Page 8 of My Daddy Valentine

I can’t think of anything else. I can’t eat, can’t sleep, can’t shake the image of Ella from my mind.

It’s ridiculous. I know it is. I’m not the kind of guy who loses control over something so trivial. I’ve built this career with precision, with focus, and now I’m standing at the edge of something I can’t even begin to understand.

I’m painting again.

I don’t usually paint portraits. I haven’t painted one in years, not since before the gallery started taking off, not since I got too busy to let myself be this... vulnerable. But tonight, it’s all I can think to do. So, I pull out a blank canvas, mix my paints, and begin.

It’s not like I haven’t painted beautiful women before. The gallery is filled with them, after all. Women in various forms of beauty—real and abstract, captured in a way that elevates theirfeatures beyond what most would see. But Ella? She’s different. She doesn’t belong on a canvas, doesn’t belong to me in any way, shape, or form. I know that. But tonight, I need to paint her.

I don’t even bother with a reference. I know exactly what she looks like. Every detail. Her blonde hair that falls in soft waves, her bright, inquisitive eyes that seem to take in everything around her. The curve of her lips when she smiles, the way she wrinkles her nose when she’s concentrating. It’s all there in my mind—too clear, too vivid to ignore.

The brush feels unnatural in my hand at first, but it’s almost like muscle memory kicks in. I let the paint flow, each stroke becoming more frenetic as I get deeper into the process. The image of her face begins to take shape, and as the hours pass, I realize I’ve hardly moved. My fingers ache from holding the brush too tightly, but I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop.

I finally finish the painting around three in the morning. The canvas is covered with a portrait of Ella—capturing her in a way that’s raw, real, and, frankly, unsettling. There’s a softness to the lines, an intimacy that I know I shouldn’t feel. But the longer I stare at it, the more it feels like she’s right here with me.

I set the brush down, wipe my hands on the cloth, and step back. It’s good. Too good. Too much.

I rub a hand across my face, trying to force my thoughts into some kind of order. But Ella is still there, behind my eyelids, in every corner of the room, in every breath I take.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I glance over at the clock. It’s past three a.m., and I should be sleeping. I need to sleep. I’ve got work tomorrow, after all. But I can’t. I grab my phone, mindlessly scrolling through messages,emails, anything to distract myself. But nothing works. Not tonight. Not when I can’t shake the image of her.

Finally, my fingers hover over the screen, and without thinking, I type her name into the search bar.

Ella Williams.

What the hell am I doing?

I don’t know. I’m not supposed to be looking up her personal details. She’s just an intern. Just a kid with big eyes and bigger dreams. But it’s like I can’t stop. My mind races as I click through the results.

I start with her Instagram page. She posts a lot of art—beautiful sketches, pictures of her works-in-progress—but it’s her family photos that catch my eye. She’s standing next to her father in several of them, a tall man in a suit. There’s a warmth to their relationship, a kind of effortless love that makes something twist in my gut.

Ella doesn’t talk much about her family. Not to me. Not to anyone, it seems. But here, in these pictures, I can see the truth. She’s got money. She’s not just some starry-eyed intern trying to make her way in the world. No, Ella Williams is the daughter of someone who could make or break the art world with a single phone call.

Her father’s name is James Williams, a well-known figure in the art industry. I dig deeper, my fingers moving faster now, unable to resist. James Williams owns a number of galleries around the world, and his name is synonymous with the top echelons of the art world. I can’t believe I didn’t realize it sooner.

I stop scrolling and sit back, the weight of the discovery hitting me like a punch to the gut.

I can’t stop thinking about the question that’s gnawing at the back of my mind:Why would someone like Ella take on an internship at a gallery like this when she could just have her own gallery?

She’s smart, talented, driven. Her father has more than enough money and connections to get her everything she could ever want. She could have any position she desires in the art world, whether it’s running a gallery or owning her own. So why is she here, working under me, a guy who’s so clearly lost focus that I can’t even see straight anymore?

I run a hand through my hair, frustration bubbling in my chest.

She doesn’t need me. She doesn’t need anyone here. She could walk into any art show and have the world at her feet. So why is she putting herself through this?

I stare at my phone, the screen filled with photos of Ella and her father, their perfect smiles beaming back at me. This should change everything. This should make me stop, tell myself to walk away, to focus on my work, my life. She’s not like me. She doesn’t belong here. She’s notone of us. She’s... toomuchfor this.

And yet...

And yet, she’s still here. She’s still sitting at her desk, still pushing herself, still showing up every day, doing her best.

Why?

I want to know. I have to know.

But instead of focusing on my work, instead of turning off my phone and getting some sleep like I should, I find myself searching for more. I dig deeper into her family’s background, finding articles about her father’s art collections, his history in the industry. It’s all out there, a polished, perfect picture of the life she could have had if she hadn’t chosen to be here.

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