I was locked inside the studio on the third floor of the villa.

This place used to be my favorite. Now, it was my cage.

My phone was confiscated. Ian said it was so I could focus on creating, free from outside distractions.

I knew the truth. He wanted to cut off every possible line between me and Leland.

The studio had its own bathroom and a small resting area. Three meals a day were delivered by servants on schedule.

Aside from not being allowed to leave the room, everything looked the same as before.

But only I knew something had shattered beyond repair.

Jemma became a regular visitor.

She came every day, officially to supervise, in reality to humiliate me.

She would hold a cup of coffee, stroll back and forth in front of my finished designs, then "accidentally", her hand would slip, and the coffee would ruin the entire drawing.

"Oh no, I'm so sorry, Margot," she would say, covering her mouth, her eyes glittering with smug delight. "But you draw so fast anyway. You can just do another one, right?"

Expressionless, I would take out a fresh sheet of paper and start again.

When she saw I wasn't angry, she switched tactics.

She would sit across from me, filing her newly done nails, speaking in a syrupy-sweet voice about her blissful moments with Ian.

"Ian took me stargazing last night. He said my eyes are brighter than the stars," she'd gush.

"Oh, and he bought me a new necklace. The same one you stared at in that magazine forever."

The words went in one ear and out the other.

Ian would come by occasionally. He never acknowledged Jemma's behavior. He would simply walk up to me, pick up my drawings, and frown.

"Why are you working so slowly? Jemma is waiting for these."

There was only Jemma in his eyes. Never me. I looked up at the man I had loved for two lifetimes.

Whatever pathetic hope I had left was finally ground down, day after day, until nothing remained.

I stopped resisting. I stopped arguing.

I became a machine that drew.

If Jemma spilled coffee, I would replace the paper. If she said something vicious, I pretended not to hear it.

I worked fast, one sheet after another, until the studio was buried in designs.

Ian was pleased. He thought I had finally learned my lesson, finally been tamed.

He even rewarded me with a new drawing pen.

I took it, watching the expensive barrel catch the light, and felt nothing but irony.

He didn't know that with every stroke I drew, the hatred inside me deepened.

What was inspiration?

Inspiration was the blood I bled. The soul that had already died.

The day before the deadline, only the final set of detailed drawings for the main design remained unfinished.

I had been up all night. My eyes burned, dry and aching.

Jemma arrived unusually early that morning.

She wasn't carrying coffee like she usually did. Instead, she wore a white dress, which was almost identical to mine.

She circled me restlessly, an excitement flickering in her eyes that I couldn't quite decipher.

"Almost done, Margot?" she asked.

"Mmh."

I didn't look up.

"Once you're finished, does that mean I'll never see you again?"

There was a strange note of disappointment in her voice. I ignored it.

All I wanted was to finish the drawing and end all of this as quickly as possible.

"Margot, if your hand were broken, if you could never draw again, do you think Ian would still keep you?" she said suddenly. My heart jolted. My grip on the pen faltered.

I looked up and met her eyes. She smiled, innocent and cruel all at once.

"Do you think I'd get hurt if I ran into that sculpture?" she continued lightly, pointing at the waist-high metal sculpture in the corner.

Before I could react, she let out a scream and rushed straight toward it.

Everything happened too fast. All I saw was a blur of white lunging toward me.

Almost at the same instant, the studio door was slammed open.

Ian burst in.

"Jemma!" he roared and, without a second thought, shoved me aside with brutal force.

I was thrown hard to the floor.

Scattered across the floor were shards from a porcelain vase Jemma had broken days earlier.

I hadn't cleaned them up, only swept them into a corner.

Now my right wrist came down squarely onto the jagged fragments.

Rip.

A dull, sickening sound as flesh split open.

Then came pain beyond description. Blood poured out instantly, staining the floor a violent red.

My vision darkened. I nearly passed out.

Through the haze, I saw Ian carefully pull the shaken Jemma into his arms, soothing her in a low, gentle voice, "It's okay. I'm here. Don't be afraid."

Jemma trembled against his chest, then, when he wasn't looking, she cast me a victorious smile.

Only then did Ian finally notice me. He saw the deep gash in my wrist, bone faintly visible. And he saw the blood covering the floor. He frowned.

He made a phone call. A family doctor arrived quickly and gave me emergency treatment.

As the doctor examined my wound, his expression grew increasingly grave.

"Mr. Wade, Miss Norris' right wrist tendon is severed," the doctor said.

"What does that mean?" Ian asked coldly.

"It means…" the doctor wiped sweat from his forehead. "This hand is done. She'll never be able to hold a paintbrush again."

The studio fell into deathly silence.

I lay on the cold floor, staring at the ceiling, a loud ringing filling my ears.

Then Ian's voice sounded above me—flat, indifferent, "If it's ruined, it's ruined. I'll support her for the rest of her life anyway."

There wasn't a trace of emotion in his tone.

I couldn't help it. I laughed.

And as I laughed, tears streamed down my face.

"Ian, you're truly heartless." I said inwardly.

My right hand was wrapped in layers of gauze. The doctor said that even if it healed, I would never be able to do fine, delicate work again.

For example, drawing.

Ian said he would take care of me for the rest of my life. He moved me out of the studio and into the master bedroom, hired the best private nurses to look after me.

He came to see me every day, bringing all kinds of supplements and gifts.

He treated me well, so well that it was meticulous, almost tender.

As if the person who had personally pushed me into the abyss had never been him.

He thought this was enough to make up for everything. But he didn't know that his gentleness hurt more than any blade.

Half a month later, Jemma's new design collection was a massive success.

Riding on the designs I had poured everything into, she swept the most prestigious "Rising Designer" award in the country.

For a time, she was unstoppable. The media called her a once-in-a-century prodigy.

The celebration banquet was extravagant, attended by nearly every notable figure in the city.

Ian stood by my bed, personally selecting an evening gown for me.

"Tonight is Jemma's celebration," he said. "You're coming with me."

It wasn't a suggestion. It was an order.

"I'm not going."

I looked down at my numb right hand, my voice hoarse.

"Margot, stop being difficult," he warned, his patience clearly wearing thin. "You have to go."

"Why?" I asked, lifting my head to meet his gaze. "To watch her stand on my work and accept everyone's praise? Or to watch you spend lavishly, celebrating her triumph?"

Ian's expression darkened.

"I'm taking you so you can see clearly," he said coldly, "who the final winner really is."

He grabbed my chin, squeezing hard enough that my bones nearly cracked.

"To kill whatever foolish hope you still have," he added.

I was forced into the banquet hall. The room was filled with glittering gowns and clinking glasses.

Jemma stood at the center of the stage in a custom haute couture dress.

She held the trophy in her hands, her smile radiant, blinding.

Under the spotlight, she looked like a queen.

"Thank you all, thank you to the judges," she said. "This award means everything to me. And most of all, I want to thank my muse, my love, Mr. Ian Wade."

She glanced in Ian's direction.

Thunderous applause erupted across the hall.

Ian stood right beside me. He forced my head up, making me look at Jemma onstage.

He even forced me to clap along with the crowd.

I raised my left hand and clapped, once, then again, mechanical and hollow.

I watched the woman glowing under the lights.

I watched the signature piece she was wearing. The centerpiece gown I had spent three sleepless nights designing.

Every detail, every fold, was carved into my memory.

Now it bore someone else's name, transformed into a badge of someone else's glory.

I reached for my right hand, wrapped in gauze, completely numb.

The fire inside me slowly went out.

Anger. Resentment. Hatred. In the end, there was nothing left but emptiness.

That was fine. This was fine.

From this moment on, I felt nothing—no love, no hope—for drawing, for design.

It was you, Ian.

You were the one who personally killed the Margot who once had light in her eyes.