Page 61 of The Devil's Canvas

The blonde notices first. She falters.

"You know," I murmur, voice low and cutting, "I find it fascinating how much time you spend talking about someone you claim to have forgotten."

The laughter stops. Blondie stiffens, blinking rapidly like she’s recalibrating.

I take a step forward. They instinctively shrink back.

"I mean, really," I continue, still soft, still pleasant, still dangerous. "Do you think about her before bed? Whisper her name to each other when the lights go out? I can’t imagine another reason you’d be so obsessed with someone who has never once spared you a thought."

One of the brunettes glares, trying to act brave. "We were just stating facts."

"Oh?" I arch a brow. "And which part of your screeching was factual? The part where you pretended Dominic wouldn’t snap his own spine trying to get another glance at her? The part where you conveniently forgot that Ashton Mercer—the king of media’s bullshit circus—was the one who dragged your queen into the spotlight and reminded the world that Ophelia was there first?"

The brunette’s lips press together. I tilt my head, amused. "Or was it the part where you reduced a woman’s worth to the man she did or didn’t end up with?"

They say nothing.

I take another step forward, just enough that they realize how close I could get if I wanted to. "Here’s the real fact," I say, my voice smooth, patient, wrapping around them like a noose. "You’re nothing more than a mouthpiece for someone else’s words. You repeat Melanie like scripture because it makes you feel important. But tell me—does she even know you exist?"

The blonde flushes red. She does now. They all do.

"So," I say, suddenly cheerful, smiling wider, sharper, "why don’t you do something useful and run along before I really start having fun?"

The others flee. She stays. The blonde squares her shoulders, lifting her chin just enough to pretend she isn’t trembling, as if sheer will alone will protect her. She wants to prove something—to herself, to me, to the cameras that might still be lingering. But she doesn’t realize she’s already lost.

"Not scared of you," she mutters, the words barely above a breath, like saying them out loud will make them true.

I let a slow, amused smile spread across my lips, studying her with the kind of patience that makes lesser creatures crumble. She’s not special. Just another person who thinks they can spit venom without ever feeling its sting.

"Let’s fix that."

The shift is imperceptible to the crowd, but I feel it hum through the air, wrapping around her like an unseen current, pulling her under. Her breath catches, pupils dilating as the world tilts. She takes a step back, another—confusion flickering across her face before panic sinks in.

I watch as the vision takes hold.

She tries to move, to speak, but she can’t. Her voice is stolen, her body locked in place as the nightmare unspools inside her mind. It’s different for everyone, uniquely crafted from the deepest fears they try to bury. And her fear? It is so very simple.

She is nothing.

The world moves on without her.

People walk past without seeing her, their gazes sliding over where she should be. She screams, but no one turns. She reaches for someone, anyone, but her fingers slip through them like smoke. The noise of the world dims, fading into a quiet that stretches endlessly, a silence that confirms what she has always feared—she doesn’t matter.

She is a shadow in the background of someone else’s life, a ghost before she has even died, screaming into the void, drowning in irrelevance.

A strangled noise rips from her throat as reality bleeds back in. She stumbles, gasping, her hands flying to her chest as if she can force air into her lungs, as if she can shake the feeling of emptiness that will haunt her for far longer than this moment.

She looks at me, eyes wild, face pale, horror etched into every inch of her expression.

"What’s wrong?" I murmur, my voice velvet-smooth, mocking in its gentleness. "Not as fun when you’re the one being forgotten, is it?"

She stares, unable to form words, the bravado she wore moments ago shattered beyond repair.

I take a slow step forward, and she flinches, breath hitching like she expects me to pull her under again.

"If you say her name again," I continue, watching her closely, "I’ll make sure you feel that every time you close your eyes."

Her lips part, but no sound escapes.

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