Page 102 of The Devil's Canvas

“And without you,” another says, “her cup runs dry.”

Ophelia exhales slowly, lifts her chin. “Show me him.”

The fire ripples—colder this time.

The vision blurs, reforms.

Cassius.

Not in court, nor at some high-powered gala. In his house. The Arden house.

He paces the study floor, barefoot, dressed in a tailored shirt unbuttoned at the throat, sleeves rolled up, like he’s been fighting his own skin. The once-pristine space is fractured—papers everywhere, books pulled from shelves, contracts torn at the corners. His desk is a ruin of ink and shattered glass.

He mutters to himself, sharp and fast, eyes flicking like they’re chasing shadows.

“They said she’d rise. They said—” His voice breaks off, twisting into a growl. “She was chosen. She was promised.”

He slams a fist against the desk. The frame of one of Melanie’s old awards clatters to the floor, the glass splintering.

In the reflection of the window, he looks older. More withered than powerful. Like the mask of legacy has started to crack.

The house groans.

He storms toward a stack of legal files—some old, some fresh. Names scrawled in red ink. Melanie. Arden Holdings. Film options. Lawsuits pending.

On the floor beside the fireplace lies a scorched contract. The original deal. The infernal markings barely visible now, the blood-written seal faded.

He picks it up like it still might burn.

“You said she’d be eternal,” he whispers. “You said she’d carry the line. That we’d rule.”

The fire doesn’t answer.

Phones ring in the distance. He doesn’t pick them up.

Later, he’s in a boardroom. Cassius sits at the end of a long black table, suit immaculate again—but his hands won’t stop shaking. The executives around him glance at one another, nervous, careful.

“We can’t protect your name anymore,” one of them says, voice thin. “The investments—”

“I built this industry,” Cassius snaps, slamming both palms on the table. “You owe me your careers!”

A pause. “No, Mr. Arden,” another replies, folding her hands. “We owe you nothing. And frankly… you scare people now.”

The room empties. Not one of them looks back.

He’s back in his house again, alone. The rooms are too quiet. The halls are too long.

Cassius stands at the fireplace, fingers grazing the frame of an old family photo.

Melanie, young and beaming, front and center. Ophelia stands beside her. Arabella too. But they’re out of focus—blurry, unimportant.

Only Melanie is clear. Only Melanie ever mattered.

He doesn’t speak this time. Just stares into the embers.

And the fire closes.

“He chose her,” she says. “He made his deal. Let him live with it.”

---