17 Made Mistakes

⋆6༄ Not/enough.

Hey! I haven't updated for a few days but that's because like I said, I want to focus on the chapters, the plot and don't feel like I'm under any pressure. Also, the fact that Imaan died kind of really upset me, I just find the death of young people really devastating. I needed time to re-focus even though she's still on my mind quite often. I hope you'll like this chapter ♡ Love you.

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"What are you doing here!?" I whisper shout, my voice full of anger.

I watch him slowly drift his eyes back over at the canvases, his face losing the fright that it was distorted in when he first saw me. "I've heard that he painted her. I had to come and see it," he announces freely, his tone calm, tinted with some emotion that I can't decipher.

"What for? So you can have a better look at what you've done?" I growl, shooting daggers at him. "She died because—"

"Of me?" he finishes my interrupted thoughts, his brown eyes diverted at my face now. Then he retrieves them back over at the paintings, his calmness makes me fume. "These are so detailed," he states, intently analysing Will's impeccable work. "Look almost real," he adds, ducking his head to one side.

"These could've still been real, if you had only kept your hands to yourself," I growl, displeased, fazed by his audacity to show up here.

"You really act like you know everything," he chuckles quietly but there is no humour to his laughter.

"I know enough," I retort, glaring at his unbothered expression.

"Do you?" he asks, turning his face to me, one of his eyebrows raised in a quizzical manner. "You haven't got the slightest idea what Beverly was really like," he mutters, shifting his sight back to the paintings. "The real her," he adds much quieter, and as he does, there is a spark of the same, inscrutable emotion that spawns back in his brown eyes.

"What do you mean?" I question, now intrigued.

He sighs heavily, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his denim shorts, thinking about something very deeply. Then he turns his head to me once again, his lips part tentatively as he eventually speaks up. "Do you want to see the real Beverly?" he offers, his tone calm, polite, tinged with tiredness.

"I... " I scramble to respond. I don't know what he means by that. What could he possibly show me?

"Come with me," he says, and that's when the alarm goes off in my head.

It's a trap. Connor is a manipulator. I still remember the lie that he unfalteringly fed Rayna during the party at Will's mansion. He wants me alone with him, that's why he came up with this nonsense of whatever it is that he wanted to show me.

Do not believe him. I repeat, do not believe him; my subconscious orders, speaking into her walkie-talkie, trying to get in touch with my sanity.

"No, thanks," I eventually tumble out, eliciting no further reaction from him. He probably was expecting such an answer anyway. "Instead of staring at the paintings of you ex, shouldn't you be with your girlfriend?" I add, tucking a questioning brow, my arms crossed over my chest as I look at him askance.

"What, Rayna?" he snorts. "We broke up ages ago," he mutters, immobile in front of the canvases as if he was hypnotized by the beauty of his ex-girlfriend, as if her ghost was now keeping him a prisoner.

I remain silent with my mouth open, gaping at him, stupefied. Last time I checked Rayna was all over him, downright smitten, almost obsessed.

"You obviously didn't know this, did you?" He gazes at me, his eyes luminous with the awarness of being correct. "She was your best friend and such information still hasn't reached you?" he asks, but it's a scornful way in which he does. "And you dare to act like you've known Beverly your whole life," he snorts, peeling his sight away from my face, gluing it back to the canvases.