Page 6 of The Devil's Canvas

Soon.

Chapter One

Ophelia

Paintingusedtobeeverything. Now, it’s just a habit. A necessity. A lifeless motion of brush to canvas that means nothing.

I paint because I have to. Because I need to make a living somehow. Because moving back in with my father is not an option.

He’s an asshole.

I stare at the canvas in front of me—technically perfect, completely meaningless. It should be beautiful, but it isn’t.

It wasn’t always like this.

I glance toward the paintings stacked in the corner, the ones from when I was sixteen. They’re nothing like what I paint now. They’re alive. The colors clash and meld, raw and unfiltered, as if something inside of me had been spilling out onto the canvas.

They make me feel.

They make others feel.

I never thought I would lose that. But I did. Slowly, bit by bit, it slipped away. The world didn’t change all at once—it tipped, tilted, unraveled one piece at a time.

At first, it was small. A dullness in my chest where excitement used to be. A hesitation where inspiration should have struck. I could still paint. I could still feel. Just… less.

Less turned into nothing at all.

I’m twenty-six now. And what little expression I had is gone. Completely.

I can’t even fucking see color anymore. Everything is just shades of gray.

I drop my brush onto the table beside me and sit on my bed, rubbing my hands over my face. The apartment is small, but it’s mine. It’s open space, nothing excessive, just a bed against the wall, a desk covered in paint-stained rags, and canvases leaning near the window.

It’s quiet. Safe. Controlled.

And yet, right now, I just want to throw myself on the floor and scream.

The misery, the frustration, the absolute agony of being unable to get any of it out—it’s crushing me.

Painting was my escape. My release. The way I used to make sense of things.

Now, it’s nothing.

And crying? That won’t fix anything either.

I could talk to someone. Hang out with friends. Try to be normal.

But I don’t like that.

Instead, I get to be the sister of Melanie Arden, the princess of the entertainment industry. The media’s golden girl. The one who gets everything, the one the world adores. The one who is perfect.

Melanie, who is getting married to Dominic fucking Forsythe, award-winning actor, tabloid darling, every media outlet’s obsession.

Melanie, who plays the role of a golden girl so flawlessly that people believe it.

And me? I’m just her frumpy older sister.

Not by much. Just four months.

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