Page 51 of The Devil's Canvas

I push back my chair abruptly, the legs scraping against the floor. Rhys doesn’t react, just watches as I stand, his expression unreadable.

"I’m done with this," I say, my voice sharper than I intend. Too raw. Too fast. But my thoughts are racing, tangling together in ways I don’t want to untangle. “I don’t care if you keep looking into Melanie. Or my father. But I’m not helping you.”

Rhys exhales through his nose, his fingers curling around his coffee cup. He studies me, considering. "You sure about that?"

I hesitate. Just for a second. I nod once. I turn and walk out before he can say anything else.

I need to think. I need time. I can’t let myself get sucked into this.

I glance at my watch—almost time for lunch with Bella and Rosalind. We try to meet once a month, but Bella’s been buried in work, and Rosalind’s been running a charity event. I’m the only one with time to spare. So I work around their schedules.

The rain picks up as I step outside, slicking the pavement, soaking into the fabric of my jacket. Perfect. Like I wasn’t already annoyed enough. I climb into the cab, pressing my forehead against the cool window as the city blurs past.

The restaurant is small, family-owned, the kind of place that doesn’t change. No gimmicks, no overpriced nonsense—just food people actually want to eat. The air is charged with the scent of fresh bread and garlic, something simmering on the stove.

A few families sit in booths, voices low but comfortable, silverware clinking against plates. Nothing fancy. Nothing that demands attention. Just a place to exist for a while.

I spot them in our usual booth and slide in, cutting off their conversation.

Rosalind looks up. For a second, she just stares—like she’s trying to read me.

She still carries herself with the same quiet grace, but there’s something softer about her now. Her honey-blonde hair is still styled, but not in that perfect, untouchable way it used to be. A few strands fall loose around her face, brushing against the faint lines near her green eyes—the kind carved by years of worry, but never bitterness. The elegant dresses and pristine makeup she once wore have given way to a more effortless beauty—simple gold earrings, a warm-toned sweater, barely-there lipstick.

She smiles at me like I am her biological daughter. And in every way that matters, she is my mother.

My mother, Calliope Arden, died when I was five. I don’t remember much—just flashes. The sound of her laughter. The smell of oil paints and lilacs. The way she used to cup my face in her hands, pressing a kiss to my forehead like she was imprinting something onto my skin.

Six months after she was gone, my father married Rosalind. I was too young to understand what it meant, but I learned quickly. He had been having an affair. Rosalind got pregnant while my mom was still pregnant with me. That’s how I ended up with a half-sister only six months younger than me.

But I never blamed Rosalind. Even when I wasn’t hers, she treated me like I was. She combed through my hair after ballet class, packed my lunches, tucked me into bed. She never tried to replace my mother, but she never let me feel like I was alone.

She stayed until Bella turned eighteen, until she was off to college. The day after graduation, she finally walked away from the life my father had built for her. But she never walked away from me.

We kept in touch. We stayed close. We never had to question whether we were still family.

I feel lucky to have her. And that smile—God, that smile—makes me want to cry.

"Lia! You made it!" Bella exclaims, grinning.

"I wouldn’t miss it," I say, forcing my voice steady.

Rosalind’s eyes stay on me. Still searching. Still soft. "Hi, honey."

"Hi, Rosalind." I say it casually, like it doesn’t feel like something big. But my smile is huge, and I don’t try to stop it.

"How was your meeting with Rhys?" Bella asks.

The waitress drops off our food. We don’t even have to order. They know us here.

I take a bite of my salmon Cobb salad, the flavors hitting all at once—fresh, bright, perfect. I groan, closing my eyes for a second.

"He figured out Melanie was average at best and suddenly, she’s amazing." I shrug.

"I mean, we all knew that." Bella rolls her eyes, stabbing her fork into her pasta.

Rosalind stays quiet. I glance at her, and there it is—that flicker of sadness. She hides it well, but I know what it’s about.

Melanie disowned her. Pretends she doesn’t exist. I don’t say anything. What would I even say? I just let the silence stretch between us.

---