Page 160 of Guarded King

My finished portraits are propped against the wall. I need to take the one of Christopher to Lola, but I’m not sure what to do with the one of Roman. It hurts to look at it, but at the same time, the happiness in his expression fills me with warmth.

What is he doing right now? Does he think of me as often as I think of him? How is the EcoTech acquisition going? I hope he’s smiling wherever he is and whatever he’s doing.

I squeeze out a selection of paints onto my palette and pick up my paintbrush. Rather than painting someone in particular, I’m focused on relaxing. For now, I want to lose myself in the passion I gave up so many years ago.

Swirls of silver and yellow, blush pink and light gray make their way onto the canvas. The longer I paint, the easier it becomes. As the image takes shape, my hand falters and my throat tightens.

I put my brush down and stare at the face in front of me. A child’s face, a boy’s. One with pale blond hair and eyes the color of a wolf’s. A combination of my face and Roman’s. A new dream, not to replace the old, but adding to it.

I sit on my bed, a tear welling up and trailing hot down my cheek. God, I want this new dream. Loving Roman and being loved in return. The joy of painting. One day, maybe even the joy of creating a new life, one whose days will be full of love and happiness and as much security as we could provide.

I pick up my phone and pull up Roman’s number. My thumb hovers over the green Call button, but as another tear trickles down my cheek, followed by another, I lock the screen and throw the phone on the bed.

Why does love have to be so painful? Why can’t I just reach out and close the gap between us?

I slump back on my bed, focusing on the face I’ve just painted. In this moment, it all becomes clear.

I don’t want a love that’s hidden in the shadows. And I’m not sure if Roman will ever be prepared to love me in the light.

It’s raining again.The umbrella helps, but halfway home from the bus stop, my shoes are soaked through.

As I approach our apartment block, a figure comes into view—someone sitting on the front steps. A man. I frown in confusion, and then my pulse leaps. Has Dad been locked out? I quicken my pace, but after only a few strides, I realize the person waiting is too big to be Dad.

The closer I get, the faster my heart races. Roman’s dark hair hangs wet over his eyes, his white shirt plastered to his chest, completely see-through. He sits with his legs bent, forearms resting on his knees, head bowed.

“Roman?”

At the sound of my voice, his head jerks up, and he stands. Having his eyes on me for the first time in four weeks sends the dormant butterflies in my stomach whirling around once more.

I take a hesitant step closer, unable to stop myself from drinking him in. “What are you doing here?”

He seems to be having the same problem, his gaze slowly tracing over my features as if he’s memorizing every detail. “I have something for you.”

With those words, the hope that he’s here to confess his undying love and beg me to come back dims.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself. “What is it?”

He picks up a plastic-wrapped package from the steps and approaches, holding it out to me. As I reach for it, his fingers ghost over mine and prickles of heat ripple up my arm.

“It’s myForbesinterview,” he says.

I finally look down at the package, finding a magazine beneath the clear plastic covering. I glance up at him, confused.

“I’d like you to read it.” Without waiting for my response, he moves past me.

I stop him with a hand on his arm, my fingers curling over damp fabric. His skin is hot, even through his wet shirt.

“How are you?” I ask softly.

“I hope I’ll be better soon.”

I thought he might tell me he’s been miserable without me, the way I’m miserable without him. But at his response, my heart drills into my stomach. Is this his way of letting me know he’s moving on?

Swallowing, I nod, doing my best to hide the hurt piercing through me. “That’s… good.”

He studies me for a beat, then brushes a strand of hair away from my cheek. The gesture is so familiar, so intimate, that warmth seeps beneath my skin.

“Read the interview, Chloe,” he says quietly. “I hope you’ll like it.”

---