Tangles in his silence

Chapter 1

“You slut!” Darren spat as he touched his nose, feeling blood trickle down.

I had managed to land a punch on his face while he was hitting me. My muscles throbbed from the impact.

“You’ll regret that,” he said through gritted teeth.

I hurriedly backed away as he strode towards me. I was on the floor, my clothes bloodied and my head light.

He was not the man I once knew. He wasn’t the man I thought I loved. Darren and I had been together for a year now. Everything was fine in the beginning, I was so happy.

Then everything changed.

He was always drunk, and every little thing I did irritated him. At first, all he did was yell or break things in the house. Until one day, he started hitting me. And over time, it got worse. He began throwing objects at me and slamming me against the walls.

Today was one of those days

I had no idea why he was angry when he came home, and I tried as much as possible not to irritate him further. I said very few words to him and was about to go to bed when he asked me why I had not made dinner.

I told him I was weak, and that I was not his maid. That was when he lost it.

“Please… please,” I whispered as I started to feel dizzy.

“You think you can hit me and get away with it?” He hissed. Crouching in front of me, he fisted a handful of my hair. “Like I said, you’re going to regret it.”

Pain shot through my body and I whimpered. I wanted to curse at him and fight back but I couldn’t. I was too weak and didn’t have the courage.

I always let him hit me. Today was the first time I tried to fight back. Some part of me still believed he could change. That we could be happy again. How foolish of me.

My parents never approved of him, but I loved him. And I needed to get away from them too. So I ignored them and decided to move in with him.

His tightened grip yanked me from my thoughts and he shoved my head so hard it hit the wooden floor. Then he stood and began to kick me. Everywhere.

My stomach. My legs. My chest.

I tried to beg, but he did not listen. My body started shutting down and black dots covered my vision. The last thing I saw was his face before everything went dark.

A gentle pat on my shoulder pulled me back to the present.

“My word, you look so pale,” Steph, my manager said. Her voice laced with worry.

“It’s okay, I’m fine.” She gave me a knowing look but did not push further which I was grateful for.

“Just be careful, please. And do not forget why we are here."

Right, the exhibition.

“Excuse me.” I murmured as I made my way to the bathroom.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror. Pale and haunted. I fixed my make up and brushed back my hair. When I felt I looked more like myself, and not the ghost Steph had seen, I headed back out.

The art gallery bustled with life as many people gathered to view my collection. The chandelier above shimmered like frozen crystal and cast a soft glow across the room. People of high status and wealthy background filled the room, admiring the artwork gracing the walls.

Becoming a successful and renowned artist, and art collector had always been my dream. Leaving home had been the best decision I ever made. A knot tightened in my chest at the thought. Maybe not the best after what happened with Darren, but at least I’m free from him too.

My father was never in support of my passion, and my mother always took his side. Sometimes, I wondered if they ever truly loved me. I would not believe we were related if I did not have my mother’s ginger hair and my father’s green eyes.

I heaved a heavy sigh.

I knew I made the right choice. It was the bravest thing I had ever done. But still, some part of me wished things had been different. That we could be a loving family again, like we used to be.

Everything changed when our family business skyrocketed. We became rich. And my father was always obsessed with shaping us to fit society’s mold. It ruined us. It felt as if he cared more about wealth and image than his own family. And I hated how my mother never stood up to him.

I shook off the thoughts. This was not the time.

Putting on a smile, I watched as the guests admired the different art pieces hanging on the wall. Some smiled and some nodded in approval.

Moving through the crowd, I greeted them ensuring they were enjoying the event. Steph told me she would handle it, but I needed to see to it myself. I had to.

By the time I had spoken to nearly anyone, my cheeks ached from the forced smiles.

“Ianthe Petralis,” a voice called.

I did not need to turn to know who it was.

Vivian Hale stood beside me, flawless as ever. We had crossed paths more times than I cared to remember. Residences. Openings. Panels, where she spoke as if success was inherited.

“Congratulations on tonight,” she said, her eyes drifting towards my paintings. “You always had a talent for turning pain into something people want to buy.”

“It’s not about selling,” I said evenly.

She smiled, amused. “That’s what makes it effective.”

Before I could respond, she stepped away. Steph’s voice rang across the gallery, calling guests to their seats.

It was time for the auction. I made my way to the front row and took my seat.

Steph stood in the front, dressed in a sleek black suit that made her look both elegant and bold. Her bright red lipstick topped the bold look.

Calling for everyone’s attention, the spotlight shifted to the paintings behind her. The crowd settled in plush velvet chairs. The soft hum of conversation dying down.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us for this evening of art and ambition,” she began, sweeping her hand to the artwork that had been unveiled. “We begin with Whispers of Stone by Nikolai Travis. The opening bid is fifteen thousand dollars.”

Bidding began almost instantly. The atmosphere buzzed with money and energy, and each piece found its buyer.

Moments passed by, and many pieces were sold. Then came the final lot.

The velvet curtain was drawn, revealing one of my paintings. One of the best I’d ever brought to life.

It was haunting. Deep brushstrokes in deep red, amber gold, and violet bled into a single, fractured rose. Its petals stretched like torn fabrics against the background. The rose was bent slightly, tilting towards the thorns. It wasn’t just an art, it was a confession.

Painting this was a deeply vulnerable moment for me.

Steph paused, her tone softening, “Lot seventeen, Shattered bloom by Ianthe Petralis. Starting bid: Twenty five thousand dollars.”

My heart was pounding my heart so loud I feared someone might hear it. I hated this part. Being watched, whispered about. But this piece mattered. It was my pain on a canvas, my healing, mid bloom.

A paddle went up. “Twenty five,” Steph echoed. “Thirty?” She prompted.

Another paddle. “Thirty.”

“Thirty five?”

“Forty.”

The bidding climbed. I stayed still, my fingers curled silently around my purse.

Then silence.

“Two hundred thousand,” a deep voice muttered from the back.

Heads turned. I couldn’t help but look too, and I nearly gasped when I saw the man who had spoken.

He was, without a doubt, the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. He sat at the back row, his hands resting idly on his knee, his face unreadable.

I hadn’t heard him bid all evening, not once. But now, for my piece, he did.

Steph cleared her throat, calling everyone’s attention back. She glanced around the room. “Any counter offers?”

Silence.

“Going once. Going twice.”

The gravel dropped.

“Sold.”

Applause filled the room. I remained seated, wondering why he bought the painting. He did not look like someone that would resonate with it. Or maybe he simply admired its beauty.

I glanced back at him. Our eyes met and he held my stare.

I felt a shiver run down my spine at the intensity at which he was looking at me and finally looked away, heart thundering.