A Painter's Revenge: Love Redeemed

I. HAWKINS

Romance | Completed

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This was my third wedding. Or, it was supposed to be. The white dress felt like a costume for a tragic play I was forced to perform in again and again. My fiancé, Damian Avila, stood beside me, but his hand was gripping the arm of Eileen Brandt, his "fragile" friend. Suddenly, Damian was leading Eileen away from the altar, away from our guests, away from me. But this time was different. He came back, pulled me into his car, and drove me to a remote clearing. There, he tied me to a tree, and Eileen, no longer pale, slapped me. Then, Damian, the man who promised to protect me, hit me, again and again, for upsetting Eileen. He left me tied to the tree, bleeding and alone, in the pouring rain. This wasn't the first time. A year ago, Eileen attacked me at our wedding, and Damian cradled her while I bled. Six months later, she "accidentally" burned my best friend and me, and Damian broke my friend's wrist and then my painting hand to appease Eileen. My career was over. I was left in the woods, shivering, losing consciousness. No. I can't die here. I bit my lip, fighting to stay awake. My parents. Our family business. It was the only thing that kept me holding on. I woke up in a hospital, my mother by my side. My throat was raw, but I had to make a call. I dialed an international number, one I had memorized long ago. "It's Alana Myers," I rasped. "I agree to the marriage. All of my family's assets transferred to your accounts for protection. And you get us out of the country."

Revenge CEO Drama Kickass Heroine Personal growth

Chapter 19

The day before yesterday 21:37

Chapter 1

This was my third wedding. Or, it was supposed to be. The white dress felt like a costume for a tragic play I was forced to perform in again and again.

Damian Avila, my fiancé, stood beside me. His hand, which should have been holding mine, was instead gripping the arm of Eileen Brandt.

"I can't breathe, Damian," Eileen gasped, her face pale. "Everyone is staring. She's staring."

She meant me. I was always the one she meant.

Damian turned to me, his handsome face tight with a familiar mix of annoyance and false patience.

"Alana, just for a little while. I need to get her out of here. She's having another panic attack."

This was the script. It never changed. Before I could say a word, he was already leading Eileen away from the altar, away from our guests, away from me.

But this time was different. He didn't just leave. He came back, his car pulling up beside me as I stood frozen on the church steps.

"Get in," he ordered.

I didn't move. He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my skin, and pulled me into the passenger seat. The silk of my dress tore with a soft, final sound.

We drove for what felt like hours, leaving the city behind. The road became a dirt track surrounded by dense woods. He stopped the car in a small, remote clearing.

"What are you doing, Damian?" I asked, my voice trembling.

"Eileen needs to let off some steam," he said, his voice cold. "And you need to learn your place."

He got out, came around to my side, and pulled me from the car. He had a rope in his hand.

"Don't fight me, Alana," he warned.

He pushed me against a large oak tree and tied my wrists together, pulling the rope tight around the trunk. The rough bark scraped my back through the delicate fabric of my dress.

A few minutes later, another car arrived. Eileen got out, her face no longer pale and panicked. It was twisted with a cruel smile.

She walked right up to me and slapped me across the face. The sting was sharp, shocking.

"That felt good," she said, shaking her hand. "But my wrist hurts now. I'm too delicate for this."

She turned to Damian with a pout. "Damian, my love, my hand is sore. Can you do it for me? Please?"

He looked at her, his expression softening into a look of deep concern that he never, ever gave me.

"Of course, Eileen. Anything for you."

He walked over to me. I looked into the eyes of the man I had loved, the man who had promised to protect me. I saw nothing there but cold duty to another woman.

"This is for upsetting Eileen," he said calmly.

Then he hit me.

His open palm connected with my cheek. Once. Twice. Ten times. My head whipped back and forth with each blow. The world blurred. I tasted blood.

He finally stopped, breathing a little heavily. He seemed satisfied.

My head hung low. My beautiful wedding dress was stained with dirt and now, my own blood.

All the fight had left me. My eyes were empty. I was done.

Damian reached out and gently wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of my mouth with his thumb. The gesture was so grotesquely tender it made me want to vomit.

"You know how fragile she is, Alana," he said, his voice a low murmur. "Her father was my mentor. I owe her this. I owe her everything."

He straightened up. "I'll be back for you later. Once Eileen feels better."

He walked back to his car, scooped a triumphant Eileen into his arms, and placed her gently in the passenger seat. As they drove away, Eileen looked back at me over her shoulder. She gave me a small, victorious wave.

The moment their car was out of sight, a wave of nausea and rage hit me. I coughed, and a spray of blood splattered onto the white dress.

My mind reeled back.

The first wedding attempt, a year ago. We were at the altar. Eileen, a guest, had suddenly screamed and launched herself at me, tearing at my veil and scratching my face with her long nails. Damian had rushed to her side, cradling her and whispering reassurances while I bled. I ended up in the hospital with deep scratches that almost scarred my face. The doctor had said I was lucky. I didn't feel lucky.

The second wedding, six months later. We tried a smaller, private ceremony. Eileen "accidentally" tripped while carrying a pot of boiling water for tea, aiming it directly at me. My best friend, Chloe, pushed me out of the way and took most of the burn on her arm. Eileen had gotten a few splashes on herself and cried out in pain. Damian, ignoring Chloe's serious injury and my terror, had punished Chloe for "assaulting" Eileen. He had broken her wrist in front of me while I begged him to stop.

Then, to appease Eileen, he had "accidentally" slammed a car door on my right hand. My painting hand. The one that had made me one of the most promising young artists of my generation. The bones shattered. My career was over.

That was the night I told him I wanted to end the engagement.

He had knelt before my parents and me, tears in his eyes, begging for one more chance.

"I swear, Alana," he had choked out. "It will never happen again. I love you."

I had looked at him then, at his perfect, convincing performance, and I knew. I knew it was all a lie. A bitter laugh had escaped my lips.

Now, left alone in the woods, the cold began to seep into my bones. The sky opened up, and a cold, hard rain began to fall, soaking my torn dress and plastering my hair to my face. My body shivered uncontrollably.

My vision started to go dark at the edges. I was losing consciousness.

No. I can't die here.

I bit down hard on my own lip, the sharp pain a jolt to my system. I had to stay awake. I had to live.

My parents. The thought of them finding me like this... The thought of what Damian would do to our family's business if I was gone...

It was the only thing that kept me holding on. But the cold was relentless. The pain was a deep, throbbing ache. My body was giving up.

My eyes closed.

The next thing I knew was a sharp pain, not from the cold, but from a needle in my arm. I was warm. Dry.

I slowly opened my eyes. The ceiling was white. The smell was antiseptic. A hospital.

I tried to move, but my body screamed in protest.

"Alana? Oh, honey, you're awake!"

My mother's voice, thick with tears. She rushed to my bedside, her face a mess of worry and relief.

"Don't you ever scare me like that again," she sobbed, clutching my hand. "If anything happens to you, I can't live, Alana. I can't."

I squeezed her hand weakly. My throat was raw.

"Mom," I rasped. "My phone."

It hurt to speak. I winced and tried to swallow, but my throat felt like it was full of glass.

My mother's eyes were filled with pity. She immediately handed me my phone from the bedside table.

I took it with a shaking hand. My fingers fumbled with the screen, but my resolve was firm. I dialed an international number I had memorized long ago.

It rang twice before a man's calm, low voice answered. It was Franklin Gray's younger brother, Leo.

"Yes?"

"It's Alana Myers," I said, my voice hoarse. "I agree to the marriage."

There was a pause on the other end.

"The conditions," I added, pushing through the pain. "All of my family's assets transferred to your accounts for protection. And you get us out of the country."

"Agreed," the voice on the other end replied without hesitation. The sound was deep and steady, a strange comfort in the chaos of my life. "The wedding will be in three days. I'll handle everything."

"One more thing," I said. "I need you to come get me. Personally."

"I'll be there."