Painted in his obsession

Chapter 2

I couldn’t stand there any longer. The way Leo Adams looked at me, the way his hand gripped my arm as if I were something precious that had just returned from the grave, it made my whole body stiffen. His eyes burned into me, searching for answers I didn’t even have.

I swallowed hard and pulled myself away. “Excuse me,” I whispered, though my voice barely came out.

The silence in that mansion hallway felt too heavy. His brother Lex kept watching me with wide eyes, like am some strange creature. I couldn’t breathe in that place.

So I left.

My steps were quick, shaky, almost like I was running from something, but I wasn’t sure whether I was running from him, or from the strange confusion twisting inside me.

When I reached my small house, the difference hit me harder than usual. From the sparkling marble floors and golden chandeliers of the Adams mansion to the cracked walls and rusty zinc roof that hung above me, sagging like a tired old man, it felt like stepping from one world into another.

The scent of dampness and dust greeted me before the sight did. The furniture was old, second-hand, some pieces so weak you couldn’t sit on them without them creaking. Our floor was plain cement, stained and uneven. The curtains by the window were faded, more brown now than the once bright blue they used to be.

And by that window, I saw my uncle. My father, even if not by blood. His lean frame sat hunched in the old wooden chair, his arm resting against the window ledge. His face, weathered and pale from sickness, still carried the gentlest smile whenever he saw me. My heart broke at the sight. I hated seeing him like that.

He had always been my strength, the one who held me together, the one who made sure I never felt poor even when our stomachs went empty. He was the reason I walked through life with my chin up. And now here he was, trapped In this illness.

“Dad,” I called softly. My voice cracked. I always called him dad, because that’s who he was to me. He raised me. He sacrificed everything for me.

His head lifted, slow but steady, and his lips curved. “My angel,” he said, the way he always did. That word wrapped around my heart like a blanket.

I walked over, trying not to let him see the wetness forming in my eyes.

“How did it go?” he asked gently, searching my face as if the answer was written there.

I sat down beside him and sighed. “I didn’t do it.”

He frowned slightly, his brows knitting together. “Why?”

I hesitated, my fingers picking at the old pillow on the chair. Then the words spilled out. “Dad, it was… strange. They asked me to paint a portrait of Leonard Adams’ late wife. And when I saw her picture, Dad…” I paused, my throat tightening. “She looked exactly like me. Exactly.”

He blinked, confusion covering his face.

“I mean, the only thing that made me sure it wasn’t me was the expensive jewelry and clothes she wore in the picture. But Dad, it was like staring into a mirror.”

For a moment, silence stretched between us. His thin chest rose and fell slowly.

“Do I… do I have an identical twin somewhere?” I asked carefully, my voice trembling.

He shook his head, a weak chuckle slipping from him. “No, angel. No twins. Just you.”

“Then how is it possible?” I pressed. “Someone walking around with my face how?”

He looked at me, his tired eyes softening, and said, “Maybe God just wanted to duplicate His masterpiece.”

“Daddy!” I groaned, grabbing a pillow and tossing it lightly at him. My laugh broke through the heaviness, even if just for a second.

He chuckled softly, and for a moment I forgot he was sick.

“I’ll make your lunch,” I said, standing up quickly before the tears in my eyes betrayed me.

In the small kitchen, I pulled out what we had left a little rice, some few veggies and oil. As I set the pot on the stove, my phone buzzed. Evan.

I answered, pressing the phone between my shoulder and ear while washing the veggies.

“Hey babe,” he said casually. “How was your day?”

I sighed, stirring the pot. “It was… weird. I told you about that portrait contract right? When I saw the picture, Evan, the woman looked just like me. Like my exact face. I couldn’t even bring myself to paint it.”

“Wait, what?” He laughed a little. “So, you just left?”

“Yes! It didn’t feel right. I mean, how would you feel if someone gave you a dead person’s picture and that person looked exactly like you?”

He was quiet for a moment. “Honestly, I’d freak out. But babe… you should’ve just painted it and taken the money. You need it.”

His words stung, because they were true. I did need the money. Badly.

Our rent is due and my uncle’s drugs is way too expensive

“I know,” I muttered, lowering the heat on the stove. “I just… I couldn’t.”

He sighed. “You always think with your heart, Jodie. But sometimes you need to think with your head. Money keeps you alive.”

I didn’t answer. Instead, I focused on the sound of the boiling water, on the spoon clinking against the pot.

When the food was done, I served it and placed it before Dad. He smiled, whispering his usual, “My angel.” That word made everything worth it.

After clearing up, I lay down for a short nap. The exhaustion of the day pressed on me, and I let sleep take me.

But the sleep didn’t last.

The sound of water dripping woke me. I sat up, groaning. “Not again,” I muttered. The leaking roof. Our forever problem.

“Damn it,” I hissed under my breath as the droplets fell near my bed. I got up, dragging a bowl to catch the water. My movements were tired, frustrated.

Then I heard voices. Deep voices. Coming from the sitting room.

My stomach twisted. Slowly, I stepped closer, my bare feet quiet against the floor.

When I reached the living room, my heart nearly stopped.

Leo and Lex were there.

In my house. Sitting across from my uncle.

Leo’s tall frame dominated the room even though he was sitting. His presence was too large, too commanding, for a place as small and broken as ours. Lex looked at me quickly, his expression unreadable.

My uncle glanced at me, co

ncern flickering in his eyes.

And I just stood there, my chest rising and falling.