Page 140 of Branded Hearts

They’re in pencil, and they’re breathtaking.

Each stroke captures moments—me caught in a rare, unguarded laugh, me lost in thought, my eyes full of intensity, looking away. There are sketches of us together, our expressions raw with emotion. These drawings weren’t done in the moment; she drew these from memory, and it takes the breath out of my lungs. With a lump in my throat, I nod to Kat, silently thanking her for this precious gift.

“I’ll make things right,” I promise, my voice barely steady.

“I know you will,” she replies softly.

Driving to the gallery, memories flood my mind. It was years ago, watching from afar as she came over to see Liv, always full of sunshine and smiles. She had this way about her, something so captivating that it knocked me off my feet.

Our love, our connection, it’s like two hearts intertwined, each beat echoing the other. She’s the only one who can ground me, breathe life into me.

I can’t remember what life was like before her.

Today, I hope to mend what’s broken and show her that my heart hasn’t alwaysjustbeen hers, but that it’s beenbrandedwith her name in a way that canneverbe undone.

After punching the address into Kat’s car, it takes me exactly fifteen minutes to get to the exhibition. The streets in Sydney are a nightmare. First time here and I’m driving around blind. All my common sense and good judgement went out the window the minute I hit these roads. This is definitely not the country. Fuck, you couldn’t pay me to live here.

Is this what Mills wants? Can she see herself living like this? The thought stirs in my gut, wrenching it tight. I’d do anything for her, but can I really give her this life?

Stepping into the gallery, someone immediately hands me a small booklet with information about the exhibit. I flip through it quickly until I find what I’m looking for on page four. There, in bright colours, is a portrait ofmyAmelia with the title of her series, ‘Stolen Moments.’ My heart pounds as I scan the walls, looking for Amelia’s name among the artworks. How the fuck am I going to find her pieces in this maze? There are heaps of them.

Portraits. She paints people.Look for that.

But fuck me, the place is chockers, and I have to squeeze past people. My six-foot-four frame towers over most of the crowd, all dressed in fucking suits and expensive outfits, while here I am in torn-up jeans, steel cap boots, and a flannel, looking every bit the outsider in this fancy joint. Butterflies erupt in my stomach at the thought of seeing Amelia. I’m so fucking nervous.

More than ever.

As I scan the crowd, I don’t spot her until I move forward and find her deep in conversation with a younger woman, her back to me. Ikeep my distance, not wanting her to see me. Not yet. Just the sight of her from afar takes my breath away. She looks stunning—tight black dress, denim jacket, and those damned boots I adore. My mind races. I wonder what her paintings could be about, what moments she chose to capture.

The thought that she poured her heart into these works, capturing moments that mean the world to her—it hits me hard. This isn’t just about art. It’s about her sharing her world, her emotions, and her memories. I need to find her pieces, to see what she sees, and to understand the depth of her art. Continuing to walk around, keeping my distance, I spot a series of works to my left. I do a double take because I could’ve sworn I saw myself. Nah, surely not.Wait.

I walk closer, and my breath is knocked out of my lungs. There on the wall are huge fucking paintings of me. Next to them is a painting of her parents hugging, and another of Millie—little Millie blowing bubbles. All images caught in the moment, but it’s the artworks of me that make me freeze.

The first painting is from the night we went to Clifftop Haven. I’m glancing away in my favourite sherpa jacket, the details so precise it feels like I’m right back there. The second one is just my face, serious as hell, brows furrowed, and eyes intense. She’s captured the blue in my eyes so bloody well, they’re piercing even in a painting. Seeing myself through her eyes like this, it’s overwhelming. I’ve got no idea about art, but this? This is different. My heart races, emotions welling up inside me.

She’s managed to capture something raw, something real. It’s notjust about the likeness, it’s about what’s beneath it. The way she sees me. The way she feels about me.

And then it hits me—these moments she’s painted aren’t just random. They’re special to her. They mean something. And knowing I’m part of that, that I’m one of those significant people in her life? It’s more than I can wrap my head around. My breath catches, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. I never thought I’d be standing in a gallery, staring at paintings of myself, feeling this damn moved.

But here I am, and it’s all because of her. My fucking Mills.Mine.

I turn to see where she is, and she’s standing on her own now, a worried look on her face. Why is she worried? A tall, older woman walks up to her, and a small smile plays on Amelia's face. She says something to her, and Amelia nods. After the woman leaves, Amelia pulls out her phone and startstyping. Now’s my chance. I decide to text her, nerves dancing as I type out:

Is she not happy here? Just go up to her, you wanker.

She’s so wrong. She fits right in. Her talent is phenomenal, the best work that’s here, to be honest. I couldn’t care less about the other artworks.

She looks around before turning to face the other way, looking toward the front doors. I start walking toward her, nerves kicking in as I get closer.

49

Before You - Benson Boone

Forever After All - Luke Combs

As I stand in thebustling gallery, surrounded by the vibrant art scene of Sydney, I can’t help but feel overwhelmed by the possibilities this city offers. The crowd is larger than I expected, and the energy here is electrifying. Despite the allure of this new environment, my heart remains tethered to Wattle Creek.

It’s my comfort zone, where familiar faces and a close-knit community await me. The drive into town, the sense of closeness and distance all at once—it’s home.

---