"She wore her darkness like some girls wear a little black dress."

At least not alone, not anymore
Not since I found what I never went looking for
And now you're in my head
I must have lost my mind
-Lost My Mind by FINNEAS

A HEART THAT'S BROKEN is a heart that's been loved. Bullshit.

Kang Ambrosia was heartbroken. Shattered over love she never had.

Her heart was in so many fragments, she wasn't even sure why it still beat through her miserable existence.

She'd never loved anyone. No knight in shining armour swept her off her feet and dumped her like a rag doll. After her immense success, no one dared to. Or rather, she simply never had the time to be swept.

She was happy. She had to be. Her parents lived in a posh neighborhood of Mumbai, complete with memberships of the most elite clubs. Money wasn't a problem anymore. She had company, the prince and his friends providing her with all the entertainment she'd ever need.

Then why this emptiness?

The sight of Jimin wearing a paint splattered shirt, the warmth of his coat engulfing her in the smell of turpentine all those weeks ago had awakened that congenital need. In ten years, she'd never seen a paint splatter. Never stopped to remember what she had left behind.

She'd spent the last decade running. Running to the next commission. Running away from her memories.

She knew, in the deepest part of her being, that she had no reason to run.

But she had to. It was all she knew, her only constant.

"Ready for this?" He questioned, a hand held out to her. Like the god-sent blessing to humanity he was, his hair was perfectly tousled, warmth and acceptance radiating from him like rays of the sun.

Lips in an irresistible coquettish set, his eyes brought peace to her mind. Encouraging little slits, black in the shadowed room. Despite her fears, she couldn't say no. Not to those midnight-dipped eyelashes, framing obsidian.

"No, " she gulped, "But let's go."

She took his hand, sliding her fingers between his, grasping on tight. He lead her to his studio, a place they often spent time together. Walking down the familiar rooms, she breathed deeply. The smell of paint overwhelmed her every sense. Warm, enticing her further.

The farthest room had its curtains drawn, letting in that golden Sykarian sunshine. An easel stood in the middle of the room, a blank canvas propped up on it. A chair faced it, making it look like a scene right out of a movie. It was quite possibly the perfect set up, better than Ambrosia ever had growing up.

"All the material is in that box," he gestured, pointing to a large woven basket, somewhat looking like it belonged in the hands of a family heading out for a picnic.

Nodding, she took a deep breath. Her eyes closed, the darkness enveloping her mind. She pressed her fingernails into her palms, a nasty habit she ought to get rid of. She looked at his eyes, chocolate in the sunlight, searching desperately for comfort.

Wordlessly, he nudged her hand, making her unclench her fists. It was a small gesture, but screamed volumes about how well he knew her. He remembered seeing her create red crescents on her palms back during their one-month-stand whenever his questions got a little too personal. Back then, he'd pushed off the urge to cradle her hands, the fear of having her lash out at him far too prominent.

She walked over to the upright chair and sat down. Breathing getting erratic, she picked up a palette and placed it flat on her lap. Jimin bent down, picking up a tube of cadmium red and offering it to her.

"No. Purple first," she mumbled. Complying instantaneously, he handed her a tube of his favourite violet.

She squeezed a substantial amount onto a corner of her palette, reminiscing the thousands of times she'd performed the same action as a child. This was the step that got her juices flowing, her cogs turning. A viscous dark-almost black-liquid formed a perfect little splotch on the gray palette.

Her hand shook as she reached into the basket, rummaging around for a brush. She wasn't sure whether her trembling hands caused all the rattling sounds, or the brushes were actively running away from her.

Finally grasping one, she pulled it out and stared at the beautiful sable bristles, the shiny metallic ferrule and the bright viridian handle. With her hands shaking, she could barely make out the size and style of the brush. It could've been a filbert, the kind of brush she used to dream of one day owning. The cheapest ones sold for fifty a piece, the prices going up to hundreds.

Of course, the prince had a whole set of them.

She dipped it in the jar of water, her jaw clenching in an effort to keep still.

"Take your time," Jimin consoled, a hand gently resting on her shoulder. He stood behind her chair, dressed in his signature white shirt and black slacks. But she couldn't look at that. All she could do was calm her heart and not drop the brush.

Coating it in purple paint, she drenched the bristles. As she raised her hand up in an all-to-familiar gesture, she closed her eyes.

Faster than a bullet train, the memories hit her. Her mother screaming, for it to stop, her standing there, rooted in place. She wanted to help, to push that repulsive man off her mom.

"I heard you like paintings," he'd enticed earlier that night, breath reeking of expensive liquor. The kind Ambrosia's family would only see on TV screens, "Would you like to go to a gallery with me?"

She had agreed, giggling excitedly. She couldn't contain her exhilaration, begging her father for a brand new dress. Blind to the fourteen-year old, her mother worked for an escort service, the abhorrent man being her latest client.

In her perpetual infatuation, she hadn't looked away from the paintings in hours, not realising that her mother wasn't anywhere to be seen. When she finally noticed, they were gone. Beer-breath and her European mom.

She'd run all over the place, eventually coming across a locked door. She could hear the screams from inside, the never-ending, "Stop! Stop!" that stabbed a knife through her heart over and over again.

It was her mother's voice.

"Oh god," she whispered, lowering her hand. Again, with more desperation, she groaned, "Oh, god. I can't do this. Jimin get this the fuck away from me."

As if on reflex, he whipped the brush out of her hand, pulled the palette off her lap and stood her up. Staring deep into her champagne eyes, he rubbed her shoulders, "Let's grab a bite, okay? We'll do this later."

She nodded, frantically controlling her heartbeat as though that would do her any good. With an arm around her, he helped her out of the studio, down the stairs and into his car. The entire event took no more than two minutes, but every second felt like an hour to him. He recalled the last time she'd panicked, the way her bones stuck out of her body like nothing but skin was strapped to them. She felt like a wire, collarbones painfully sharp.

That was barely a shadow of the woman he left behind in Greece. The maddeningly alluring seductress, holding his heart in the palm of her hand.

This time, he could still feel every vertebra in her back, shoulder blades protruding a little too sharp. He recalled her secretary mentioning her habit of forgetting to eat, mentally bashing himself for letting that slip his mind. She was still as sickly as she was back then. He had to do something about it.

Forsaking the great curse of Whoev'r-is-closeth-to-Jimin-shalt-kicketh the bucket, he had to help her.

"HAVE ANOTHER," he pushed the plate of cookies toward her.

She attacked, grabbing two in each hand, "What are these? They're fucking beautiful."

Chuckling, he handed her a handful of tissues, "They're lemon cookies. Sykaria is known for them. You're supposed to have them with coffee. You know, traditionally," he shrugged. Biting his lower lip, he shot his arm up, gaining the attention of a waiter, "Hold on, I'll get you some coffee."

"I've been here for two months now, I can't believe you're just introducing me to these guys," she shook her head, stuffing yet another in her mouth, "I've been sneaking in packets of chips for months now, and you haven't repaid my kindness."

He put his hands up in surrender, "I'll get you cookies, you get me chips. It's a fair deal."

She shrugged, "I still don't understand how you've never had chips before, though."

"Father doesn't like them. He never let us have any."

"Your father needs to have his tastebuds checked out," she gulped down a whole cookie, wary at the mention of his father. She saw him shrivel up, the years of being unloved and shunned catching up with him. To lighten the mood, she gagged, nose scrunching up as a cup of coffee was set down in front of her, "I really don't like coffee, Jimin. It screws with my skin."

"This is Sykarian coffee, Ambrosia. It's good for the soul," he insisted, before snarking, "And rosè helps with that glow-from-within look?"

"As a matter of fact," she snapped, "a little wine never did any harm."

"When exactly does a 'little' become a lot, Am?"

"You're real funny, Sir-drown-my-sorrows-in-paint," she waved a cookie at him.

"Drink up," he chuckled, earning a grumble from her. Knowing her for over four months now, he'd figured out a lot of what was there was to her. Her language of affection happened to be little quips and jabs at him. She had an effortless manner of alleviating his fears without making them seem like nothing. Each day was an opportunity to her. A chance to prove her worth.

Born with a silver spoon in his ear, he never had to do that. At least, he had given up on it.

But she had started to give him courage. Inspiring him though her relentless crusade through life. Courage for a task he knew would take every ounce of life he had in him.

"I think I want to try again," she mumbled, sensing his silence.

"Are you sure? We can continue tomorrow too, if you like," he offered, images of her last panic attack tearing his mind in two. The sight of her in pain was unbearable.

She balled her fists, as though she was getting ready for a scrap. He could practically see her mind fighting itself, clenching her teeth as she convinced herself to suck it up.

"Yes," she declared, "I do not give up."

"Let's go, then," he smiled, grabbing her hand and a tray of cookies.

BACK IN THE STUDIO, the sun had dimmed down to Sykaria's signature autumn glow. This particularly happened to be Jimin's favourite time to paint.

She made her way to the little stool, sucked her cheeks in and grazed the white canvas with her fingertips. It seemed so familiar, tugging at her most joyful memories. Yet, it was cold. Bleak, looming over her with the prospects of a life snatched from her.

She tore her eyes away from the newest source of her anxiety, and towards her handsome companion. He had fixed himself on the floor at the far end of the room, just behind her easel. The warm sunlight bathed his glowing skin, making it more honey-like than usual. Eyes now a pool of melted chocolate, he flashed her an evergreen smile.

"Whenever you're ready, Am."

She felt a shaky breath rattle her bones, her hands reaching into the basket. A brush emerged, swathed in lilac.

In a tantalizing out of body experience, she saw her hands holding the brush out to the canvas. The very same hands which had a thin sleeve of butter from the cookies encasing them. The same hands that enjoyed a manicure just the week before. The same hands that had pounded the door all those years ago, begging for her nightmare to end.

Her eyes squeezed shut, forcing a tear out.

She didn't get this far by giving up. She wouldn't let something as stupid as paint set her back.

"Sweetheart," his putrid breath washed over her, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, "you can have all the paint you want if you stay out here. Eunha and I are going to be busy for a little bit."

She clenched her jaw, biting her cheeks hard.

"My daughter's outside, you bastard!"

That mixed-race slum girl would want her to keep going. She had to keep going.

"You will not get away with-" a loud slap stunned her mother into silence.

A rattled breath left her lips.

She almost made it this time. Almost.

"This isn't going to happen," she sighed, having held the brush out for a couple minutes, frozen a few millimeters above the cloth.

"That's alright, love. We'll try again sometime," came a tender reply.

She shoved the brush into the jar of water, staring at the blank canvas once again. A sigh escaped her lips. She dragged herself to the prince and slid down on the floor with him.

Laying her head on his shoulder, she mumbled, "I used to be amazing, you know? I would set up little exhibitions outside my house. Everyone came to see."

Resting his palm atop hers, he brushed his thumb on her soft skin.

"Mom would show my paintings to all her friends. Dad even worked overtime to buy me my first set of acrylics. It cost him a week's pay."

Knowing her as well as he did, he simply listened. She needed to vent, and he would always be there to listen. He leaned his head back on the wall, and down at her again. She was staring at the back of the easel, an arm resting on her knee.

"I think about what my life would be like if it never happened. Whether I would feel this...empty. It's like there's a hole in my chest and I know painting will fill it-But he snatched that from me too, didn't he?"

"Who?" Jimin piped up, the thought of someone hurting her making him tense, "Who snatched what from you?"

"It's a long story, Jimin. Plus it was like ten years ago."

"Ambrosia, whatever it is, it's obviously been playing on your mind. As for this guy, give me a name. I swear to you, he-"

"He assaulted my mom," she confessed, shifting a few inches closer to him. Jimin was stunned into silence. All he could do was listen. And take as much of her pain as possible.

She spoke.

Of how happy she once was, how laughter always filled her makeshift home.

Of how all that changed, that fateful night.

Of how her mother still blamed herself for allowing Ambrosia to bear witness to such violence. She was obviously used to being battered, far too many times.

She recalled her father, the first time she'd ever seen him cry. He wouldn't meet her eyes for months after that night. He blamed himself too, for accepting a strangers kindness, too good to ever be true.

He'd long lost the ability to form words, silently stroking her shoulder as she narrated the entire event. No human should ever have to endure that, let alone a child.

Placing her head below his chin, her cheek pressed to his chest. He couldn't hold her any closer if he tried. Lightly kissing her head as she spoke, a tear escaped his eyes.

His tears weren't of sadness. They carried anger, compassion, sheer rage for the man who scarred her family for life.

A few minutes of silence later, she withdrew herself from his embrace, tucking a few hairs behind her ear. Her cheeks were red, heating up as she wasn't used to being vulnerable, definitely not in front of someone.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, cupping her face in his cool hands. Sliding down to her shoulders, he finally spoke, "You can't let him win, Ambrosia. You've fought bigger battles than this and won. Pardon my language, but you're Kang fucking Ambrosia, for god's sake."

This was a battle she had to fight with her own memories, it was her versus her mind. There was no one in the world who could do it with her.

But, like magic, the platinum haired eye-smiling twenty-six year old had a way of giving her strength. The chance to believe that she wasn't all alone in this cold, dark world.

She flashed him a smile, wiping away her tears between sniffles. She had this.

"Third time's a charm, right?"

"You got this, Sia," he encouraged, hand in his pockets. For the third time that day, she walked down to the easel, sat on the stool and took a deep breath. It had to happen this time.

Her mind panned to her fondest memories, the ones she kept buried. But what better time to dig them up than now?

She remembered the beach, the one place that brought her serenity. She would lug her paints and brushes down to the shore, set up camp at the shore and paint for hours on end.

She had to do this. For that girl. The one who had the courage to dream.

Brush tight under her grip. Hair pinned up with another. Fingers clenched, tensed jaw.

She was ready. She had to be. It had been too long since she last held a brush, the familiarity raising all the hair on her arms.

There might as well have been winds howling about around them, whipping her hair around as a camera rolled, filming the beginning of Ambrosia's new life. It was just them. Ambrosia and the canvas in front of her. Her fingers and the sable brush clutched between them.

Her brush was armed violet, waiting for her to take aim and shoot.

"Shall I hold your hand?" Jimin asked, kneeling down beside her chair. He placed a hand on hers, stroking her palm with his thumb.

She shuddered at his gentle touch, breathing shaky, but deep, "No," she decided. This was her battle to fight, with herself. She wasn't about to let beer-breath win.

"Okay," the prince encouraged, "I'm right here."

She finally released a pained breath, pressing the bristles to cloth. They spread under pressure, smushing the gorgeous colour against stark white. She couldn't help herself anymore. It was finally time.

Dragging her hand downward in a fluid movement, a finger-thick mauve line rose in its wake.

She had done it.

There it was, the purple thread that tied her to reality.

What created her destruction ten years ago became her salvation once again.

She smiled at the stroke of lilac, revelling in it's blissful familiarity.

"You did it!" He exclaimed, smiling brighter than her.

"Oh god," she whispered, "Thank you."

"It's a beautiful stroke," Jimin beamed, an arm around her. She loved that about him. He was a trained painter, proficient in numerous mediums, yet somehow, humble. He would celebrate the little things with her. Her first event in Sykaria, when she signed a deal with a contractor, the arrival of light fittings.

"That looks like it needs some red, doesn't it?" She narrowed her eyes, tilting her head to the side.

"Go for it," he encouraged, glad she was enjoying. Seeing her analyse her work, picking colour after colour and smushing it all over the canvas brought a smile to Jimin's face. She giggled as yellow paint spattered over her shirt, immediately picking up some green after.

He had no idea where this deep seated fear of painting came from, but he would never ask. As long as she was happy, he'd decided long ago.

"You're doing great," he craned his neck, kissing her cheek before getting up.

He couldn't help it.

She was smiling, bright and beautiful. She was elated, to such an extent that she couldn't help herself. Instead, she began giggling. He knew it was time to leave her to it, for she looked to be right in her element.

Besides, he had his work cut out for him. Slipping out of his studio, he rung up his secretary.

"I have an idea, not sure of any details," he spoke, as soon as the younger man picked up, "Meet me at the Oriole in ten."

Author's note.

Here I present to you, chapter 12!

This was actually quite fun to write. I particularly enjoyed penning down all the descriptions. I'd actually written this as a bunch of scenes and little extracts which I later put together.

Onto the questions!

What's Jimin's plan?

How do you think Ambrosia's going to get better?

And Jimin, is he finally going to start living for himself? If yes, then how?

Thank you so much for sticking with me and this book. The amount of joy I feel when I read a comment from you guys is simply insurmountable.

I'm preparing for an extremely sadistic exam, as many of you guys know. It's horribly stressful, I always have tests going on and am currently running on coffee. You guys genuinely keep me smiling with your support.

Happy new year, everyone. Let's make this a successful, happy and productive year.

Also, be careful with all this omicron going around. I've heard it's very infectious.

Stay safe, and stay happy.