Hold Me, Then Hurt Me

My heart felt as if it had been crushed by an invisible hand, followed by a cold, numb silence.

I watched Rocco's black Maybach disappear into the night.

Straightening the collar he had messed up, I didn't go home. Instead, I drove to the private art studio I rented in the East District.

It was my sanctuary, a place that held all my secrets and the foolish love of my girlhood.

While waiting at a red light, my phone screen lit up.

Clara had just posted a new Instagram story.

In the photo, her hand, adorned with a diamond engagement ring, was intertwined with Rocco's. The background was blurry, but I recognized it instantly as the neighborhood near my studio.

The caption was so glaring it was impossible to ignore: "Walking the paths he once walked, as if it would let me possess his entire past."

The light turned green. I slammed on the gas.

A sense of foreboding wrapped tightly around my heart.

When I arrived at the studio, I found the reinforced metal door pried open, its high-security lock smashed.

The air was thick with the acrid smell of oil paints and solvents.

I stepped inside. The studio looked like it had been ransacked after a gang war.

Easels were knocked to the ground.

The portrait of Rocco, a piece I had spent three months on, even mixing in my own blood as pigment, was now lying on the filthy floor.

The canvas had been slashed to ribbons, the eyes in particular viciously stabbed through.

I rushed to the safe in the corner.

The door was wide open.

The velvet box inside, which once held the first bullet casing Rocco ever gave me, was empty.

Rage boiled in my veins for a moment, only for me to take a few deep breaths, struggling to keep myself composed.

The sound of high heels clicking on the floor came from behind me.

Clara appeared in the doorway, clinging to Rocco's arm, her face a mask of a frightened little rabbit.

"Oh, Harper, what are you doing here?"

She shrank into Rocco's embrace, her voice trembling. "Rocco, I told you she would be angry if we accidentally broke something..."

Rocco frowned, his gaze sweeping over the mess on the floor before settling on my expressionless face.

He stroked Clara's back to comfort her, then turned to me with an apologetic look. "Harper, I'm really sorry."

His voice was as gentle as if he were soothing an injured child.

"Clara just wanted to get to know you better and accidentally knocked over the easel. You know she's always wanted to be close to you. Please don't be mad at her."

"My dear sister, I know you might be unhappy, but you can't keep wearing that expression that tells everyone to stay away."

He approached me cautiously, the pity and affection in his eyes only deepening.

"I know how much you cherish these paintings. Tell me what was damaged, and I'll replace everything."

I stared quietly at the ruins on the floor: the paintings that had once held all my girlish dreams, and finally, I just shook my head gently.

"That won't be necessary."

My voice was so calm it surprised even me.

Rocco froze, the words he had prepared catching in his throat.

He took an uneasy step forward. "Harper? You're really not angry?"

"Brother."

I cut him off, bending down to pick up the ruined portrait.

"I'm not angry."

I looked up, my eyes vacant, as though I were looking at two strangers.

"If Clara wants to look at things, or do whatever she wants, she's welcome to. But now that it's broken, there's no reason to keep it."

I dragged the large canvas, grabbed the thick stack of love letter drafts from a drawer, and headed for the burn barrel in the alley behind the studio.

The December night wind in New York was biting.

I struck a match and watched the flame lick at the shattered image of Rocco's face on the canvas.

The oil paint sizzled, sending up plumes of black smoke.

Rocco rushed out after me, his voice sharp with alarm when he saw what I was doing. "Harper, what are you doing?"

I tossed the letters, filled with a young girl's unsent confessions, into the barrel one by one.

"Taking out the trash."

As I watched the flames consume the words "I love you, Rocco,"my eyes felt hot, but I gritted my teeth and refused to let a single tear fall.

It didn't matter that the bullet casing was gone.

The painting was destroyed, and with it, my idealized image of him, shattered beyond repair.

My memories of Rocco had all been tainted. There was no point in keeping these things anymore.

Rocco watched my indifferent profile, illuminated by the firelight, his brow furrowed. It seemed, for the first time, that things were slipping from his control.

"Weren't these your most precious things? Why are you burning them?"

"You said it yourself. That was the past. People always have to grow up."

I dusted off my hands and turned away, not sparing another glance at the barrel of ashes, or at him.

"I'll buy you new ones..."

I pulled open the car door and got in, his voice fading behind me.

All of his false affection was shut out by the bulletproof glass.

In the days that followed, Rocco didn't speak a single word to me.

He was busy parading his love for Clara throughout our family's social circles.

Everyone could see he was utterly besotted with her, doting on her to the point of obsession.

I stumbled upon them several times in the estate, being openly affectionate, Rocco holding Clara tenderly in his arms or placing a light kiss on her forehead.

He seemed... truly devoted to Clara.

Rocco convinced my father and stepmother, Elena, to hold a grand wedding in two weeks' time.

Clara was the moon and stars to him.

Of course he couldn't tolerate his woman being questioned or wronged in any way.

Clara even smugly posted a photo on Instagram: she was wearing a six-figure custom evening gown, with Rocco embracing her from behind.

The caption read: "A decade of familiarity can't compare to the passion ignited by love at first sight."

But none of this could stir the slightest ripple in my heart anymore.

Rocco, you still think this is just a little tantrum to get your attention.

You still think that all you have to do is call my name gently, and you'll come running back to his arms like a tamed kitten.

But this time, my plans are already set.

I am leaving New York.