Page 31 of The Painter and His Poet

“I’ve not?” he asks.

“No, you haven’t,” I reply.

“His name is Sterling,” Robert says, before abruptly hanging up.

Sterling?

Wait? His son’s name isSterling?

No. It can’t be.

I stare at my phone, mouth agape, a sudden rush of goosebumps covering my skin.

“Absolutely not,” I mutter to myself. “It’s just a coincidence.”

But that doesn’t stop me from reaching for my laptop, and doing a quick search. It takes me a while, because apparently Robert’s son avoids being in the spotlight as much as I do, but eventually I click on a link with a grainy photo attached to it.

“Oh fuck!” I exclaim, because staring back at me is the man I had the best sex of my life with just four months ago, the very same man that I left sleeping with nothing but a note to say goodbye.

NINE

STERLING

“You have the rings?” my father asks me as we take our spot at the head of the aisle, his guests seated behind us talking in low voices whilst we wait for his bride to enter. I’ve spent the morning plastering on a smile and stumbling through conversations to keep up appearances. I’m already fucking drained.

“I have them,” I reply, eyeing my father who nods.

“Good,” he says under his breath, his gaze flicking to the harpist who is playing a beautiful melody that has my synesthesia sparking to life.

It’s taking everything in me not to react to the music, but I’m just thankful that no one is singing, I’m not sure I have the energy to battle the effect that would have on me. I’m barely keeping my shit together as it is.

“Have you got yourself under control?” he adds, clearly noticing my discomfort. “I don’t need you acting up on my wedding day.”

Acting up?Motherfucker.If he had any concern for me, he’d have made sure that my synesthesia wasn’t triggered in any way.

“Would you rather I leave right now? Because believe me, I’m more than willing to oblige,” I bite back.

“You do that and you can forget about your inheritance,son,” he adds with a snarl.

“I don’t give a fuck about my inheritance,” I hiss back.

He laughs, angling his body towards me as he throws his arm around my shoulder, no doubt to hide the vitriol that’s about to pour out of his mouth. “So you want to live the rest of your life as a starving artist, is that it? How’s that panning out for you?”

Fully aware we have an audience, who at the present moment think we’re having a father and son heart-to-heart given the fake smile plastered all over my father’s face, I grin, keeping up the charade. “You’d love that wouldn’t you, to see me struggle?”

“I’ve spent my whole life watching you flail like a fish out of water, makes no difference to me,” he replies, his smile widening as he removes his arm.

I don’t bother to respond, what would be the point? He wants to see me fail, it would mean every thought he’s ever had about me would be validated. Except he’s so fucking wrong. I’m far from the starving artist he thinks I am. In fact, my paintings have sold for hundreds of thousands of pounds each, and right now I have a very tidy sum in my bank account. It might not be the billions he’s used to, but I’m a relatively wealthy man all on my own.

“Enough of this. It’s my wedding day,” he says, ending the conversation I didn’t want to have in the first place. “We’ll discuss your future after Melody and I return from our honeymoon.”

He fucking wishes.

I’ll be long gone by then. I have no intention of sticking around, and I already have my return flight booked to New York the day after tomorrow. Theonlything that has got me through these past few weeks since I returned home is painting in my studio on the grounds of Adaga Hall. I’ve barely seen my friends,choosing instead to lock myself away. The only silver lining is that there are five more paintings, and all of them are of Friday.

Shifting on my feet, I drag in a long, steadying breath, trying to calm my fraying nerves. The sooner I get through this farce of a wedding, the sooner I can get out of here. Frankly, I’m fucking glad my father has kept me away from his new wife and her daughter, I’m not sure I could’ve remained polite, least of all hospitable. Despite my mother’s faith in me, I’ve reverted to the man I’ve always been in my father’s presence. Angry, frustrated, bitter.

I fucking hate the person I become around him.

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