Page 100 of The Devil's Canvas

A red carpet premiere. Not her film, not her night. Still, she poses.

The photographers barely glance at her. Their attention flits past—onto newer faces, younger names. She adjusts her posture anyway. Puts on the smile.

By morning, the reviews flood in, each one more brutal than the last.

Cardboard couture

A mannequin in mascara

She emotes like a haunted mirror. Something’s there, but it isn’t human

Ophelia shifts beside me, the echo of those words hitting like a slow bruise. She watches as Melanie stares at her own reflection, glassy-eyed.

The flames tense, hardening to a point.

Melanie’s apartment. Pristine marble counters and white, emotionless walls. A phone buzzes across the table.

Her breath catches when she picks it up, eyes wide. Photos flood the screen. Her and Harrison Drake. A shadowed hallway. His lips on her throat. Her hand tangled in his shirt.

The phone slips from her grip. Her expression doesn’t change. She already knows what’s coming.

The fire swells again.

Dominic. He’s sitting on the couch, dress shirt still tucked, sleeves rolled, the knot of his tie loosened like he couldn’t decide whether to breathe or fight.

He stares at the phone in his hand. The headlines glare back, merciless.

On-Set Chemistry Becomes Off-Set Scandal

Melanie Arden Caught in Affair With Director

Dominic Forsythe Betrayed by His Leading Lady

He doesn’t say a word. Just sets the phone down on the table like it’s suddenly too heavy.

Melanie steps into the room, still in heels, still wearing the perfect dress. She freezes when she sees him.

He stands slowly. “You slept with him.”

She opens her mouth. “It wasn’t—” she starts, but he cuts her off with a look that could silence fire, it holds no anger, but something far colder.

“You lied.”

“It meant nothing,” she says, crossing her arms, but her voice breaks at the edges.

He lets out a breathless laugh, there’s no humor in it. “You mean nothing too,” he says—and walks out.

Behind him, a glass shatters.

The fire twists.

Dominic stands in the hallway of a legal office, one hand holding his coat, the other clenched into a fist.

The door behind him opens. His lawyer steps out, eyes already tired. “She won’t settle privately. She’s pushing for court.”

Dominic closes his eyes like he expected this. Like he hoped he’d be wrong. “I wanted to make it easy,” he mutters. “No spectacle. No mess.”

“She doesn’t want clean,” the lawyer replies. “She wants the spotlight back.”

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