Celebration Cut Short by Mark Twain 4
Chapter 4
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Chapter 4
I became aware of a soft surface beneath me and a comforting warmth. It slowly pulled me back to
consciousness.
Opening my eyes, I found myself lying in a large bed.
From the looks of it, I was in a hotel room.
There was no sign of anyone else.
My head throbbed violently, and a burning pain still gnawed at my stomach.
On the nightstand sat a glass of warm milk and a packet of stomach medication.
Memories flooded back. I remembered, just before everything went black, strong arms catching me. It was Dominic.
His voice, sharp, cut through the room. “Enough.”
When he carried me out of the room, his heartbeat had been rapid and frantic.
When I took the glass, a pathetic wave of sorrow washed over me.
I thought bitterly, “Dominic, you stood by and watched them humiliate me. What made you finally intervene when I was nearly gone?
“Was it genuine concern, or just a flicker of guilt?”
Whatever the reason, that faint gesture of kindness felt utterly insignificant against the reality of his deception.
My phone, on the nightstand, began to vibrate.
The call was from the care facility.
A dread settled in my chest. With trembling hands, I answered.
“Ms. Sherwood, you need to come now! Your grandmother… She’s taken a turn for the worse.
“She suffered a shock, caught a chill… It triggered a major cardiac event…”
In an instant, despair overwhelmed me.
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Chapter 4
I threw back the covers and rushed to the facility.
When I arrived, all that greeted me was a bed draped with a white sheet.
“Grandma…”
I sank to my knees and pulled back the cloth.
Her kind face was ashen, her eyes slightly open.
My only family in this world was gone.
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I moved through the funeral arrangements in a state of numbness. Afterwards, I returned to the apartment I had shared with Dominic.
No one had been back since Ophelia’s visit.
The bloodstains from that day were still on the floor.
I began gathering the few things that belonged to my grandmother and me. As I sorted through an old stack of books, a folded design sketch fluttered out.
I remembered this piece. I had created it during my junior year, pulling three consecutive all- nighters for an international design competition.
He had thought the piece was too melancholic and urged me to come up with a new design for the submission.
I’d won an award with the alternate piece, but this original sketch had vanished.
I’d assumed it was lost.
Then, I recalled the magazine Dominic had been flipping through at my hospital bedside.
I’d only caught a glimpse, but a pattern on the page had seemed familiar.
At the time, consumed by grief for the failed pregnancy, I hadn’t given it a second thought.
Now, a horrible connection clicked into place.
Frantically, I grabbed my phone and searched for that issue of the magazine.
The truth was both shocking and absurd.
The central design concept of the Pennington Group’s upcoming flagship building matched my original piece.
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Chapter 4
And the lead designer credited was none other than Ophelia.
So that explained everything. A raw laugh escaped me, tears streaming down
I finally understood why he had chosen me.
my
face.
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It wasn’t just my uncomplicated background or my ability to bear a child.
It was my talent.
Ophelia couldn’t conceive, so he deceived me into bearing his child.
She needed to appear gifted, so he fed her my ideas.
I was just a tool for her from the start.
I grabbed a pair of scissors. Furious, I shredded the sketch into confetti. Then, I turned the blades on myself, shearing off the long hair I’d kept for three years.
The Pennington Group’s launch event was in three days.
I would make sure to send them a gift they would never forget.
Joseph King is an editor and storyteller who ensures every chapter is clear, polished, and engaging for readers.
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