Chapter 39

Chapter 39
Sienna's pov

The paint was still drying on the canvas. The raw, messy energy of my feelings had been poured onto it, leaving me drained but also strangely hollow. I was still in my paint splattered clothes, sitting on a low stool, staring at the swirling colors, when the studio door burst open.

Zoe stood there, her face a mask of furious disappointment. Her eyes, usually so soft and kind, were cold. Hard. They looked just like Evan's when he was trying to manipulate someone. My heart sank. This wasn't going to be easy.

"What do you want, Zoe?" I asked, my voice tired. I hadn't expected her. Not now.

She took a step in, her body rigid. "I want to know what's going on," she demanded, her voice tight with anger. "Dad told me everything. He said you're trying to ruin things again. That you're letting that man... that Daniel... destroy our family."

My breath hitched. "Evan told you what?" I blurted, standing up. My painting, my raw emotions laid bare, felt suddenly exposed. "Zoe, your dad is wrong. He's twisting things. He always does."

"He said you were seen with him," she announced, her voice rising. "At the bar. After you told Dad you were trying to make things right. He said you chose Daniel over us. Over him. Over the family."

My cheeks burned. The truth of that night, the humiliation of seeing Daniel with other women, mixed with the shame of my own desires, all tangled up. "Zoe, it's not like that," I pleaded, stepping towards her. "I went out with Lila. Daniel was just there. It was nothing. And your dad is lying. He's manipulating you."

She flinched. "Don't say that about him," she commanded. Her eyes flashed with anger. "He's trying. He's trying to get us all back together. And you're just... you're always making it difficult. Always complicating things."

"Complicating things?" I countered, a bitter laugh escaping me. "Zoe, your father is a master at complicating things. He's trying to use you. To use Leo. To make you believe he cares about 'family' when all he cares about is himself. He just wants money. He's broke."

She scoffed. A harsh, ugly sound. "Dad is not broke. He's building a new business. He told me. He said he just needs time. And he said you're trying to stop him. Because you're jealous. Because you want to control everything."

Her words were daggers. Each one plunged deep. Evan's poison. He had truly twisted her. "That's a lie," I argued, my voice shaking. "He's manipulating you. He's a con artist. He's always been one. He just wants what he can get."

"No," Zoe retorted, shaking her head violently. Her chin trembled. "You're wrong. You're just angry he came back. You're angry he wants us to be a real family again. You're angry he reminded us of what we lost. You just want Daniel. You want to pretend Dad never existed."

"That's not fair," I begged, my voice cracking. "I want you both to be happy. I want you to understand. Your father, he..." I searched for the words. How could I explain it without shattering her world completely? How could I explain a man like Evan to a child who only saw her father?

"He cares about us," Zoe insisted, her voice tight with emotion. "He cares about me and Leo. And you're stopping him. You're ruining everything. Again." Her voice broke on the last word.

I felt the immense pressure of being a mother. Trapped. Trapped between my children's perceived happiness, the illusion Evan painted, and my own agonizing desires, my own need for truth and freedom. How could I choose? How could I make her see? She was so closed off. So convinced.

"Zoe, please," I whispered, reaching out a hand towards her. "Just listen to me. Give me a chance to explain."

She took a step back, shrinking from my touch. Her eyes, filled with accusation and hurt, locked onto mine. "No," she stated. Her voice was quiet now, but it held a chilling finality. "I don't want to hear it. Dad said you'd try to make excuses. He said you'd try to make him look bad. He said you're selfish."

The word hung in the air between us. Selfish. It echoed the fears I always carried. The fear that choosing my own happiness would always mean hurting my children. The fear that I was not a good enough mother.

"Zoe," I tried again, my voice pleading.

She turned. Her back was to me. "I'm going back to Dad's," she announced, her voice flat. "I don't want to stay here."

My heart shattered. "Zoe, no. Please. Don't go."

But she didn't listen. She walked to the door. Her hand on the doorknob. She paused. Her shoulders were stiff. "You're ruining everything," she repeated, her voice barely a whisper, filled with so much pain it twisted my gut. Then she pulled the door open. She walked out.

The door clicked shut. The silence that followed was deafening. I stood there, rooted to the spot, my hand still outstretched, as if I could pull her back. My daughter. My own flesh and blood. She hated me. She believed his lies.

Tears welled in my eyes. Hot. Bitter. They tracked paths through the dried paint on my face. My body trembled. The anger I had poured onto the canvas now turned inward, a crushing weight. I was utterly defeated. Defeated in this battle for my daughter's understanding. Defeated by Evan's cunning. Defeated by my own fears.

I sank onto the stool, burying my face in my hands. The studio, my sanctuary, felt like a prison. A beautiful, painted prison where I was trapped between my duty as a mother and my yearning for a life that felt true. And I had no idea how to break free without destroying everything I held dear.