He Took My Design, I Revealed the Truth

Chapter 2

I met Vincent when I was eight years old.

My mother had just started working as a groundskeeper at Warren Villa, spending most of her time tending the greenhouse. I was crouched in one corner of it, sketching a rose trellis in the old sketchbook my father had left me.

Vincent hated being ignored, so he snatched the pencil from my hand and dropped it into a watering can full of water.

Tears sprang to my eyes, and he laughed as though he had won.

"If you want it back, ask me for it."

I stayed silent for a long time before I finally whispered. "Give it back."

For a moment, he looked startled. Then he wiped the pencil on his sleeve and shoved it back into my hand.

"Fine. Don't cry. From now on, I'll buy you all the sketchbooks and pencils you want."

Vincent had not always been this cold.

Whenever members of the Warren family mocked me and called me the groundskeeper's girl, he would silently slide the plate of pastries toward me.

Whenever I struggled with the perspective in a drawing, he would lean over the table and say earnestly, "Zoey, you're going to be an amazing designer someday."

I think that was when I began falling for him.

Later, during my junior year of high school, the Warrens hosted a banquet at the estate.

I wore a dress my mother had altered for me and went to the greenhouse to gather the last of the white roses.

Vincent's friends saw me and started laughing.

"Vincent, is this the childhood sweetheart you've been hiding from us?"

"Your standards are that low? You'd actually go for the groundskeeper's daughter?"

Vincent's hand went still around his wineglass.

A second later, he shrugged off his jacket and tossed it at me, his voice turning cold.

"Don't be ridiculous. She's just our groundskeeper's daughter."

Then he looked at me.

"There are guests everywhere tonight. Why would you show up dressed like that? You're embarrassing yourself."

It rained heavily that night.

He did not walk me back to the groundskeeper's cottage beside the greenhouse, where my mother was waiting.

I carried the roses back alone through the covered walkway. I gripped the stems so tightly that the thorns cut into my palm, sending blood between my fingers and onto the ground.

Vincent never apologized. Instead, he began sending me expensive dresses after dresses.

Before long, the clothes he sent had filled an entire closet.

He said, "Don't wear cheap clothes like that anymore. I don't want people saying the Warrens mistreat their staff."

At the time, I still made excuses for him.

I told myself he bought those dresses because he did not want anyone laughing at me again.

It was not until years later that I finally understood.

He had never been afraid that people would laugh at me. He had been afraid that people would laugh at him.

That evening, I stopped by Warren Villa before returning to my dorm.

Vincent's mother, Grace Warren, was waiting for me near the greenhouse entrance.

Her gaze fell on the drawing tube tucked under my arm, the one containing the architectural sketches my father had left me.

"Zoey, don't show those drawings to anyone else anymore."

I froze.

Grace's voice remained mild.

"A few old sketches mean nothing to the Warren family, but if outsiders see them, they may get the wrong idea and assume the Warrens owe your family something."

She paused before continuing.

"They're old, and there's no reliable way to prove when, or by whom, they were drawn. You're still young. Don't let anyone put ideas in your head that those drawings give your family some kind of claim on the Warrens."

At the time, I only felt humiliated.

Only later did I realize that she had never been afraid of a misunderstanding.

She had been afraid of the truth.

That night, as I packed my belongings in my dorm, Vincent sent me a message.

Vincent: Knock it off.

Vincent: Madison said you were upset today. I asked someone to send over a cake.

Vincent: Black Forest cake. It was always your favorite.

I stared at the words, my chest tightening.

Whenever I cried as a child, he would bring me Black Forest cake and stay until the tears stopped.

Later, he used that same cake to paper over every humiliation he refused to acknowledge.

He thought something sweet could erase every insult.

I typed out a message, hesitated for a long time, and finally hit send.

Zoey: If I leave Warren Villa and move away from Los Angeles, will you miss me?

He replied almost immediately.

Vincent: What kind of stunt are you pulling now?

Vincent: Why would I miss you?

Vincent: Zoey, stop pretending you matter more to me than you do.

I gave a small, bitter smile. A tear slipped down my cheek and landed on my phone screen.

Fine.

The answer was clear enough.