An Heir's Ruined Masterpiece

I chased Julian Valerius for five years, and the heir to the formidable Valerius family finally agreed to marry me.

Before the announcement of our engagement, I was left for dead after a planned car crash. I called him three times for help, but at Genevieve Lancaster’s urging, he coldly hung up every time.

When I crawled out of a ravine, covered in blood and with permanent nerve damage in my right hand, I finally understood I could never be a part of his world. I decided to let him go.

But just when I walked away, he refused to let go, holding me captive, his eyes bloodshot as he begged me for a chance to atone.

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1

When I dragged my broken body into an underground clinic, I was a wreck of tattered clothes and caked blood.

The doctor looked at me and sighed. He said that a few hours sooner, my hand might have been salvageable.

As the doctor’s verdict settled over me, I stared numbly at the clinic's dim ceiling. Severe nerve damage to my right hand. I would probably never hold a carving knife again.

A single tear escaped, tracing a path down my temple. Despair swallowed me whole. Why couldn't I ever learn to let go?

What was Julian Valerius doing right now?

He was probably pouring an expensive whiskey, toasting the removal of his little "problem"—me. Perhaps he and his Principessa, Genevieve Lancaster, were finally enjoying their time together, uninterrupted.

A bitter laugh escaped me. I was out of their way now.

Just then, my phone rang. It was Julian.

I slowly closed my eyes. It was time to end this.

When Julian stormed into the clinic, his expensive suit was immaculate. He frowned, his gaze imperious as he looked down on me. His eyes were cold, like a master regarding a disobedient pet. "What is this new trick, Ava?" he demanded. "Why didn't you answer my calls?"

"You got hurt just because I missed one call? I told you I was busy. Can you try being considerate for once?"

His words were salt in my wounds, tearing them open anew.

A silent scream tore through my numb heart. Not one question about what happened. Just condemnation. Even the sight of me lying here, broken and near death, couldn't stir an ounce of compassion in him.

But then, why should I be surprised? He had five years of practice finding the words that could pierce my heart.

I gazed at him, desolate, unable to form a single word. Tears welled, making my reflection in his eyes look fragile and helpless.

The sterile white walls seemed to reflect his coldness, and the sharp scent of antiseptic mocked my foolishness.

Julian had never seen me so broken, and the sight made him uncomfortable. "Just lay low and recover. Don't forget our engagement ceremony is coming up. I need to get back and handle that deal."

"That port deal is very important to me," he added. "Don't bother me again."

Without another word—or a single question about my injuries—he turned and left.

A bone-deep chill washed over me as I watched him walk away.

The words caught in my throat. This was the man I had chased for five years.

Tears began to stream down my face, hot and unstoppable. I had thought my devotion, my sheer persistence, had finally touched him. That he had finally seen me.

The port business was important to him. Genevieve Lancaster was important to him. His family, his men—they were all important. But me?

Reality had just dealt me a brutal lesson. Determination didn't guarantee a happy ending. To Julian, my heart was worthless.

Then why agree to marry me? Why give me that sliver of hope?

Eventually, the sun bled from the sky. I curled up on the narrow bed, shivering, my mind replaying that night. Alone. Trapped in the mangled car. I’d drifted in and out of consciousness, convinced I was going to die.

Before I lost consciousness completely, I called Julian. He was the first person I thought of, but he never picked up. I lay there all night, and help never came.

Perhaps I was wrong from the very beginning. Forcing things. Forcing myself into his untouchable world with nothing but my art. It was never meant to be.

I spent five days holed up in the clinic. My body began to heal, but my hand remained a useless appendage.

The doctor suggested I go abroad for more advanced nerve treatment. A bitter smile touched my lips. Where would I get that kind of money?

I left the clinic and returned to my rented studio. The small space was a shrine to him, filled with sketches and wax models I’d designed with him in mind.

I had fallen for Julian five years ago at one of his family’s galas. From that moment, he became my muse, the very soul of my art.

The entire studio was saturated with his style. It felt like I had been living in his shadow for so long I had forgotten my own shape.