Page 34 of The Painter and His Poet

She’s family now, albeit by marriage.

Fuck. Fuck. FUCK!

How impossibly cruel is this twist of fate?

I’ve longed to see her again, and now here she is standing right in front of me. It’s torturous, yes, but somehow I’ve managed to keep a hold of myself. My synesthesia is still potent, colours still taunt me with the desire to paint, and yet I’ve not passed out from the overstimulation. The utter shock at seeing her again, here of all places, has kept me in check. I can only hope that I can hold it together long enough to get some answers.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the officiant says, dragging me back to the present moment as the guests begin to clap, and my father pulls Melody into his arms, sealing their marriage vows with a kiss.

Moments later they turn to walk down the aisle, and as is tradition, I fall into step behind them, Harlow at my side. For the briefest of moments our eyes meet, and I’m struck dumb by the emotion in her gaze as her pupils dilate and her eyes widen a fraction.

“Sterling,” she whispers, her soft smile hesitant, unsure.

Her fingers briefly brush the back of my hand, sending a spike of need through my whole body.

Fuck, her voice, her touch make meache.

“Don’t,” I cut out, yanking my hand away and regretting the harshness of my tone the second the word leaves my lips, but Ican’tdo this right now.

Instead, I nod at the guests who throw their congratulations our way. Everyone is smiling, happy for my father and his new wife, for this joining of two families, but the thought makes me sick to my stomach. How the fuck can I make her mine now? That’s one of many thoughts that tumble through my head as we exit the room and into the reception hall beyond.

Harlow steps away from me, greeted by some friends of my fathers, and I head towards the table of drinks at the back of the room, needing some alcohol to steady my fraying nerves. Grabbing a glass of champagne, I gulp it back, the bubbles fizzing on my tongue as my childhood friend Benedict approaches.

He gives me a tight nod, his green eyes assessing me. “You good?” he asks, taking the empty glass from me and handing me another.

“Could be better,” I admit, loosening the tie around my throat, feeling as though I’m being fucking strangled.

He frowns, but doesn’t say anything. One of the few people in my life who’s aware of my synesthesia, Benedict understands how difficult hearing Harlow sing would’ve been for me. He doesn’t yet know about our history, however. That’s a conversation for another day.

“I feel you, can’t say it’s been easy for me to see Elodie here with her slimy cunt of a husband, either,” he grumbles, his attention straying to the other side of the room, and to the only woman he’s ever truly loved, the woman who dumped him a couple of years ago then promptly married a guy twice her age.

“Fuck, mate. I’m sorry,” I reply. Looks like I’m not the only one struggling today.

He grimaces, picking up some champagne, and sips it. “She has barely glanced my way. Nice to know that I meant so fucking much to her. Still,” he adds, plastering on a smile as fake as the one I’ve been wearing all morning. “Plenty of alternatives available to take away the sting. Harlow’s fucking stunning.”

“Don’t even think about it!” I snap, scowling at him as he casts an appreciative gaze over my woman.

My woman? Fuck, I’m delusional.

“Woah!” he retorts, holding his hands up. “I’m just kidding. I’m not like Dalton who will fuck any woman regardless of whether they’re married, related to his friends, or just simply has a vagina.”

“Well, don’t. The last thing I need is my best friend making a pass at my…” My voice trails off. I can't even bear to say the words stepsister. “At Harlow.”

“You might want to make that clear to him then too,” he says, jerking his chin towards Dalton who’s currently deep in conversation with Harlow right as we speak.

“God-fucking-damn-it,” I growl, tensing at the way she laughs at something he says.

Dalton is the son of Carl Gunn, who happens to be best friends with my father, and who owns the hotel we’re standing in. We all grew up together. Me, Benedict, and Drix, brought together by our father’s friendships, making ones of our own. Over the years Dalton has formed quite a reputation for himself as the self-proclaimed billionaire playboy, and seeing him flirting with Harlow makes my teeth itch, and my blood turn to acid in my veins.

“I’ll fucking kill him if he makes a pass at her.”

“I see you’ve already got that protective brother streak down,” Benedict says, nudging me with his shoulder. “But I wouldn’t worry too much, Drix and Lia have come to your sister’s rescue.”

“She’s not my fucking sister,” I cut back, eyeing Drix across the room. He dips his head in acknowledgement, and I know I can rely on him to keep Dalton away from Harlow.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Talk about what?” I reply, chucking back my second glass of champagne.

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