Page 93 of The Painter and His Poet

She holds her hand up, shaking her head. “I know what I heard.”

“That isn’t what I meant,” I reply, my fingers curling into fists in frustration. Fuck, I don’t want to make her feel unwanted. That’s the last thing I want.

“But itiswhat you said,” she counters, clearly hurt.

“Harlow, listen,” I say, taking another step towards her, but she steps away from me again, and just when I’m about to haul her into my arms, something beeps loudly.

Harlow’s hand flies to her back pocket, and she pulls out her phone as though grateful for the interruption. Her gaze drops to the screen and I’m tempted to snatch the phone out of her hands and throw it across the room for interrupting us, but when her thumb slides over the screen and her eyes widen, I hesitate.

“What is it?” I ask, noticing how her face pales. She jerks her head up, her gaze meeting mine. “Harlow, what is it?” I press, hating the panicked look in her eyes. God, I’ve royally fucked-up here.

“Nothing…” she replies quickly, pocketing her phone.

“Harlow,” I warn, but she takes two strides away from me, rounding the kitchen island, preventing me from grabbing her arm and forcing her to answer me.

“It’s just a work thing. I should go,” she says before she practically runs from the room, almost knocking into Stephanie as she leaves.

“Sorry,” Harlow mutters, then disappears.

“What on earth?” Stephanie exclaims, startled. She gives me a round-eyed stare, and I swipe a hand over my face.

“Fuck!”

Harlow

In the privacy of my room I stare at the message on my phone, my stomach churning. After I responded the last time telling whoever this arsehole is to leave me alone, I hadn’t heard anything back. I’d thought that he’d given up, or at the very least hoped he’d gotten bored, a part of me had selfishly hoped that he’d found someone else to bother.

But I was wrong.

I can’t leave you alone. I’ve tried. But how can I do that when we belong together, you and I? I’m already so close to making you mine, and when we’re finally together, you’ll sing for me every day my sweet songbird. Perhaps I’ll even build you a cage?

As I stare at the message, my eyes blurring with tears, another message pops up. This one is worse than the last.

Do you like my nickname for you? I thought it was apt. Then again, you go by Friday, don’t you? Or perhaps I should call you by your real name, Harlow…

I let out a cry of fear, dropping the phone to the floor.

He knows who I am.

TWENTY-SIX

HARLOW

“You’re doing what?” my mother asks, her voice shrill as she narrows her eyes at me.

I drag in a steady breath, trying my best not to lose it in front of Robert and Sterling who are finishing off their meal as we sit in the dining room together. I’m feeling extra out of sorts today after receiving that latest message from my stalker, and the last thing I need is a confrontation with my mother.

“Ben asked me to cover for Princetown Bandits who are in London right now. It’s no big deal,” I explain, refusing to feel intimidated by her obvious disapproval of me singing tonight.

“You’re singing at Benedict Pike’sbar?” she repeats incredulously.

“Yes, Mom.”

This is the third time I've reminded her this week, but it's as if she has a switch that turns off her attention whenever the conversation isn't about her. God knows I've spent the entire week listening to her talk about her honeymoon, her plans to renovate the mansion's south wing, how she's going to buy a horse with Robert tomorrow, and how far behind I’ve got with my work.

The truth is, even if I wasn't performing tonight, I would probably be out somewhere drinking to settle my nerves and numb my frustration. My patience has been pushed to its limits, not just by my mother, but also from trying to hide my feelings for Sterling. Since our parents returned home from their honeymoon, he has been pretending like we haven’t been intimate on numerous occasions, and worse, acting like a jerk. I understand the need for secrecy, of course I do, but his coldness towards me is unexpected, and has been like a knife to my heart, especially after everything he’d said.

“I wish you’d told us earlier,” Robert interjects. “We would have both loved to hear you sing again, wouldn’t we Melody?”

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