Vanessa Cruz stood in David Miller's villa, the fragrance of expensive perfume clashing violently with the damp, stale smell of turpentine and oil paint.
If she hadn't needed him…
If she hadn't seen his so-called "masterpiece" hanging in the gallery, praised by those hypocritical critics and wealthy collectors…
How could she ever have allowed herself to stand so close to such an ugly man?
His face was rough and pitted, his skin uneven like a cracked wall after rain. Even the way he smiled felt greasy, like he was chewing something disgusting.
Vanessa Cruz clenched her fingers tightly.
She wanted to vomit.
But she forced herself to endure.
Because she had no choice.
David Miller walked over, holding a glass of wine in his hand. His tone was casual, even amused, as if he were talking about an interesting piece of gossip.
"Let's go, Vanessa."
He leaned closer, his eyes sweeping across her face like a hungry animal. "What's wrong? You two sisters don't get along?"
