He Forced Me to Paint Until My Last Breath

Regina's POV

After being diagnosed with a terminal illness, I made the decision to finish one final painting—my last masterpiece—before quietly disappearing from the art world.

But on the very night my piece was released, I was accused of plagiarism.

My stepbrother presented my draft—the one I’d revised countless times—as proof that I had stolen the work from his female junior, a fellow art student.

Trolls swarmed me online. Reporters cornered me in public. And through it all, he stood by my side—not to protect me, but to force me to publicly apologize and admit to something I didn’t do.

When I was too weak to even stand straight, he locked me in a basement and demanded I keep painting, just so his beloved junior could have more of my work to use.

Eventually, I broke. My body and mind were shutting down. In a daze, I begged him for help.

But he didn’t even look at me. He just stood there, calmly counting my finished pieces.

“Why is the quality slipping? Did you forget everything I taught you?” His voice was cold. “Regina, don’t make me disappointed in you.”

Then, he stopped in front of my latest painting.

“This one rose,” he said, “is the only one that’s barely passable.”

The crimson rose on the canvas was still wet. I had painted it using my own freshly spilled blood.

My voice was barely audible as I pleaded, “Please… let me go. I can’t take this anymore.”

But he just stared at me with icy eyes.

“You’ve always faked illness to get sympathy. I’m not falling for it.”

What he didn’t know—what he refused to believe—was that this time, I wasn’t pretending. I was really dying.

——

"You know,” he said casually, “to make it big in any industry, talent alone isn’t enough. You need a story that grabs attention. Something dramatic.”

“Anyway, since you’re quitting, why not do me one last favor?" he asked, changing the topic. "Help Margot make her debut by passing your legacy on to her. Wouldn’t that be a nice gesture?”

Darell Reynolds lounged on the sofa, staring straight into my eyes with smug satisfaction.

The socalled “evidence” he used to destroy me was scattered across the floor. If he’d actually bothered to look closely, he’d have seen that every stroke—every color—was filled with pieces of him.

My hands trembled as I demanded, “You knew how much this painting meant to me. After everything, is my reputation just a stepping stone for her career?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Is it really that hard to do this one little thing for me? You already know I like her.”

His words cut deep, even though his tone was soft. And for a second, I remembered how, all those years ago, he used to look at me the same way as he whispered, “Don’t be afraid. I’ll protect you. I promise.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out.

“It’s settled,” he said. “I’ve already booked your flight back home. Once the buzz around Margot dies down, I’ll pay to bury the scandal. It won’t affect your peaceful little retirement.”

“You’ve always wanted to live a quiet, carefree life, right? Just think of this as paying me back. After this, I won’t bother you again.”

After saying that, he walked past me and shut the door with a heavy thud.

I collapsed on the floor, too weak to stay upright.

Outside, Margot Hodges’s sweet voice rang through the hallway. “Darell, do you think Regina’s really that upset? Maybe I should go apologize. I don’t mind if she yells at me or hits me.”

Darell replied, his voice filled with affection. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll take care of everything for you.”

Their voices faded as the pain in my head suddenly spiked. I curled up on the floor, clutching my skull, struggling just to breathe.

He knew what that painting meant to me.

I had spent three long months pouring my soul into it, digging through ten years of memories with him, capturing every little detail that once connected us. I named it "In the Corner of My Eye."

In the shadows of the painting, I had hidden our silhouettes—his and mine—facing away from the world.

He had painted for over a decade. He should have seen it.

My phone buzzed endlessly with news alerts.

At the top of every feed, one headline stood out in bold.

Regina's POV

[Breaking News: Rising art star Regina Macy confirmed guilty of plagiarism.]

The comments section exploded with insults and ridicule. People said I was a bully who had coasted on fame for years, only to steal a rookie artist’s work for my biggest, most talkedabout piece.

My social media accounts were overrun. Only a few loyal fans still tried to defend me, clinging to hope, waiting for me to speak up and tell the truth.

But I couldn’t say a single word.

Darell said I owed him, and this was how he wanted me to pay him back. I had no choice. I owed him too much.

I returned to the States alone, bundled up in a hat and mask, but it didn’t stop the press from swarming me the moment I stepped off the plane.

They surrounded me instantly, microphones in my face, questions coming rapidfire. I kept my head down, just trying to leave, but I was outnumbered and shoved all the way to the corner of the terminal.

“Miss Macy, by staying silent, are you admitting to the plagiarism scandal?”

“If your final piece was plagiarized, what about your previous work? Were those copied too?”

“Miss Macy, do you have anything to say to the fans who’ve supported you for years? Have you apologized to the rookie artist you allegedly stole from?”

I couldn’t answer any of them. Their sharp questions pierced through me like knives.

Everything blurred. The reporters, their flashing cameras, the aggressive shoving—it all felt like a public execution.

And in the chaos, I felt something eerily familiar.

I’d been pushed into a corner like this before—back when I was a child, forced to speak under pressure, scared and overwhelmed. That same sickening feeling crept in.

Back then, it was Darell who rushed to my side, shielding me with everything he had. He’d pull me into his chest, cover my ears, and block out the cruel voices.

He’d look me in the eye, angry but protective, and ask, “Why didn’t you tell me you were being bullied? Don’t you see me as family?”

But the man I saw now was the one who had pushed me straight into this nightmare.

“I’m sorry,” I said, forcing the words through clenched teeth. “No comment.”

With all the strength I had, I tried to push through the crowd. No one could see the tears behind my sunglasses.

But I hadn’t even made it a few steps before another flash of cameras and excited shouts told me someone else had arrived.

Darell and Margot.

They’d been on the same flight as me—first class for them, economy for me. Our paths barely crossed, but it felt like we were in two completely different worlds.

Through the edge of my sunglasses, I saw him.

Darell was staring straight at me.

I turned, ready to run—but his voice cut through the crowd like a blade.

“Regina, what are you running from? Get over here and apologize for what you did.”

I froze. For a second, I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

His voice was calm. Too calm.

“Margot is kind and forgiving, but I’m not going to stand by while she’s treated unfairly. You stole her work and caused all this drama. Isn’t an apology the least you can do?”

My heart clenched slowly. His eyes were cold and mocking.

Under the glare of a hundred camera lenses, my head throbbed painfully.

All I wanted was to run. To get far, far away from the flashing lights, from this scene, from him.

“Regina,” he said again, “just because you’re my stepsister doesn’t mean I’ll protect you. If you did something wrong, take responsibility.”

“What, do you think you can just deny it and pretend nothing happened?” he snapped.

I bit down hard, holding back the pain, and shoved my way out as fast as I could.

I wouldn’t apologize. I didn’t do anything wrong. Why should I say sorry?

The mix of anger and hurt churned in my chest, but slowly… it started to fade into something else.

Resignation.

Maybe this was how it ended. Maybe that was okay.

Outside the window, the city blurred by. Another sharp wave of pain hit my skull.

My phone buzzed. A message from my doctor popped up.

[Miss Macy, the tumor has already spread. Please think carefully about your next steps.]

I didn’t hesitate. I typed out my reply.

[Still, no treatment.]

After all, there wasn’t much left for me to hold on to anymore.

Regina's POV

The villa was quiet—eerily so. On the nightstand beside the bed, there was still a photo of me and Darell.

He had his arm around my shoulder, and I was smiling like the happiest girl in the world.

I lifted the mattress with practiced hands and pulled out a letter that had been carefully taped to the underside. A love letter.

A letter Darell once wrote to me.

I could still picture how nervous he looked back then—his eyes full of excitement and hope.

He had said, “I don’t want to be your stepbrother anymore. I want to protect you for the rest of my life.”

I hadn’t replied right away. I stayed silent for so long that he finally looked at me with that pitiful expression and said, “Regina, if you don’t answer soon, I’m gonna lose all my dignity.”

He looked at me with such sincerity. That face I’d tucked away deep in my heart, the one I dreamed about constantly. At that moment, I almost said yes.

Yes. A hundred times, yes. How could I not like him?

When I was fifteen, my mom married his dad—and just like that, he walked into my life, telling me he’d watch out for me from then on.

I couldn’t forget the cocky look on his face, the way the wind played with his hair, or how just having him by my side gave me the kind of confidence I’d never felt before.

When I was twenty, my mom passed away. The grief hit me so hard that I lost touch with reality for a while. But Darell… he stayed calm, handled everything, and never left my side. Over and over again, he whispered, “I’ll always be here for you. You can rely on me. As long as I’m around, you have nothing to be afraid of.”

He was with me for ten years. The happiest, most peaceful ten years of my life.

So, of course, I wanted to say yes.

But that was the day after I got the diagnosis.

Brain cancer. Terminal. Almost no chance of recovery.

So instead of saying yes, I took the letter from him, and in front of all our friends, I slowly tore it to shreds and threw the pieces in his face.

I forced myself to hold back the tears, to keep my voice from cracking as I said, “Darell, you make me sick! Acting all sweet and noble—what, you think you can feed me just to bleed me dry later? You’re disgusting! My mom would never forgive you, not even in the afterlife.”

“If I’d known you were into incest, I would’ve stayed the hell away from you from the start,” I snapped.

The love letter fell to the ground in pieces. But I wasn’t done—I stomped on it twice, like it was our relationship itself.

Something I had to destroy, abandon, and crush with my own hands.

I still remember the look in his eyes—dark, devastated.

After that, we became strangers under the same roof. Rarely spoke. Rarely saw each other.

I only heard bits and pieces about how he was now openly pursuing a junior from our department. He got her the best mentors, took her on trips around the country and abroad for inspiration, and helped her network at art exhibitions and workshops.

The day his acceptance letter from that prestigious university arrived, I was just getting ready to head to the hospital for chemotherapy.

I stared at the envelope for a long time. I didn’t even notice the tears dripping onto the goldembossed lettering.

I thought, maybe… if none of this had happened, the person walking into a brilliant future beside him could’ve been me.

Instead, I quietly put the letter back where I found it.

Someone like me doesn’t get to dream about the future anymore.

I spent the whole night awake. The doctor’s message urging me not to give up was still sitting there, unread, on my phone.

The house was empty, but it still felt like traces of Darell lingered everywhere.

Just then, the front door creaked open—sharp and sudden in the silence. And when that face I had dreamed about day and night suddenly appeared in front of me, I thought for a second I must’ve been hallucinating.

“Darell?”

My voice trembled as I called out to him.

But the moment I saw the anger in his eyes, all the warmth inside me went cold.

Regina's POV

He looked at me with furrowed brows and roared sharply, “Why won’t you just apologize? If you’d admit it, everything would fall into place. But no—you had to screw things up now of all times. Was it really that hard to help out? Are you really that selfish? So obsessed with your pride that you had to humiliate her like that?” he roared.

My heart, already broken beyond repair, still managed to ache.

Then my eyes drifted to his neck—faint red marks, unmistakably fresh, deliberately left visible.

Something about it made my stomach turn. I forced my voice to stay steady. “One painting doesn’t prove anything. If she doesn’t have the skill, she won’t be able to fake it forever.”

Darell’s expression darkened instantly.

“Margot is still young. I can help her grow at her own pace," he reasoned. “That painting was just a birthday surprise. She likes attention, so I pulled a few strings to give her a moment in the spotlight. Nothing wrong with that.”

Then he looked me over, cold calculation in his eyes. “But your little comment just now gave me an idea.”

He let out a slow, chilling breath. “My dear sister. Margot doesn’t have your natural talent… so she might need you to help her out a few more times.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He gave a cold, empty smile and grabbed my wrist.

“You’ve been living in my house all these years. Consider this my way of collecting rent. Fair, don’t you think?”

I struggled to break free, but his grip didn’t budge.

Pain surged through me, and with it came tears I couldn’t stop. I didn’t know how to respond—how to make sense of this version of him.

I was twelve when Mom and I first moved into this villa. I was shy, quiet, and scared. And he was the one who smiled and said, “Don’t be afraid. This is your home now.”

Those memories crashed into me like a tidal wave, blending with the cruel reality in front of me.

Maybe it was the tumor messing with my mind. Maybe that’s why everything felt so blurry and surreal.

“Be good, little sister,” he said, his tone soft but laced with threat. “All I’m asking is that you paint a few more pieces. I’ve taught you for years—it’s time to see what you’ve really learned.”

He was right. He taught me how to paint. I owed everything I knew to him.

So if he asked me to pay him back… how could I say no?

He led me into the basement storage room, where abandoned easels gathered dust.

Darell’s voice was calm as he said, “Margot and I will be staying in the country for the next two months. During that time, you won’t have to do anything else. Just paint.”

“I’ll have food and clothes brought to your room. When you’ve turned in work I’m satisfied with—when your debt is paid—I’ll give you money, and we’ll be done,” he added with a blank face.

It hurt. Like every nerve in my body was screaming.

But I kept my head high, stared straight back at him, and said, “We’ll be done? Fine. I’ll paint for you these two months—and after that, we’re even.”

It wasn’t such a bad deal.

A fair trade, almost.

He gave a cold nod. “That’s more like it. That’s the sister I know.”

Just then, his phone rang. He answered, and a stickysweet female voice came through the line.

“Darell, when are you coming back? I cooked a whole meal just for you. I even made your favorite—spicy crawfish. But I burned my hand in the process. You’ve been gone forever just to grab your ID. I miss you.”

Darell’s cold expression melted instantly, his voice tender. “I’m already on my way back, baby. Why didn’t you tell me you got hurt? I’ll take you to the hospital as soon as I get home.”

He didn’t spare me a glance as he walked out, and the door to the basement clicked shut—and locked.

There were no windows.

Facing a blank canvas, I picked up the brush, and the first stroke landed with a hollow sound.

That night, I tore up painting after painting, until the tears ran out and all I felt was empty.

Regina's POV

I don’t even remember when I closed my eyes. Maybe I passed out as the illness had gotten that bad.

When I finally woke up, Darell was standing in front of me, face like a thundercloud.

“This is what you call keeping your word?” he snapped, eyes sweeping over the mess on the floor. “You just made a mess here!”

His voice was low and angry. “Do you still think you’re a kid? That throwing a tantrum will get people to coddle you and clean up your mess?”

My vision was blurry, but his voice rang loud and clear. I wanted to respond—wanted to explain—but my throat was raw. The taste of blood and rust even clung to the back of it. No words came out.

He was wrong about me.

I’d never been the kind of girl who threw tantrums. Not once. I’d always been the type to make myself small, to please others, to keep the peace.

Funny, he was the one who once told me, “A girl with her own personality, who knows how to speak her mind, is so cool.”

But I guess that version of him only existed in my memories. The kind I seemed to be the only one holding onto.

“Regina,” he said coldly, “playing mute won’t get you anywhere. I taught you how to paint—I know exactly what you’re capable of. Twenty paintings in two months. If you can’t deliver, don’t blame me for being ruthless.”

I raised my head, still dizzy, wanting to ask what he meant—what exactly he’d do.

He saw through it instantly. “No need to guess. Whatever it is you fear most... it’ll happen.”

What did I fear most?

Then, my thoughts drifted back to that year I transferred to that elite school. I’d been bullied mercilessly and taken so many awful, degrading photos. Back then, I was too ashamed to tell anyone about it.

I feared those pictures getting out, feared my mom finding out and calling me a disgrace, an embarrassment she couldn’t afford.

She was always terrified I’d upset the Reynolds family and get us both thrown out.

And then there was my stepfather... He’d walk in on me changing, more than once. I was terrified of him.

Luckily, Darell had noticed something was off. He dug into it, found out everything, and dealt with it quietly. I still remember what he said after.

“Don’t be scared. I took care of it. Whatever you’re afraid of—I’ll handle it.”

So what exactly did he mean now, when he said I’d face my worst fears?

I didn’t want to guess anymore. It didn’t matter.

My mom was gone. My stepfather was living abroad. There was no one left here for me to be afraid of.

And me? I didn’t have much time left anyway.

Still, I looked him in the eye and hoarsely said, “I’ll do what I promised.”

That finally seemed to satisfy him. He gave a curt nod.

“Good. That’s what I like to hear. Margot made this meal for you. Say what you want, but she’s the only one still thinking about you. Be grateful.”

He tossed the food container on the table and left without another word.

That night, I picked up the brush again and painted until I was shaking. Hunger got the best of me eventually, so I caved and ate the meal.

So no, I wasn’t someone with unbreakable pride.

The next few days, it was the assistant who brought me food. I could barely see straight anymore, but I didn’t let myself stop. Not even for a second.

He said once we were even, I could go. So I kept painting—pouring everything I had into it.

Time blurred, and I just remember blood splattering on the canvas. I wiped my mouth, smearing the red across my hand, and kept painting like nothing had happened.

When I finally finished all twenty paintings, I told the assistant to send Darell a message, telling him I’m done and to come pick them up, and let me go.

I didn’t want to die in that rotting basement. The debt was paid. It was time to leave.

I had just drifted off to sleep on the squeaky cot when I heard his voice again—sharp and disgusted.

“This? You dare show me this and ask me to ‘check it over’? The colors, the composition—everything’s a mess!”

“Regina, you did this on purpose, didn’t you? You think putting out garbage like this won’t ruin Margot’s reputation? All those techniques I worked so hard to teach you—what, did you feed them to the dogs?” he thundered.

Regina's POV

I don’t know why, but my eyes drifted to his ring finger.

There was a ring on it now—silver and gleaming, shining so brightly that even through my blurred vision, it stood out like a spotlight.

He glanced over the paintings and flatly said, “Only this one with the roses is halfway decent. The rest? Complete garbage.”

His silhouette moved between the canvases, growing fuzzier and harder to follow. Eventually, I just closed my eyes.

“Darell,” I said quietly, “I can’t paint anymore. Please… let me go.”

I wasn’t lying. Maybe the tumor had grown too fast, too wild, clouding my eyes, fogging up my brain.

I couldn’t see clearly. I couldn’t paint well anymore.

“If I still owe you, I’ll pay it off in the next life,” I said. “But let me leave now. I just want to go somewhere with flowers.”

There was a long silence. Then I heard a laugh, sharp and mocking.

“Regina, if I’d known you were this good at acting, I wouldn’t have wasted my time teaching you to paint.”

Then, he became serious as he added, “But playing the victim won’t work this time. Margot’s competition is next week, and she can’t afford a single mistake. That means you’re not leaving—yet.”

He tossed something on the table. “The prompt’s over there. Finish the painting. When it’s done, have the assistant call me. Don’t make me come all the way out here for nothing again—or else…”

I didn’t catch the rest. His voice faded out.

And suddenly, everything went quiet.

That’s when I saw it—my own body, lying motionless on the cot. Pale. Lifeless.

So I really was that sick.

Was it that obvious?

Then why hadn’t Darell noticed?

I didn’t get it.

My vision cleared completely, more than it had in weeks. Everything became sharp, almost unnaturally so.

I looked carefully at my paintings. He hadn’t been wrong.

Aside from the one with the roses, the rest were chaotic, soulless.

I couldn’t even believe they were mine.

What a joke.

Even in death, my soul stayed behind, still clinging to regret. I couldn’t do anything but sit there, waiting.

The assistant came by the next day with food, but he didn’t notice I was dead.

For days, he came and went, never even glancing in my direction. Just dropped the meals off and left, like clockwork.

It wasn’t until the seventh day, right before Margot’s competition, that Darell finally showed up.