Chapter 7: Aftershocks

The October dawn came gray through my dirty studio window, fire escape throwing skinny shadows on the peeling walls. Air was thick with turpentine and last night’s mess—smeared paint on the trashed canvas, Lana’s ring shining on the floor by the cufflinks, Cara’s envelope heavy on the futon. My body hurt, not just from fucks but from my lies crashing everything, studio like a grave for what I lost. City noise outside felt far and mean as I sat hunched, letter from Cara’s dad shaking in my hands.

I didn’t sleep. Lana’s scream still rang, her ring cold in my pocket. Victor’s text—Lawyers tomorrow. Done—burned worse than Cara’s last kiss, her jasmine stuck on my skin like a bad spell. Studio junk mocked me: half-done paintings, chipped mug, futon sagging under my screw-ups. I stumbled to the hot plate, made coffee that tasted like dirt, burn doing nothing for the hurt in my chest.

By noon, annulment papers showed up, cold and plain on my messy table. Lana’s name signed messy, her gone twisting like a knife. I signed fast, pen scratching loud. Phone stayed dark—no Lana, just Cara’s taunt: You’ll crawl back. And the new letter, thick paper promising a penthouse meet with her dad, name that opened big doors. Temptation bit, but I pushed it, grabbed my leather jacket—Cara’s gift, now a chain—and went out.

Williamsburg streets bit with October cold, leaves blowing as hipsters rushed by bars and murals. My gallery guy Marco ghosted after hearing my “patron” drama—Cara or Victor’s doing. Tried a rough SoHo gallery, brick walls and pricey coffee. Owner, skinny with nose ring, barely looked at my stuff. “Heard you’re trouble,” she said cold. “No scandals here.” Door slammed, city turning on me.

Back in studio, futon called, creaked as I fell on it. Jerked off to old times—Lana’s soft moans in her loft, Cara’s bossy yells in the villa—but cum was empty, guilt sour. Envelope’s fifteen grand sat there, bribe I couldn’t touch. My paintings, once my out, now felt fake, colors too bright for the gray in me.

Evening dropped, skylight over neighbor’s place glowing with life I didn’t have. Knock—hard, pushy—jolted me. Heart jumped, dumb hope for Lana, but Victor filled the door, suit sharp late at night. “We talk,” he said, stepped in no ask, eyes scanning mess with hate.

“Victor, I—” I started, he cut me.

“You broke her, Cole. My girl trusted you.” Loomed over easel, grabbed a brush, spun it like a knife. “Cara’s poison, you drank deep. Annulment ain’t enough. I’ll crush you—name, art, all.”

I stood, legs wobbly, futon creaking. “I loved her,” I said weak. “Fucked up, but—”

“Love?” He laughed mean, tossed brush. “You sold for cash. Lana’s gone—crashing with a friend, won’t answer me. You shattered her.” Stepped close, cologne sharp, fist tight. “Stay from my family. Or no more painting.”

He left fast, door slammed, studio colder. I hit the floor, Lana’s ring digging my palm. City neon blinked through window, didn’t care. Phone buzzed—unknown: Cole, Lana. Need space. Don’t look. My sorry text went nowhere, screen black.

Days blurred. Studio my jail, paint hard on brushes I couldn’t use. Cara’s dad letter sat closed, call I fought, but bank low—rent due, no jobs, no cash drops. Sold a canvas cheap at flea market, buyer’s pity hurt worse. Nights sucked—Lana’s loft vanilla warm vs Cara’s villa jasmine boss. Woke hard, futon cold for regrets.

Week later, last hit: email from freelance guy, bailing. Heard your mess. Can’t risk. Word spread—Victor’s pull, Cara’s shadow. Phone had Cara’s text: Dad’s offer open. Find me. Deleted, but hook stayed, her taste like a hit.

Rainy October night, I stood at window, city lights smeared in glass. Envelope’s fifteen gone—rent, cheap booze, trying to feel. Lana’s ring in pocket, weight I kept. Studio walls closed, turpentine and sad my only friends. Grabbed brush, painted wild—woman shape, not Lana or Cara, mix of their strong and hurt. Canvas bled, raw and not done, like me.

Knock—soft. Opened, expected nothing, but young woman, sharp eyes, card. “Mr. Vanderbilt sent me,” handed it. Cara’s dad. New penthouse spot, invite for your future. Card heavy like envelope, temptation back.