Page 62 of The Painter and His Poet

“Who is he marrying?” I reply, humouring her as my breath fogs up the glass. I press my hand to the same spot, watching as my handprint lingers for a moment before fading away.

“Daisy Hammer. Drix’s younger sister,” my mother replies gleefully.

“Daisy? Are you sure?” I ask, pushing upright.

That can’t be right. She hates him.

“You know her then?”

“I met her at the wedding. She was really nice.”

“Nice isn’t the word I’d use to describe her, whencalculatedseems to fit so much better.”

“Mom, that’s—”Unkind, but of course she cuts me off. Again.

“According to Robert her late father wasn’t as wealthy as many people had thought and, well,Ithink that she’s marrying into the Gunn family formoney. Isn’t that so distasteful?”

“That’s a very unfair assumption to make givenyourhistory,” I throw back, and even though Daisy had categorically said to me that she hates Dalton, she didn’t seem like the type to marry someone for money. Then again, it’s really none of my business. Perhaps they have history and she’s secretly in love with him, denying it to everyone she meets. Perhaps he’s secretly in love with her? Or perhaps it really is over money. Whatever the reason, I’m in no position to judge, and I won’t get drawn into idle gossip just to entertain my mother.

“Are you insinuating that I’ve only ever married for money, because if you are–”

“Goodnight, mom. Enjoy the rest of your honeymoon,” I say, cutting her off before promptly hanging up and putting my phone on silent so I don’t get disturbed by her calling again.

“Why?” I mutter out loud.

Why does my mother love to make me feel bad? Why is she so intent on making me feel unworthy? I just don’t understand.

I remain where I am for a few moments, my gaze fixed on my reflection in the window as I try to steady myself. My mother really can be such a bitch, and this brief conversation with her has made two things painfully clear. First, she can’t see past her own needs and wants to even consider my feelings, let alone my sleep schedule. And second, she’s deliberately tarnishing someone’s reputation—someone she barely knows—which only reinforces what I’ve feared all along. She will never approve of me and Sterling.

Never.

And whilst I’ve always known that to be true, I can admit that there was a small, naive part of me that had hoped she'd want to see me happy now that she’s found her own happily ever after.

“So,sostupid,” I mutter as I stride back to bed.

Reaching for my bedside cabinet, I open the drawer and pull out the bottle of sleeping pills I use when sleep evades me, which frankly has been a lot lately. Popping one into my mouth, I grab the glass of water I always have beside my bed and take a sip, swallowing the pill, then I climb under the covers, allowing myself a brief moment of self-pity before I close my eyes and wait for the oblivion of sleep.

Sterling

I can’t fucking sleep. I’ve tossed and turned all damn night and nothing has helped. Not the four shots of whisky I chucked back a few hours ago, and definitely not the hand job I’d given myself in the hope that an orgasm would relax me enough to sleep. The truth is, all it had done was remind me of Harlow, and my complete and utter obsession with her. Which is great for my art, but fucking terrible for my sleep habits.

The truth is, I’ve no idea how she would react to seeing herself on canvas. Fuck, all it would take is a short walk to the edge of my father’s property where she’d find my art studio filled to the brim with paintings ofher. And if she were to take the time to inspect those paintings a little closer, she might just catch the faint scent of my cum too.

It may appear unconventional to some–using my cum in that way–perhaps even unsettling, but to me, each painting is a sacred depiction of my deepest affection for Harlow. They’re an embodiment of my admiration, my reverence, and yes, my longing. These paintings aren’t mere art; they are a testament to everything I feel for her, and I will not apologise for that.

Glancing at my watch, I notice that it’s almost two am, and realising that sleep isn’t going to come tonight, I pull on my trainers, step outside my studio and take a walk. Fifteen minutes in, I start to regret not grabbing a coat, and whilst my hoodie keeps me warm inside my heated studio, it's no match for the biting winter chill as I traverse the gravel pathway that circles Adaga Hall.

I could tell myself that I took a walk in this direction out of habit, and whilst that’s partly the truth, it’s not the complete truth. The real reason I’m here isn’t just to check on Harlow; I’m here because I intend on entering her room whilst she’s fast asleep so I can get my fill of her.

Iknowthat it’s wrong.

Iknowwhat that makes me.

But I can’t seem to stop myself.

I’m not even sure that I want to.

And just as I’m about to head inside and do exactly that, her curtains are drawn apart, and light spills out onto the grass just a few feet before me.

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