Lahat ng Kabanata ng LOVE ME LIKE A CURSE: Kabanata 1 - Kabanata 10

Before blood and boardrooms, before fangs and contracts, before him—I used to paint. That’s the first thing I remember when I wake up some mornings, sweating and breathless from dreams that carry the scent of oil paint and wildflowers. Dreams of another life, one I buried with trembling hands and stained brushes. I believed in the way paint could Potray a soul story. And it did. It killed my parents. I was twenty at the time, two weeks from graduating from Hallowind College of Art and Design. My world was color. Canvas. Friends who lived in secondhand clothes and survived on cheap wine and passion. I had a reputation for painting things that didn’t look real—things that felt like dreams. Once, my professor called my work "prophecy." I laughed and said I was just inspired by emotion. But the truth? Half the time I painted things I couldn’t explain. Symbols I never studied. Faces I’d never seen. Landscapes that didn’t exist. And in my final semester, something... changed. One

The sound of traffic is the first thing I hear when I wake up. Not birdsong. Not the rustling of canvas. Not my mother’s voice calling my name from the kitchen downstairs, or my fathers laughter. Those are ghosts now—echoes from another life. This is the present. And the present smells like coffee and city air, warm croissants from the bakery downstairs, and the faint scent of strawberry shampoo that isn’t mine. I blink up at the ceiling fan in our tiny apartment, counting the slow, wobbling rotations like they're a lullaby. Then— The kettle was screaming again, and so was Rhea. “Arabella! Your demon water is possessed!” she shrieked from the kitchen, waving a wooden spoon like a wand as steam billowed behind her. “It’s called tea, Rhea.” I peeked over the top of my book, lounging on the couch in my favorite hoodie—the one with paint stains I pretended were intentional. “It’s called black smoke and the scent of doom,” she shot back, pulling the kettle off the burner and

The front door clicked open, and I heard the familiar jangle of keys. “Arabella? I—” He stopped. Just... stopped. “Holy shit.” Elias blinked at me from the hallway, Backpack still slung over one shoulder. There was a full second of silence. Then, deadpan: “…Did I walk into the wrong apartment?” I turned toward him slowly. He blinked, then rubbed his eyes. “Nope. Still you. But what the hell?” “Okay,” he said slowly, pointing a finger. “Who are You, and what have you done with my antisocial sister?” Elias’s mouth opened. Then closed. then opened again. “You?” I nodded. “Like, outside? In that?” “In this,” I said, doing a slow half-turn like I was on a catwalk — awkwardly, I turned slightly, showing off the glittering heels I was still learning to walk in. “She’s on vacation.” He blinked again. “Why do you look like a Bond girl who just got divorced and is about to ruin her ex’s life?” Rhea cackled. “Is that a compliment or a warning?” I asked. He squi

The hallway outside the private room was too bright, too loud, too… real. My heels clicked awkwardly on the tile as I stepped back into the club’s pulse. Sweat. Flashing lights. Someone laughing too loud. Everything was louder now. Where the hell is Rhea? She’d been deep in her own little world earlier — hands down someone’s pants, mouth doing exactly what it wanted, completely unbothered. I scanned the crowd for her. Gone. I weaved through the crowd. Checked the bar. The booth near the DJ. Nothing. My stomach dropped a little. She wouldn’t leave, right? Not without me. I pulled my phone from my bag — finally. Four missed calls, two texts, one emoji with the tongue sticking out, and another of a cab. I didn’t need to guess. RHEA [1:42 AM]: WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU. RHEA [1:44 AM]: I left. He was hot. He came. I came. Victory. TAKE A CAB. COME HOME. NOW. I laughed — genuinely laughed. I hit call instantly. She picked up on the first ring. “Where the hell have

Three weeks later ----- The cursor blinked in the corner of Rhea’s laptop screen, daring me to click “Next Level” in a game I didn’t even care about. It was just noise, something to keep my hands busy while my brain refused to think about résumés or rejection letters. “Bella?” My brother’s voice broke the trance. He leaned against my doorway, a half-empty cereal bowl in his hand. “Have you checked your email today? You know… for job replies?” I sighed, pausing the game. “Do you really want me to ruin my mood before lunch?” “Bella.” His tone carried that younger-brother patience that somehow felt worse than nagging. Fine. I clicked over to my inbox. One unread message — a store newsletter. No interviews. No follow-ups. Not even a pity rejection. “Told you,” I muttered. “It’s like the universe has a personal beef against me.” “You sent out what, ten applications?” “Twenty-three.” My mouth twisted. “And yes, before you ask, not just to Aragon Enterprises. Apparently, the