Wrong Accusation!
882 Words
His grip tightened for a second—too firm, too controlled.
That’s when I realized it.
He wasn’t just calm.
He was used to being in control.
Before either of us could say anything else, a voice cut through the tension from outside.
“Sir about the car…”
We both turned.
A man stood near the BMW, slightly out of breath, keys in hand. His eyes moved between us, hesitant.
“I moved it like you asked,” he said. “But the damage it was already there. It wasn’t from here.”
Silence.
I felt it before I saw it the shift.
His grip loosened.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like he was recalculating everything.
I looked at him, really looked this time. At the tension in his jaw, the flicker in his eyes control slipping, just for a second.
And that was enough.
“I told you,” I said quietly, pulling my arm free.
He didn’t stop me this time.
“Ms. Rose, I—”
“I don’t care,” I cut him off, my voice flat, but my heart still beating too fast. “Like I said.”
For a brief moment, our eyes locked again.
Not anger this time.
Something else. Something unfinished.
I stepped back, putting distance between us, reclaiming the space he had invaded.
Then I turned, walked inside, and shut the door behind me hard.
The sound echoed through the studio.
But even in the silence that followed…
I could still feel him there..
My heart was beating like crazy, a storm of anger and something far more dangerous twisting inside me. Hate, passion I couldn’t even tell the difference anymore.
Then the door rang again.
Once.
Twice.
Louder this time.
I clenched my jaw, my hands curling into fists as the sound echoed through the studio.
“Go away!” I shouted, my voice breaking through the quiet. “Just go the hell away!”
The bell rang again.
Of course it did.
I let out a sharp breath, storming toward the door, my pulse racing.
“You think you can just walk in here and control everything?” I snapped, my voice rising with every word. “You have money, you have power fine. But not me. You don’t control me.”
Silence.
Then, through the door his voice. Calm. Too calm.
I pressed my hand against the wood, anger still burning under my skin.
“Go away,” I said again, lower this time, sharper. “You snob.”
But even as I said it…
I didn’t move away from the door.Everything stopped.
No more ringing.
Just silence.
I waited a full minute before opening the door, my hand hovering on the handle, my heartbeat still uneven.
When I finally pulled it open—
He wasn’t there.
Instead, a man in a dark suit stood in his place. Tall. Controlled. The kind of presence that didn’t need to speak loudly to be heard. In his hands—an envelope.
“I apologize for disturbing you, miss,” he said politely. “My boss asked me to deliver this.”
Of course he did.
I stared at the envelope for a second before taking it, already knowing.
And when I opened it—
Money.
A lot of it.
I let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, shaking my head.
“Saying sorry with money,” I murmured. “Of course.”
My fingers tightened around the envelope before I stepped forward and shoved it back toward him, letting some of the bills slip and scatter to the ground.
“Take it,” I said coldly.
The man hesitated.
I met his eyes, my voice sharper now.
“And tell your boss…”
I paused, the anger settling into something quieter—but far more cutting.
“…to go to hell.”
I turned before he could respond, stepping back inside and slamming the door shut behind me.
The sound echoed through the studio loud, final.
I stared at the painting I had started that morning.
The red.
The blue.
The face that was never fully there
His.
My chest tightened.
Before I could think, my hand moved. I grabbed the canvas and tore at it, ripping it apart piece by piece. The sound of fabric splitting echoed through the studio, raw and violent.
The way he had grabbed me.
The force in his hand.
The audacity.
“How dare he…” I muttered, my voice shaking. “How dare he talk to me like that… touch me like that…”
Another tear.
“And the money…” I let out a bitter laugh. “Not even a real apology. Just money. What the hell?”
The envelope flashed in my mind—the cold, careless way it had been sent.
Like I was something that could be fixed.
Bought.
Silenced.
“I’m not one of those girls,” I whispered, my voice turning sharp. “I’m not something you can pay off.”
Another piece of the painting fell.
“No one touches me like that.”
Silence filled the room again—but this time, it wasn’t calm.
It was heavy.
Because even after destroying it…
I could still see him.
In the red.
In the blue.
In the chaos he left behind.
- Writer
