98 - Manipulate

"If someone doesn't want me, It is not the end of the world. But if I do not want me, the world is nothing but endings."

- Nayyirah Waheed

. . .

I stared up at the painting. "Whoa."

Mom sighed. "You have been staring at that for the past ten minutes, Olivia."

I sighed. "Why didn't you tell me you were in New York?"

She shrugged, eyeing the Creeds who were chatting with Michael about the security or something. We were at an art gallery and apparently, my mother was in the city for the weekend with her glamourous family. She had called me when I was in the process of getting ready and had demanded to meet, something I reluctantly agreed to. Somehow, she chose this gallery.

"I thought it could be a surprise." "Why are you really here?"

"A gala."

I hummed, looking back at the painting. It looked to be of the same style as another painting I once saw in California at the cafe Miss Summers took me to meet Carrie Arnaud.

It was about three feet and made with intense detailing, probably made with the thinnest brushes. It was a painting of a mansion that had ivies crawling up at it but somehow, as they crawled up, they turned darker and darker and changed into what looked like chains. The mansion, too, looked beautiful,

but as I dragged my eyes upwards, it was clear that the artist had added cracks into it, matching the changing of the ivies.

"Your father was found dead," she said, her eyes fixed on the painting. "I presume your boyfriends had something to do with it."

Politicians knew things, but their wives knew more.

"I heard he had become a terrible man," I said softly, putting my four fingers in the pockets of my black skirt which went down to my ankles. My outfit was chosen by Zavier - he had a thing for choosing them and he always chose the things which looked pretty and conf table.

"Some monsters are made," she whispered. "And some are born monsters." She looked at me with those sharp eyes of hers. "Those who are born like that are manipulative. They can manipulate anyone into doing whatever they want. A young mind is easier to manipulate."

I turned to her. "What do you mean?"

She looked back at the painting. "Did you ever see your father paint, Olivia?"

"I-" I stopped myself. "What do you mean?"

She looked back at me. "Did you ever see him paint? Actually pick up a paintbrush and use it on a canvas?"

"He had paintings, mom. I don't get what you are trying to say."

She walked closer, putting her hands on my shoulders. "Young minds are easy to manipulate. He married a girl with raw talent but no exposure. He told her he loved her and used her talent for his gain. That girl gave him a daughter, just as talented, and he taught her everything his wife taught him. He intended to use his daughter the same way he used his wife."

"Mom-"

"You do not get your art from your father," she whispered and for the first time in my life, I saw tears in her eyes. "You get it from me."

We just looked at each other. "There is no gala."

She shook her head, stepping back and looking back up at the painting. "I've started to paint again. I'm anonymous for now."

I felt like I was in a trance. "That's...good." She nodded. "Yes."

"That painting in that California-"

"It's a self-portrait, with a little dramatic effect. I've always loved mixing styles. When did you see it?"

I let out a breath. "This style is completely different than the abstract dad...you made."

"He told me what he wanted me to make and I made it." She looked at the painting. "Now...no one tells me what to make."

I looked at the painting. At the beautiful mansion and saw how it cracked. "It's beautiful."

"I spent months on this."

"The detailing can be quite troubling." I was close to losing it.

"I do not have much work between entertaining your stepfather's guests and roaming around the mansion."

"Holy crap. You are not kidding" I ran my hand through my hair. "I...I need to breathe."

I turned and walked out of the gallery, my heels clicking on the floor. I stepped into the windy street, instantly followed by the Creeds.

"Darling, you look seconds away from passing out. Maybe this wasn't a good idea." Zavier tipped my chin up, looking down at me.

"I- my dad was never nice."

Xerxes raised his eyebrows, his fingers messing with the beanies on his head. "...okay?"

"No...he was always a...asshole." They exchanged glances. "Are you by any chance drunk...or high?" Ashton asked.

I just looked at him. "No."

He gave me a short grin. "Sorry. Why are you freaking out?" "That painting in there..."

"You want it? We can get it." Zavier immediately reached for his wallet in his leather jacket.

"No! I mean I do want it, it's pretty good but mom made it." Zavier frowned. "...what?"

"My mom made it. With her own hands."

They changed glances. "I thought your father was the artistic one?" Ashton asked, wrapping his arm around my shoulder.

"No, apparently..." I told them.

"So, he was never good," Xerxes said. "He manipulated you and your mother."

"Yes," I whispered. "My whole childhood was a lie."

We stood there in silence. They kept looking at me, I could feel their gazes, as I glared down at the ground.

"I wish I could ask him," I whispered. "Why he did what he did...but I guess it doesn't matter anymore."

"He's gone," Xerxes said, stepping closer and cupping my face in his warm hands, looking me in the eye. "Gone, baby. He can never hurt you, your mother, or anyone ever again. Everyone who can hurt us is gone."

I closed my eyes, feeling them burn with tears. "Her bitterness makes sense now, at least."

. . .