girl staring back was tired, bags under her eyes, chapped lips, and flushed cheekbones. Looking from the glass to the paint I’d saved on my palette, I dipped my brush into the cream color I mixed and studied the mirror again.
It was four a.m. before I’d bit into my bottom lip and shadowed the sharp jawline and cheekbones heightened by weeks of hunger and physical activity before stepping back. I’d somehow gotten paint on my sleep shirt but didn’t care as I took in the final product in front of me.
She was…beautiful. Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I