Chapter 9
The quiet hum of the art studio was shattered by the sharp clack of Christian Louboutin heels.
Deirdre Phelan stopped dead next to Jocelyn's easel.
Jocelyn snapped out of her trance. She gasped, her hand flying up to cover the canvas, but she was too late.
Deirdre's hand shot out. Her fingers, tipped with blood-red nail polish, dug painfully into Jocelyn's wrist. She yanked Jocelyn's arm away.
Deirdre stared at the dark, brooding eyes on the canvas. A toxic wave of jealousy ignited in her chest. She had met Elam Turner at a university gala. She had thrown herself at him and been ignored.
"What is this?" Deirdre hissed, her voice dripping with venom. "A charity case like you, drawing Mr. Turner? How pathetic."
Jocelyn's face flushed with humiliation. "It's... it's just a sketch. It's nobody."
"Don't lie to me," Deirdre snapped.
Blind with jealousy, Deirdre grabbed a metal palette knife from the tray.
With a vicious swipe, she slashed the blade directly down the center of the canvas.
The thick paper tore with a loud, violent ripping sound. The dark eyes were sliced in half.
Jocelyn cried out. She grabbed the edges of the ruined drawing, her heart sinking.
Deirdre looked down her nose at her. "This is garbage. You will stay here and redraw the still life. If it is not on my desk by tonight, I will fail you for the semester."
The other students in the room kept their heads down. No one dared cross Deirdre.
Jocelyn swallowed the lump of humiliation in her throat. She nodded silently, pulled down the ruined paper, and clipped a fresh sheet to the easel.
Deirdre sneered and clicked away on her high heels.
Hours bled into each other. The studio emptied out. Outside the massive windows, the sky turned a bruised, angry purple. Thick black clouds rolled in.
Jocelyn's stomach cramped with hunger, but she didn't stop drawing.
At 9:00 PM, she finally finished. She dropped the charcoal, placed the drawing on Deirdre's empty desk, and walked out of the building.
The moment she pushed the glass doors open, a massive crack of thunder shook the ground.
A freezing Nor'easter rainstorm unleashed on the city.
Jocelyn didn't have an umbrella. She pulled her thin sweater tight and sprinted through the freezing downpour toward the bike racks，go and ride the bicycle she left here previously.
She fumbled with the combination lock, her fingers numb from the cold. She pulled her beat-up, second-hand bicycle out, the rusted chain groaning in protest as she pulled it free, and climbed on.
She pedaled hard, desperate to get back to the mansion before the storm worsened.
Two blocks away from campus, a loud snap echoed from the bike.
The rusted chain broke.
Jocelyn's foot slipped off the pedal. She lost her balance and crashed hard onto the wet asphalt.
Her palms scraped against the rough road. Blood mixed with the dirty rainwater running down her hands.
She groaned, pushing herself up. She grabbed the greasy, broken chain, trying to force it back onto the gears, but her hands were too numb and slick with rain.
Cars sped past her, kicking up massive waves of dirty water. Not a single car slowed down.
Jocelyn stood in the pouring rain. She stared at the broken bike. The dam broke. She sobbed, the tears washing away in the heavy rain.
She reached into her pocket for her phone to call a cab.
The screen was black. Water had seeped into the charging port. It was completely dead.
She had no money. No phone. No bike.
Jocelyn grabbed the handlebars. She started walking.
She pushed the heavy, useless bike through the freezing rain. The cold seeped into her bones. Her lips turned blue. Every step sent a jolt of pain up her scraped legs.
It took her an hour of agonizing walking to reach the wrought-iron gates of the Turner Mansion.
The security guard in the booth saw her through the rain. His eyes widened in shock. He quickly buzzed the pedestrian gate open.
Jocelyn dropped the bike against the stone wall.
She dragged her feet up the steps, pushed the heavy oak door open, and stepped into the blindingly bright, warm grand hall.
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