Chapter 2 The Silent Scream

The first brushstroke had been blue. I remember it as clearly as if it happened yesterday the way the paint bled across the canvas, soft but wild, like it refused to be tamed. That was me once: messy, passionate, alive.

I used to believe color could heal. That every sketch, every smear of paint was a scream no one else could hear.

But the easel was gone now. Packed away when Charles said it made the living room look “unpolished.” My hands, once stained with color, were polished toonails manicured, skin soft, a perfect ornament for his arm.

Tonight, as I sat in the back of the limousine on our way to the Donovan Foundation Gala, I pressed my fingers together, desperate to remember how it felt when they were my own.

“Stop fidgeting,” Charles said without looking at me. His reflection in the tinted window was sharp, his jaw set, his tie knotted too tight. “You’ll wrinkle the dress. Do you know how much it cost?”

“It’s beautiful,” I whispered.

“It’s expensive,” he corrected. “Beauty fades. Price tags don’t.”

I stared out at the lights flashing by, swallowing my words. My silent scream lodged itself deeper in my chest.

The gala glittered with champagne and diamonds. Chandeliers sparkled above, laughter clinked like glass, and every head turned when we walked in.

“She’s stunning.”

“Donovan is lucky.”

“Look at that dressperfection.”

I smiled on cue, every compliment a dagger dressed as silk. They saw me, but they didn’t see me. To them, I was a painting in a frame admired, never touched, never free.

Charles guided me with a firm hand at my back, whispering through his teeth, “Keep smiling. Investors are watching.”

My lips hurt from holding the curve. “Of course.”

He introduced me to men in tuxedos, women with diamonds heavy on their throats. They praised his empire, toasted his brilliance. Every time, I nodded, laughed politely, tilted my head the way Charles liked.

Inside, I screamed.

Between toasts, I caught sight of a young woman with paint-stained fingers slipping out onto the terrace. She laughed freely, head thrown back, wine glass in hand. For a moment, I ached so fiercely I nearly stumbled. That used to be me.

Charles noticed. He always noticed. His grip on my waist tightened. “Don’t stare. It makes you look envious.”

“I was only admiring her laugh,” I said softly.

“Then admire mine.” He smiled, cold and sharp.

I forced a laugh that didn’t reach my eyes.

Hours blurred with endless chatter. When I finally excused myself, I slipped into a hallway lined with mirrors. My reflection stared back: flawless makeup, jeweled earrings, lips painted the color of submission.

But the eyes were hollow.

“Do you even know yourself anymore?” I whispered to the woman in the glass.

The silence answered me.

I pushed open a side door, desperate for air. Outside, the terrace was quiet, the night breeze brushing against my skin like a secret lover. I gripped the railing, eyes on the city.

I thought of the first time I met Charles.

He’d found me at a small gallery show, my paintings hung like fragile dreams on white walls. He’d worn a charm like a suit, his attention intoxicating. “Your work is raw,” he’d said. “Like you haven’t been taught to fear the world yet.”

I blushed. He smiled. He had told me I deserved moremore exposure, more luxury, more life than messy paint could ever offer.

And I had believed him.

Now the irony cut deep: he hadn’t saved me from fear. He’d taught me to fear him.

The sound of his voice pulled me back.

Through the glass door, I saw Charles on his phone, half-hidden in the shadows of the hallway. His tone was low but venomous.

“She’s slipping,” he said. “I can see it. The way she hesitates, the way she looks away when I speak.”

My heart stuttered.

“Yes,” he continued, voice like steel. “I don’t care how. If she slips, I’ll crush her. Do you understand me? I built this image. No one ruins it. Not even my wife.”

My breath caught. The words seared through me like fire.

I staggered back, hand over my mouth, the night air suddenly too thin. The man I had once trusted, once loved, was no longer just controlling. He was planning to destroy me if I dared to fall.

And in that moment, I knew the truth:

I wasn’t just trapped. I was in danger.

Ava pressed herself against the cold stone wall, her pulse racing, her heart screaming louder than ever before. If he was willing to crush her… how long before he tried?