When I stood before him, my body covered in red rashes, begging him to take me to the hospital, he had only said, “Don’t you have legs? If you infect me, how will I paint?”
Seeing my cold expression, Henry opened his mouth to say more, but right on cue, Tamara called.
“Mr. Shepherd…” she whimpered over the phone.
“When I got to the studio today, everyone laughed at me. I’m so embarrassed, so miserable…”
“You silly little thing!” Henry scolded her gently.
“Didn’t I tell you yesterday to rest if you’re feeling sick?”
“But if I don’t come to the studio, the new exhibition will fall behind schedule. If I ruin your career, I’d die of shame…” Tamara sobbed.
“Don’t be ridiculous! Getting sick isn’t your fault.”
As he spoke, Henry turned and cast a look of pure disgust at me.
“Some people,” he sneered, “are so blinded by greed they don’t care if others live or die.
“Be good. Wait for me in my office. I’ll take you home.”
He slammed the door behind him as he left, never once glancing at the swollen bruise on my face.
Lowering my eyes, I pulled out my phone and contacted the up-and-coming artist in Valmont who had been speaking to me for months.
