His words hung heavy in the air as she lifted her head and held his gaze; dark eyes glazed with sadness and a cynical smile adorning her make-up smudged face.
Her raven hair flowed in waves around her petite body as she swayed slightly on her feet; vodka coursed through her veins. An unlit cigarette hung from between her delicate fingertips.
But she was still beautiful. Not the pure, innocent beauty she had been a year ago. Rather a beauty more like art. A creation tainted by the broken soul of the artist.
He couldn’t deny the pang of regret he felt knowing he had held the paintbrush.
“I suppose I have.”