Page 56 of The Devil's Canvas

I don’t hesitate. “I’m not going without him.”

The silence is deafening, stretching longer than before.

Unexpectedly, Melanie laughs—a quiet, satisfied sound that unsettles me more than it should. "Fine," she purrs, like she’s just won something I don’t understand yet.

The call ends with a sharp click. I drop my phone onto the couch and turn to Julian. He watches me with a slow, lazy grin.

"How do you feel about a movie premiere?"

Julian hums, tilting his head like he’s considering it, but his grin only deepens. “Oh, darling. You have no idea what you've just started,” he says smoothly, deep red flashing in his eyes. "Let’s give them a show."

Chapter Eleven

Julian

Thelimorollstoa stop, and I step out first, greeted by a blinding storm of camera flashes. The red carpet stretches ahead—a sleek expanse of deep sapphire and silver, banners emblazoned withThe Sun Will Forget Us, the title glowing under the lights like a prophecy. Reporters hover at the edges, celebrities move with calculated grace, and the air hums with the kind of anticipation that only exists in places built on illusion.

I turn back, offering my hand. Ophelia hesitates for a heartbeat before taking it.

The moment she steps out, the cameras shift. The attention is hers. And for once, she doesn’t run from it.

I watch her, and for a second—just a second—I forget where we are.

She is stunning. Not in the way Hollywood expects, all artifice and pretense, but in a way that demands to be seen.

Her dress is dark as ink, sleek as liquid shadow, reflecting the lights in a way that makes her look untouchable. The fabric molds to her, elegant but effortless, as if it was made for her and no one else. Her skin glows beneath the lights—bare at the shoulders, radiant beneath the camera flashes, like she’s something more than mortal.

Her hair is swept back, exposing the delicate curve of her throat, the sharp angles of her jawline. Minimal makeup—except for her lips, painted in a red so dark it borders on sinful.

I smirk.

A contradiction. Always. Sharp edges wrapped in something deceptively soft. A work of art that no one else is allowed to touch.

I tighten my grip on her fingers, drawing her just close enough that she knows she belongs to me. And tonight, the world will know it.

I look over to my left and I see Dominic posing alone on the carpet. It looks like Melanie already walked, probably wanting to go first. Now he is there, by himself, but he isn't looking at the cameras. He's looking at us.

He finishes with the reporters and walks over.

"Ophelia," he says, voice clipped. "Really? The guy you danced with?"

I smirk, but I don’t say anything. Not yet. Ophelia, though—she doesn’t hesitate.

"Yeah," she says, sweet as poison. "At your wedding. Remember, Dominic?"

Dominic’s jaw tightens. Good.

"This isn’t a game," he mutters.

"Oh, trust me. I know. You made that pretty clear when you married my sister six months after we broke up."

The words land like a blade, and he exhales sharply—like she’s being cruel, like he has the right to be angry.

"I didn’t think—"

"No, you didn’t," she cuts in smoothly, tilting her head. "And now you don’t get to think about me at all."

Dominic’s fingers flex at his sides. He’s losing control.

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