Page 24 of Secrets Unveiled

“Holy. Moly. Cannoli. What the hell was that?” Ophelia whispers. Her choice of words has a squeak of a laugh slipping through my lips.

“What did you just say?” I turn to face my best friend, who is still looking in the direction Dante went.

“Did you not feel that energy he was emanating? And what did he whisper to you?” I pull my lips into my mouth before responding, heat rushing to my face.

“He said I look breathtaking.” The noticeable sigh she responds with is that of a love-struck teenager, fawning over the new attractive, yet mysterious, student in class.

“He’s gorgeous, Sage. Like seriously gorgeous. Like he just stepped out of a Calvin Klein underwear photoshoot gorgeous. Damn, girl. He’s got me all hot and bothered.” She tips back the rest of her wine before she starts fanning herself with her hand as if her core temperature suddenly spiked ten degrees.

I whisper laugh at my friend’s not so discrete reaction to, dare I say, the most attractive man in this building. I interlock our arms before dragging her further into the showroom.

“Come on, let’s go decipher some art, shall we?” We spend the next half hour roaming from piece to piece. Each of us gives our opinions on the paintings and photographs one by one. Ophelia and I share a love for the arts, and there was no doubt she was the one I was bringing to this event.

“I’m going to get some food. Want to come?” Ophelia asks, but I’m drawn to a specific painting displayed further in the corner of the room that has my curiosity heightened.

“You go ahead. I’ll catch up; I want to see something first.” Ophelia nudges my arm before disappearing to the food table that’s been calling her name since entering the building. I have to say, the spread looks delicious. My stomach growls at the thought, but there’s something about this painting that’s drawing me in.

As I approach the painting, I study the model depicted. There’s no color, just black paint showcasing a beautiful female’s profile. She’s shirtless, but she’s turned in a way that nothing is visible but her back. Her long hair cascades down her back while her arms are stretched above her head. Her head is tilted back and is halfway blocked from view by her arm, but there’s something oddly familiar about her. She’s a thin woman. Her skin is dusted lightly with a few freckles here and there, but it’s not until I see her hands that I freeze.

If I could see myself in a mirror right now, I would see all the color drained from my face. Small beads of sweat develop across my forehead, and there’s a slight tremor in my hands as I lift them up in front of me to examine them. The tops of my hands house thick, uneven skin, bumpy and raised, angry and aggressive as they stretch across my fingers one at a time. On my right hand, the scars twist up my arm just a bit higher than my left before they disappear beneath my blazer.

I drop my hands to my sides as I peer up at the painting. It’s me. The girl in the painting before me, who has the same ugly scars, looks as though she’s dancing, her arms up and head back, so carefree as her body bows with her movements. It’s me. The night at the club.

“I see you’ve found my painting?” That same sultry, smooth voice invades my ears as a warm presence emanates from behind me. He’s close. I don’t turn to face him.

“You painted this?” My voice comes out shakier than I wanted it to, shock and disbelief still pulsing through my body.

“I couldn’t get the image of you dancing out of my head, so I put it on paper.” Dante painted me, scars and all. I hadn’t thought he noticed my biggest insecurity in the darkness of the club. It’s beautiful, everything about it. So why am I suddenly angry? No, not angry, self-conscious, as if everyone can see my hands and the ugly scars, I try so hard to hide. The most insecure part of my body is up on the wall in full display for others to see. I quickly scan from my left to my right, seeing if anyone is near me and can put two and two together that the girl in the painting is me. But there’s no one, just Dante standing painfully close to me as I start having the beginnings of a panic attack.

“You painted me? Even my… scars?” My breathing starts picking up, becoming shorter and choppier.

Calm down, Sage. No one knows that’s you. You’re just overthinking. Not everyone in the world thinks scars are hideous. Relax.

“I know I probably should have asked you first, but like I said, I couldn’t stop thinking of you after that night.” I finally turn to look at him. Even the way Dante stands radiates confidence and poise: his hands in his slacks’ pockets as he looks over my head at his painting with his brow furrowed just a bit, as if he’s in deep thought.

“Your beauty is hard to forget, Sage.” Slowly his eyes meet mine, his hand coming up to the side of my face. His touch is gentle, his thumb gently sliding across my cheek as he steps in closer to me.

“But my scars?” I didn’t know what I was asking him, or what to say. All I wanted to know was why he painted my scars as well. Most people wouldn’t think that was a detail that would make their work beautiful, but his response didn’t falter.

“Our scars tell our story—the good, the bad, and the ones we’d rather not show. Whether we have physical scars or mental scars, they play a significant role in who we are or who we’re destined to become. It’s important not to hide from them but to show the struggles we’ve faced even when we’d rather forget.” His words wrap around me and squeeze so tight I start to feel the undeniable sting of tears I’m determined not to shed.

I swallow hard and wipe my hands on my pants before taking a step back. I need fresh air; I need a moment alone. I want to run to the bathroom and wash away the scars that have plagued my hands since the fire, but I can’t move. I’m suddenly too hot, my skin feeling like I’m back in the house. The wall of heat becomes too much, and I’m struggling to breathe through the smoke all over again.

“It’s a beautiful painting… really, it is. But could you—” Before I could finish talking, a familiar voice interrupts me.

“As moving as your speech was, some people’s stories are best left to be told by them. Not forced upon them in a room full of strangers. Sage, let’s go.”

SAGE

I have never been happier to see Saint in my life, but even as I try my hardest to reel in the panic attack that’s growing within me, I can’t control it any longer. I excuse myself from Dante and practically run towards Saint as my lungs begin restricting right there in the middle of the showroom floor. I can’t get a big enough breath in; my chest is caving in against my lungs. The room is narrowing in, black dots appear in front of me, and I don’t think I could have made it to the door if not for Saint’s guiding hand on my lower back.

As I step into the fresh air, I run straight into Ophelia and Owen. They’re standing close to one another as they speak, but the moment Ophelia sees me, she grabs my arms in a panic, holding me up in front of her.

“Shit, Sage, breath. Slow down your breathing. Slow, slow, steady breaths. Copy me. Inhale big. Exhale big.” I copy Ophelia, but I still can’t slow down. The world is spinning around me, and the fear of the lingering flames creeps into my mind.

“What the fuck happened?” Owen yells to Saint, but I tune them out. All I need right now is to breathe. I need to get out of the house, away from the flames. My hands are burning.

“She’s having a panic attack; she thinks she’s back in the house fire.” Saint’s voice is right beside me. A pair of strong arms scoop me up and carry me across the street. Still trying to breathe, I can’t catch my breath fast enough. The dark is closing in on me again, and the last thing I hear before fading into the dark is Saint’s voice.

---