Chapter 8: A Silent Confrontation
With that, he retrieved his file from upstairs without glancing at the mess on the floor, and left without looking back.
Evelyn stood in place, looking at the broken art supplies and crushed flower petals scattered across the floor. The last trace of warmth in her body vanished.
She slowly crouched down and picked up a broken pencil. The sharp break pricked her fingertip, causing a stinging pain.
Returning to the living room, the design drafts that had been shredded last night still lay scattered on the rug, like an unfinished nightmare.
She needed tape, even if it was just a futile attempt to piece the fragments together.
Evelyn remembered the toolbox in the storage room.
The storage room was under the stairs, dark and damp, filled with various forgotten junk.
Evelyn pulled open the heavy door. A dusty, mildewed smell rushed out.
She rummaged through the clutter, her fingers brushing over dusty old furniture and cardboard boxes.
Suddenly, her fingertip touched a cold, hard object.
Evelyn paused.
She pushed aside an old tablecloth covering it, revealing what lay beneath.
It was a weighty metal trophy, simple and elegant in design.
Engraved on the base of the trophy was a line of text: Royal Academy of Arts Annual Emerging Designer Gold Award, Evelyn Voss.
That was the highest honor she had won during university for her graduation project.
She remembered the day of the award ceremony. Professor Hayes personally presented the medal to her, saying she was the most talented student she had ever seen.
At that time, she was ambitious and proud, believing the whole world would unfold beneath her pencil.
She had cherished this trophy, placing it on the most prominent shelf in their marital home’s study.
But now, it was thrown into this dirty, forgotten corner, alongside a pile of junk. The trophy was covered in a thick layer of dust; even her name was barely visible.
He not only intended to destroy her present but also to erase all the past she was proud of.
He wanted her to believe that the once brilliant Evelyn Voss was dead, and all that remained was a worthless housewife, Evelyn Green, who had to depend on him to survive.
A bone-deep chill rose from the soles of her feet, instantly sweeping through her limbs.
Evelyn slowly used her sleeve to wipe the dust from the trophy, little by little, until the cold metal reflected her empty, numb face once more.
She did not cry.
Tears, in this moment, seemed cheap and superfluous.
She held the cold trophy, walked out of the storage room, and placed it gently on the living room coffee table, right next to the pile of shredded design drafts.
She still had a chance.
Only three days remained before the submission deadline.
Evelyn began picking up the torn pieces of paper one by one.
She used clear tape, found in the storage room, to meticulously piece them back together.
This process consumed almost her entire day.
When the final fragment was taped down, a scarred, cracked design draft appeared before her eyes.
It was ugly, but complete.
Evelyn took a deep breath and spread out a new sheet of paper on her desk.
She had to redraw it.
Not just copy, but surpass.
While piecing the fragments together, she re-examined every detail. New inspiration sparked like fireflies in the dark night, constantly bursting forth.
Time flowed with the soft scratching sound of the pencil.
It was late into the night.
The villa was so quiet she could hear the ticking of the second hand on the wall clock.
Evelyn was focused on sketching the waist detail of a dress, an extremely intricate pleated design meant to maximize the beauty of the feminine curve.
Suddenly, with a sharp “snap,” the entire world plunged into darkness.
The crystal chandelier overhead, the desk lamp, all light sources instantly went out.
A power outage?
Evelyn frowned. The power supply in this area was always stable; this had never happened before.
She fumbled for the door, trying to check the breaker.
Her hand barely touched the bedroom doorknob, twisted it, but it wouldn't move.
The door was locked from the outside.
A chill crept up her spine.
“Who’s there?” she called out loudly. Her voice sounded especially thin in the empty hallway.
No response, only dead silence.
Evelyn’s heart sank.
It wasn't the maid; they wouldn't have the guts.
It was Sienna.
She immediately thought of that woman. Only Sienna would resort to such a vile and malicious tactic.
Evelyn forcefully rattled the doorknob. It was tightly secured.
She tried banging on the door, but the heavy solid wood panel only emitted a dull thud, like hitting cotton.
She gave up.
Returning to her desk, she felt a wave of powerlessness in the dark.
Without light, she couldn't do anything.
A cup of cold coffee, delivered by the maid that afternoon, still sat on the desk.
She hadn't taken a sip.
Now, she picked up the cup, wanting to use the bitter coffee to refresh herself.
The coffee tasted strange upon entry. Besides the acidity and bitterness, there was a subtle, hard-to-detect sweetness mixed in.
But she was too tired to think much of it and quickly drank most of the cup.
A few minutes later, a sharp cramping pain erupted in her abdomen.
Evelyn’s face instantly turned pale. She clutched her stomach, cold sweat seeping from her forehead.
It was a laxative.
That wretched woman!
She wasn't just trying to ruin her work; she was trying to torture her body.
Waves of intense pain assaulted her. Evelyn could barely stand. She clung to the wall, slowly shuffling toward the restroom.
In the darkness, she could see nothing, having to rely on memory to navigate.
She didn't know how much time passed. When she finally emerged from the restroom, utterly exhausted, she felt half-dead, her legs weak, and her vision blurring intermittently.
She collapsed onto the cold floor, curled into a ball, the cramping pain in her abdomen not yet fully subsided.
“Give up.”
A voice whispered in her mind.
“You can’t fight them.”
No.
Evelyn clenched her teeth, her nails digging deep into her palms.
She couldn't give up. This was her only chance.
She struggled to crawl up, inching her way to the window.
The moonlight was beautiful tonight, a cold, clear glow filtering in through the huge floor-to-ceiling window like a thin veil.
It wasn't bright, but it was better than complete darkness.
Evelyn laboriously dragged the desk to the window so the moonlight shone directly onto the drawing paper.
She sat down and picked up the pencil again. The pain in her abdomen was still throbbing, and her hand, gripping the pencil, trembled slightly from weakness.
But the moment the pencil tip touched the paper, all trembling ceased.
Her eyes regained their focus and sharpness.
Outside the window, the moonlight was like water.
Inside, a woman hunched over, battling her destiny on a sheet of paper. The flowing lines were born beneath the moonlight, carrying a resilient and desolate beauty born of brokenness.
The next day was the day before the design submission deadline.
Evelyn had barely slept. Driven by sheer willpower, she not only completed the redraw but also further optimized the details.
Looking at the drafts on the table, which held all her effort and heart, a sense of profound, exhausted satisfaction washed over her.
She locked the drafts, placed them in the deepest part of the drawer, and finally fell into a deep sleep.