His fingers dig into my waist, and his smug smile falters. His gaze narrows, searching my face for any crack in my facade, butI give him nothing. I won't let him see how much I want to tear myself away from him.
"Careful, darling." His voice oozes with false charm. "In the end, you'll find resistance only makes things harder. You'll kneel, and you'll spread those legs you keep closed like a vice. You'll learn your place." He straightens, brushing a thumb across his bottom lip as if considering his next move. "In time, you'll be everything I tell you to be."
My skin crawls at the possessiveness in his tone, but I hold my ground, glaring up at him. I won't let him intimidate me, won't give him the satisfaction of seeing me cower. He may think he has control, but I refuse to be that woman in the painting for him.
If I ever kneel or submit, it will be on my terms. And it won't be to a man like Prescott.
I steal one last glance at the painting, the image of the ruby pendant and the kneeling woman burning itself into my mind. The firelight glimmers off the swan inside the pendant, and a quiet resolve forms deep inside me. Prescott may believe he's won, but he's sorely mistaken.
"Viv." Father's voice slices through the crowd like a blade.
I barely have time to react before his hand clamps around my arm, the force of his grip as unyielding as his scowl. He doesn't say another word as he pulls me away from Prescott, dragging me through the sea of guests, each step more hurried than the last.
Dread builds with every stride. We break free of the crowded room, slipping through a side door into a quiet hallway, where the noise of the exhibit is nothing but a dull hum in the distance.
He finally lets go, but the sting of his grip remains. I barely have time to catch my breath before he whirls on me.
"Is that you in the painting?"
His voice is low, but the controlled anger simmering beneath the surface makes my pulse quicken. I hesitate, avoiding his piercing gaze, but there's no escaping his interrogation.
"No." The lie feels feeble even as it leaves my lips.
"You think I'm a fool?" He steps closer, eyes burning into mine as if daring me to deny it again. "You can't lie to me. I know that pendant. You posed for that filth, didn't you?"
My throat tightens. There's no point in lying anymore or trying to deflect the truth. He already knows.
"Yes." The word is barely a whisper. "It's me."
He steps back, disgust replacing the anger on his face. "Why? Why would you do something so reckless? So stupid?"
"Because I wanted to… to feel free." My voice is small against the weight of his disapproval. "To be myself."
Mother would have understood. Somehow, I know she would. In the few memories I have of her, she was vibrant, alive in ways Father never allowed. Maybe that's why he's kept her memory locked away, never speaking of her, never letting me know who she really was.
Grandmother could have told me, should have told me, but she stayed silent. Silent about everything that mattered. And now they're both gone, and I'm facing Father's rage alone, wishing desperately for someone—anyone—to stand between us.
His eyes narrow, lips curling in cold contempt. "You're not free to do as you please. You're a Faulks. My daughter. You don't get to indulge in these whims at the cost of our family's reputation." He straightens, his voice taking on that deadly calm that always makes me feel small and insignificant. "You'll close this exhibit. Tonight."
Panic surges in my chest. "Close the exhibit? That'll make even more of a scene, Father. It's?—"
He cuts me off with a sharp wave of his hand. "Close it. Immediately. I never want to see those paintings in publicagain." His voice drops lower, more menacing. "Have them delivered to the house. I'll deal with them myself."
My stomach knots. "Delivered? You can't—Father, Paul's work—this is his first public exhibit. It's meant to launch him. You can't just?—"
"Burn them." His tone is absolute, final. "I'm going to burn those paintings. No one will see them ever again."
"You can't burn them." The defiance slips past my fear. "This exhibit is everything to Paul. It's his chance to break free and be seen for who he is. You can't take that from him."
"Paul?" Father's voice drips with disdain. "That art forger you've tangled yourself with? The one who should be grateful I haven't had him arrested?" He steps closer, towering over me, his words venomous. "You think I care about his so-called career? You've humiliated this family. You've risked everything."
I bite back the tears welling in my eyes. "I'm not going to let you destroy his future because you're afraid of a few paintings."
"Afraid?" His look could freeze hell. "This isn't a request. You don't have a choice. This is bigger than your little dalliance with Paul de Gaulle. You'll do as I say or deal with the consequences."
I take a deep breath, trying to steady my shaking hands. "You don't get to decide what's best for me, Father."
"We'll see about that." His eyes narrow, his lips pulling into a thin, cruel line. "Close the exhibit. Those paintings will be gone by morning. If you know what's good for you, you'll stop fighting me."
