Ruin (Rhodes #1) - Rina Kent Page 0,104

her with another man? Erasing you out from her existence? If that’s the case, then your wish might soon come true. She has a lot of male friends who I’m sure would love to have her.”

My jaw ticks at thoughts of Mae with another man. I did picture that option when I let her go but now that the fucker Tristan put it that way, it does hurt. More than a bullet wound, more than days of training in cold water. I clutch my chest as if I could remove the pressure. It’s like I’m having the signs of a heart attack.

“You are a Rhodes.” Tristan points a finger at my chest, his voice stern. “Put up a fucking fight for what you want.”

Tristan’s words strike me like arrows. Prick. He knew exactly what to say.

I’m not unselfish. I’m an arrogant bastard. Why did I think I can change that is beyond me. I must’ve hit myself on the head.

My cousin stands. “I’m getting married. You better make it.”

“What?” My mouth hangs open. Tristan? Married? “Since when did you have such plans?”

His lips curve in a cunning, sadistic smile. “Since it’s interesting.”

I smile back. I almost feel sorry for whoever Tristan will marry. Nothing good comes out from whatever Tristan finds interesting. When he thought Grandmother’s garden was interesting, he plucked all the roses, cut them to pieces and threw them into the pond. That’s his idea of interesting.

Tristan walks to the door. “Let me know when you plan on returning.”

I jump to my feet. “Now.”

Screw sacrifices. I’m selfish.

I want Mae and I’ll have Mae.

Chapter Thirty One

Mae

“You look marvellous, honey.” Mum’s approving gaze sweeps over my indigo dress before she presses a light kiss to my cheek. “I’m glad you decided to do this.”

I link my fingers together. My gaze wanders to the exhibition hall, searching people’s expressions. They linger on my paintings, talking, discussing, seeming to murmur things about me.

What if they don’t like my first exhibition? It took everything to showcase this part of myself to the world.

“Relax.” Dad massages my shoulders. “Everyone looks satisfied.”

I give a slight smile, most likely unconvincing. “I wouldn’t be so sure, Dad.”

My parents are more convinced about my success than I am. Dad invited many of his business associates. He keeps introducing me to them as a future genius artist. If I’m getting any sales today, then it’s definitely because of Dad’s enthusiasm.

After a long chat with Dad’s circle, I find a pause to examine one of my paintings. The 111 tattoo stares back at me, surrounded by a halo of smoky crayon. I never thought to unlock my art studio and exhibit myself— or more like Aaron. I was careful enough to shadow any identifying marks such as facial features, but all the canvases are a little part of Aaron. He’s the theme of my first exhibition.

Before I met Aaron, any personal exhibition was a dream. I was a coward to even attempt it. Now, it’s a glaring reality.

The gallery’s owner was delighted with the theme, but I took a long time to decide. It’s a lot more frightening than my previous dark art. This is something I’ve been keeping to myself for an entire year.

My secret is now exposed to the entire world.

“You did it!” Sydney squeals and pulls me into a tight hug. “I’m so proud of you!”

“I wouldn’t dare be here without your constant nagging and encouragements. Thanks, Syd.” I offer her the brightest smile I can manage. She and Owen were there for me even when I shut them out. “Where’s Owen?”

She points at him, conversing with Mum and a few of my professors. Owen winks when his gaze meets mine. The chaos in my heart weans a little when I’m around my friends. I feel saner. Less dead. I only told them snippets of what happened, saying I met someone in my captivity who gave me a different reason to fight— a truth in some way. Despite some bewilderment at first, they accepted me the way I am. Even thinking me strong to have found safety and sharpened my muse in the darkest of places.

It’s their soothing words that got me where I am. It’s my friends and my parents who keep me from succumbing to depression. But even they can’t dry the tears that wet my pillow