Chapter 3
Jack was out cold for three days, lying in the hospital with an IV in his arm.
I watched over him for three days straight.
I didn't sleep at all, just kept staring at the numbers on the monitor, his pale face, and his hand all bandaged up.
By the evening of the third day, he came to.
He opened his eyes, looking dazed for a few seconds before finally focusing on me.
"Lily," Jack croaked.
"Don't talk," I said, hitting the call button for the nurse.
After the nurse checked him over, she said he was stable but still needed to stay in the hospital for observation.
Jack fixed his gaze on me, his eyes intense and full of meaning.
"The painting's deadline is almost here," he rasped.
All my pent-up emotions burst out at once.
"All you care about is painting!" I shot to my feet, my voice so sharp it barely sounded like me. "Is your life worth nothing to you?"
The system chimed in lazily in my mind. [Well, you were the one who told him to paint it.]
"Shut up!" I blurted out.
In that instant, both the system and Jack fell silent.
"I'm sorry," Jack said.
I bolted out of the room, slid down the wall at the end of the hallway, and sank to the floor.
Tears streamed down my face, and I bit the back of my hand, trying to stifle my sobs.
My phone buzzed. The system popped up: [Target's pain score peaked at 80. Reward: $1,000,000.]
I stared at the numbers, suddenly feeling sick to my stomach.
When I got back to the room, Jack was already asleep.
His breathing was shallow, and his brow was furrowed. Even in his sleep, he looked restless.
I sat down by his bed and gently took his hand, the one without the IV.
His palm was ice-cold. I pressed it to my cheek, trying to warm it with my own body heat.
Tears slipped down my face again, landing on the back of his hand.
He didn't wake up. His fingers twitched slightly, as if responding to my touch.
*****
After he got out of the hospital, Jack became way more withdrawn.
He still turned in his work on time, churning out those cheesy paintings.
Honestly, I'd already torn up the contract and used the system's reward to pay a penalty, twice the amount owed.
I never told Jack.
Then I took him to meet Patrick Lee.
Patrick was new money, a guy who made his fortune in building materials and bought himself a mansion.
He wanted a portrait of himself to hang in his living room, but his instructions were pretty vague. "I want it to look powerful, like a king."
Jack sat in the living room of the mansion, a huge canvas before him.
Patrick sprawled on the leather sofa, his belly jutting out as he waved his hands, giving directions.
"Make my eyes bigger. They need to look sharp," he demanded. "And make my chin more square, more powerful."
Jack stayed silent, quietly adjusting the painting as instructed.
I stood on the other side of the living room, holding a glass of champagne one of the staff handed me.
Patrick's son, Chris, strolled over, decked out in the latest streetwear.
He grinned, "Miss Lane, is your boyfriend really an artist?"
"Just trying to get by," I said.
"What a shame." Chris leaned in, dropping his voice. "Someone as gorgeous as you shouldn't be stuck with a starving artist."
I didn't say a word, just kept my gaze locked on Jack.
Right then, the system ordered, [Mission: Act close to Chris to provoke the target.]
I shut my eyes for a second. When I opened them again, there was already a smile on my lips.
I let Chris drape his arm over my shoulder.
"Any other pearls of wisdom, Mr. Lee?" I asked.
But I really wanted to slap Chris in the face.
"Nothing fancy," he said, his fingers idly tracing my shoulder. "For the background, paint some winding mountain ranges. To show the ups and downs of my dad's epic life."
Jack looked up at me for a moment, then dropped his gaze and kept working on the painting.
But I saw the number above his head jump to 90 and start flickering like crazy.
That night, Jack didn't come home.
I waited up until three in the morning, tried calling him, but his phone was switched off.
I bolted out the door to find him.
He wasn't at the studio. He wasn't at the convenience store he always went to. Not by the river either.
I finally found him at a small park in a rundown neighborhood.
He was sitting on a bench, head tilted back, gazing at the sky, an empty can of beer in his hand.
I went over and sat down beside him.
He didn't look at me.
After a while, he said, "Lily."
"Yeah?" I replied softly.
"Do you..." Jack paused, his voice barely audible. "Do you really think I'm not good enough for you?"
I didn't say anything.
"I should try harder," he muttered, almost to himself. "Make more money, get you real jewelry, move you into a bigger place. I should..."
His voice caught, and he couldn't go on.
I turned to face him.
Under the moonlight, I saw tear tracks on his face.
"Jack," I called out.
He looked at me.
"Let's go home," I said.
He stared at me for a long moment, then nodded and got to his feet.