Page 50 of The Devil's Canvas

I mean, I know they’re cruel, calculated, and incapable of empathy. But they actually did something? No way. That’s not how they operate. They don’t get their hands dirty. They manipulate, they push, they ruin people from a safe distance.That’show they work.

So if Rhys has something—something real—that means…

No.

It’s probably nothing. Some shallow, tabloid-level scandal, the kind that makes headlines for a week and disappears. Maybe another affair. Some money laundering. A quiet little bribe.

Bad? Sure. Unexpected? Not even a little.

What if he knows something bigger? What if he knows something about Julian? No, that’s impossible. There’s no way he could have dug that deep. Right?

“So,” Rhys starts, fingers drumming against his cup, gaze sharp. “Melanie Arden. Hollywood’s golden girl. Critics call her a once-in-a-generation talent. Directors say she’s transformative. Fans swear she feels real in every role.”

He pauses, watching me, waiting for a reaction. I don’t give him one. “But here’s the thing,” he continues, his voice measured. Too careful. “She wasn’t always like that. Ten years ago, she was just another struggling actress. No connections. No famous last name. Just another pretty face trying to make it.”

I swallow hard. I know this.

“She wasn’t bad, exactly,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “But she wasn’t good, either. Forgettable, at best. Casting directors passed her over. Directors called her stiff. She could hit her marks, say her lines, but she couldn’t feel them. Couldn’t make anyone believe her.”

I remember. I remember the way she used to force emotion, how nothing ever quite landed. And I remember how I used to feel everything too much—how my emotions bled into everything I touched.

Rhys leans forward, his voice as smooth as it is deliberate. “Something changed.”

My stomach twists.

“She started getting better. Not all at once, not overnight—but suddenly, it clicked. She started landing roles. Small ones at first. Indie films. Side characters. And people started paying attention.”

At the same time, I was losing something. It was slow, subtle, like a leak I couldn’t find. My paintings still looked like mine, but they felt hollow. Like I was mimicking myself instead of creating something real.

But Melanie? She was gaining something.

“She worked steadily for a few years,” Rhys continues, fingers tapping lightly against the table. “She was solid. Good, even. But five years ago? She wasn’t just good anymore. She was extraordinary.”

A tight knot forms in my stomach.

“She didn’t just improve,” he says, his voice dropping slightly. “She became the best. Directors called her a once-in-a-generation actress. Critics swore her performances were visceral. She could cry on cue, break down in ways that felt too real. No one could touch her.”

I stare at the table.

I know. I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it. That thing inside her—that ability to pull emotion from nowhere, to make every moment raw. It used to be mine.

Rhys keeps watching me. “It’s weird, right? People don’t just become that good. Not like that. Not after years of being fine at best.”

I don’t answer. Because no one questions it. No one remembers how she used to struggle. There are no bad reviews. No clips of awkward performances. No proof that there was ever a time when she wasn’t brilliant.

It’s like that version of her—the one who failed, the one who tried and fell short, the one I grew up with—never existed.

I press my nails into my palm, grounding myself. Quiet. Steady. Keep it together.

Rhys tilts his head, his voice lowering. "You ever wonder how she did it?"

I force a shrug, even as my pulse hammers. "Not really."

Rhys doesn’t buy it. He knows I’m lying. But he doesn’t call me on it. He just watches, his blue eyes too sharp, too focused—like he’s waiting for me to slip.

I shift in my seat, resisting the urge to look away. I don’t like the way he’s looking at me. Because he’s right. Something isn’t normal. Something isn’t natural. Maybe this is something I should talk to Julian about.

No. What am I saying? I don’t want to talk to Julian. I don’t want to go to him for anything. It’s better if we keep our distance.

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