g a new box, this one larger than the last. He looked uncomfortabl

an told me what happened. You shouldn' t have tr

nts. "I got you these. To make up for it. But you need to understand, Tiffany is very sens

still insisting I was the one in the wrong. He hadn' t asked about my ankle. He had

I' m not apologizing. You should give those paints to

h was gone, replaced by the stern mask of a disappointed busi

would have done anything to please you. She would have apolog

ce Tiffany arrived, you' ve been nothing but trouble. You' ve been spoiled, that' s the probl

d into a marriage to save his company. I was the one nursing an injury he refused to ackn

t," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "Look, just... please, go talk to Tiffany. For me."

r. A maid burst in, her face pale. "Mr. Miller! It' s Miss T

s scattering across the floor. Without another glance at me or my

xpensive paints lay forgotten at my feet. A bitter smile touched my lips. A sprai

lt heavy and final. As I laid it out on my bed, I felt a strange sense of peace. I was sad, yes, but I was also free. I was leaving this house of pain and heading toward an unknown future. It had to be better than this. While packing, I noticed a small, beautifull

rilliant artist. Yo

heek. It wasn't a tear of sadness, but one of gratitude. Som