O anjo do herdeiro bilionário

I had my drawing pad clutched up against my chest, its corners digging into my ribs, as I shouldered my bag of art supplies. The house was too quiet. My bedroom door creaked softly when I opened it, and I hesitated, holding my breath. When no one stirred, I exhaled and slipped out, stepping carefully down the big staircase. My socked feet were silent, but every creak of the old wooden railing was very loud in the quiet.

And then I got down there, and I heard his voice—deep, firm, and familiar. Samuel. My stepfather.

"I don't want to hear excuses. Just finish it," he bellowed. His voice carried from the dining room, off the walls. I peeked around the corner at him, phone to his ear as he paced back and forth. His suit was perfect, just the light from the chandelier gleaming off his cufflinks. He looked very irritated.

I was hoping he wouldn't notice me; I grabbed my bag and tried to make a run for the kitchen, but just like always, I was out of luck. My bag hit the corner of one of the chairs, and that made quite a noise.

Samuel stopped, his head jerking to the side so he could look at me. His dark, angled eyes pinned me in place like a troublesome insect. He didn't stop his call—of course, he wouldn't—but the twist of his lips said a lot.

I mouthed a soft "sorry" and darted into the kitchen, my heart thudding. Behind me, his voice went on, colder now:.

"If Winters Corp. goes under, it'll be a result of their incompetence," he said, his words very bitter. "Not me."

I pursed my lips, biting back the retort that tried to escape. Of course, he wouldn't admit his fault. I grabbed a cup of yogurt and a package of cookies from the refrigerator, my hands slightly trembling. The kitchen was suddenly too small, and I could sense him there even though he wasn't in the room.

When I was ready to leave, I looked back through the doorway. He was still walking around and talking loudly on his phone, now discussing the failing company. The anger in his voice annoyed me. All I could think about was, It's your fault, and you know it.

I quietly left the kitchen and stopped just outside the dining room door. His voice was still audible though not as clear. His frustration and desperation were easily understood. I leaned back against the wall for a moment and took a deep breath to calm myself.

I kept saying to myself, "Don't let him get to you, Jenny."

I turned away and walked to the west wing of the house. The halls were long and empty, filled with fancy paintings and shiny mirrors. They would have been beautiful to others, but for me, they were just reminders of what we had lost. The beauty felt empty to me, like a stage waiting for actors who had given up playing their parts for an audience that had ceased to care.

I stopped when I got to the door at the end of the hall. My fingers touched the cold metal of the doorknob, and I gulped before turning it.

The room was silent, except for the quiet hum of machines. Immediately, I noticed the strong smell of antiseptic: clean and sharp. I entered and gently shut the door behind me.

"Hi, Mom," I said softly. The words felt strange in the quiet room. She lay in the middle of the room, her face, once full of life, was pale and still. All around her were wires and tubes that connected her to the machines sustaining her life. The steady beep of the heart monitor was the only sign that she was still here with me.

I went to the window and set my supplies on a small table. The late afternoon sun came through the curtains, filling the room with warm light. "I brought my drawing pad today," I said as I pulled a chair close to her bed. "It's been ages since I did any drawing. And I know you always get a kick out of my art."

I took out my brushes and paints and arranged them in order. My hands moved automatically, but my thoughts kept going to her. She looked so frail, so small. It hurt seeing her this way.

“Samuel is in one of his moods again,” I said, trying to smile. “He was on the phone yelling about Winters Corp. He said it’s going under. That’s not surprising, right? I mean, it’s not like he has been running it badly since you...” I stopped because I was about to cry, then I cleared my throat.

The words just hung in the air, with no response. I put my brush into the water jar, trying to shake this heavy feeling in my chest. Outside, the sun began to set, coloring the sky in bright shades of orange, pink, and purple. I looked at those colors and, taking my brush, began to paint, mixing on my palette.

"You wouldn't believe how empty the house feels now," I said while I painted. "It's so cold. I try to stay out of his way, but it's like he's everywhere, watching and judging. He's really mean, you know."

And the painting started to form: a mix of colors showing the fast beauty of sunset. I got lost in the brush strokes, and making it brought me a little peace.

"Sometimes I think about whether things will ever get any better," I said, barely above a whisper. "If you'll ever wake up, if he'll finally stop being himself." My voice cracked and I set the brush down, looking at the unfinished painting before me. "I just…I miss having you here, Mom. I miss not feeling so lonely."

The sun had gone down, and the room was growing darker. Soft shadows of light cast on the wall from the machines themselves; its steady hum was the only sound. I gently took her hand; her fingers were cool and stayed still in mine. "I'll keep trying," I whispered, my voice shaking. "For you. For us. Even when it seems impossible."

The silence was thick and strong around me, but I didn't leave. I kept holding her hand. For a moment, I allowed myself to think she could hear me, that she would squeeze my hand back, that she was still my mom and not just a memory in a coma.