Yor Regret is Too Late!

20

"Oops! My hands are so slippery! Oh, Aria... I truly didn't mean to, I swear!"

Aileen’s voice screeched, sounding incredibly panicked and dripping with feigned regret to everyone else, but to me, it was the exact sound of a laughing demon. I froze. My breath suddenly caught in my throat as I watched the thick black liquid bleed rapidly across the paper, devouring the fibers of the expensive sheets that had been the sole canvas for all my hopes for months.

The ink was like a ravenous black spider. It crawled, swallowing every single detail of the Hidden Rose Stitch that I had drawn with a sharp pencil until my fingers were calloused. It erased the curves of the gown titled "The Awakening," which I had prepared to change my destiny in that international competition. Within seconds, the masterpiece I had built with tears and sleepless nights was reduced to a hideous, shapeless stain.

"No... no..." I whispered hoarsely. My trembling fingers tried to touch the edges of the paper that hadn't been stained yet, but the liquid moved too fast. It soaked through, blackening everything. "Aileen... what have you done? This is for the competition next week, Aileen! This was my only hope!"

"Oh my god, Aria, I already said I was sorry! Why do you have to start screaming at me like that?" Aileen took a step back, cupping her hands over her mouth, her eyes blinking as if she were the victim being cornered by my rage. "I'll just buy you a new sketchbook later. Don't be so dramatic."

Dramatic.

That word was like gasoline thrown onto the fire already blazing in my chest. The raw sting in the soles of my feet from walking barefoot yesterday, the gnawing hunger from being locked in the library, and the agonizing pain of Asher’s betrayal... everything exploded all at once. My head rang violently.

I stood up with a powerful jolt, sending my chair flying backward. "A new sketchbook can't bring back the soul you just spilled here, Aileen! You did it on purpose! You always intentionally destroy everything I have!"

"Aria, watch your mouth! I told you it was an accident—"

SLAP!

The sound of the slap echoed through the otherwise silent classroom. My hand felt hot and throbbing, but it was nothing compared to the complete destruction of my heart. Aileen stumbled sideways, holding her rapidly reddening cheek. The entire class held their breath. Aileen’s friends shrieked hysterically.

"AILEEN!"

A massive shadow stormed into the classroom. Before I could even draw a single breath, a violent shove slammed into my shoulder.

Crash!

My body collided hard with the corner of a desk before I collapsed onto the cold floor. A sharp pain shot through my waist, but my vision focused entirely on the figure now kneeling, holding Aileen in a fiercely protective embrace.

Asher.

He glared down at me with eyes blazing with pure fury. I had never seen him look at me with such absolute cruelty. It was as if I were the most hideous monster he had ever encountered in his entire life.

"You've completely lost your mind, Aria!" Asher roared, his voice booming loud enough to shrink my courage to its absolute lowest point. He shot a brief glance toward my ruined sketchbook lying on the floor, completely drenched in black ink. "Just because of this dirty paper you strike your own twin sister?! Just because of these useless scribbles you dare raise your hand?!"

I let out a hollow laugh amidst my bursting sobs. "Dirty paper? You call that dirty paper, Asher? That was my dream! That was the only way I could ever be considered a human being in that house!"

"A dream?" Asher stood up, his face flushed red with rage. He strode closer, pointing his finger straight in front of my face as I remained on the floor. "A dream built upon malice isn't a dream, it's a sickness! You are always jealous of Aileen! You always want to destroy her happiness just because you have absolutely no talent of your own!"

"I have no talent?" my voice was nearly gone, swallowed by an overwhelming tightness. "You're the one who is blind, Asher! You're the one who—"

"Don't you dare utter my name with that mouth ever again!" Asher reached out, preparing to grab the collar of my uniform, but his movement stopped dead in its tracks.

A large hand with bulging veins suddenly clamped around Asher’s wrist. The grip was so incredibly powerful that I could hear the faint sound of bone grinding against bone. The rich aroma of tobacco and potent masculine perfume instantly swarmed between us.

Barrett.

He stood there radiating an aura so dark, it was darker than the ink that had ruined my sketch. His messy uniform and wild, dangerous gaze caused the entire class to take a collective step back.

"Let go," Barrett hissed. His voice was low, but it held a lethal threat that made the hairs on my neck stand up.

"Barrett, don't interfere! This is my family's business!" Asher tried to violently wrench his hand free, but Barrett only tightened his grip further.

"I don't care if this is your family's business or a national crisis," Barrett said calmly, yet lethally. He dragged Asher’s hand away from me, then stepped directly in front of my figure, becoming an unyielding fortress between me and Asher's rage.

Barrett looked Asher up and down, from head to toe, with a look of pure disdain. "Don't you ever push her again. If your hand touches her roughly for even a split second, I'll personally ensure you won't be able to use that hand to feed the snake beside you ever again."

"You're defending her?! Do you know she just slapped Aileen?!" Asher shouted, entirely frustrated because his physical strength was completely outmatched by Barrett's.

Barrett glanced down at the ruined sketchbook on the floor. He bent down briefly, picking up the book with a movement infinitely gentler than the way Asher had embraced Aileen moments ago. Barrett looked at the black stain, then turned back to face Asher with a lopsided, mocking smirk.

"To you, this paper is dirty, but to her, it's a dream," Barrett uttered softly, yet every single word felt like a counter-slap directly to Asher’s face. "And you just trampled all over your own childhood best friend's dream, you idiot."

The classroom instantly turned freezing cold.

Asher froze. The words "childhood best friend" seemed to violently slam into the deepest part of his memory. He stared down at me as I continued to weep on the floor, and then looked back up at Barrett, his brow furrowing deeply. "What do you mean? My childhood best friend is Aileen! She's the one with the handkerchief! She's the one who—"

"Drink some water, Asher. Your brain is starting to rust from being continuously fed sweet poison by the person next to you," Barrett cut him off sharply.

Barrett didn't wait for Asher's response. He turned around and squatted down in front of me. Completely ignoring the whispers of our classmates, he took off his leather jacket and draped it over my shoulders, wrapping my violently shaking body in its warmth.

"Can you stand?" Barrett asked softly. So softly, that for a moment I felt this couldn't be the same Barrett who had brutally handled someone in the cafeteria yesterday.

I could only give a weak nod, accepting his outstretched hand. As I stood up, I could feel Asher’s gaze still completely locked onto me. A deep doubt was starting to creep into his eyes, a massive wave of confusion hitting him as he stared at the sketchbook Barrett still held.

Barrett guided me out of the classroom, leaving Asher standing entirely rigid and Aileen starting to panic as Asher's attention completely drifted.

In the quiet corridor, Barrett stopped walking. He handed the ruined sketchbook back to me. "You still have the copy inside your head, right?"

I looked up at him in confusion, still sobbing. "What do you mean?"

"Ink can only ruin paper, Aria. It can't touch what's inside your head," Barrett looked straight into my eyes, his wild gaze now remarkably honest. "Tomorrow, I’ll buy you the most expensive sketchbook. Draw it again. I’ll guard your desk 24 hours a day so that not a single cockroach or snake dares to come near it."

I looked down, tightly hugging the ruined sketchbook against my chest. The sharp pain was still there, incredibly deep. But for some reason, the crushing weight on my shoulders felt a bit lighter beneath this oversized leather jacket. From the distance, I could hear Asher calling out my name, but his voice sounded remarkably distant and foreign.

The dream might be torn, but standing beside the Wolf, I realized one thing: as long as I was still drawing breath, I still had time to stitch those torn pieces back together into something infinitely stronger.