"Ashton, get a hold of yourself," Brandon said when he saw his son painting vigorously in his room for the last twenty hours, his eyes bloodshot as he made wild strikes on the canvas.
Three more paintings were placed side by side, his fingers bleeding from the brush's roughness, his grip on the tools unrelenting.
Each canvas held the same face, just different expressions. In one canvas she was smiling, blushing in the second one, and scared in the third one, just like he saw her standing outside that studio in that alley.
She pretended to be strong, but he could still feel the lingering fear beneath that facade that screamed at him to pull her into his arms, tell her what it meant to lie to him for four years and destroy him from inside and out, and then love her in a way she would never be able to run from him again.
Brandon looked at his younger son, who wasn't stopping despite being tired, and pursed his lips.
This girl was surely going to be his death one day.
