Page 6 of Monster's Secret Baby

Because there's only one girl I want. One I'm not sure will ever let me have her so I take my stolen moments.

"You're being childish." He sorts papers into neat stacks. "The eldest Morvant daughter studied at the Conservatory. Plays three instruments. The middle one is quite beautiful, if that matters to you. The youngest?—"

"Stop." My wings flare slightly, betraying my irritation. "I'm not interested."

Sior pauses, studying me with those sharp, dark eyes. "Is there someone else?"

I turn away, moving to the windows overlooking the city. The afternoon light catches on distant towers, turning them to gold.

"Of course not," I lie, my mind drifting back to the gardens, to the way Harmony's mouth had parted slightly when I touched her cheek. The soft intake of breath, the gold flecks in her eyes catching the light. To so many soft kisses and intimate moments that I spend my days thinking about.

"Then there's no reason not to consider advantageous matches." Sior continues, his voice turning clinical, sharp. "Your next exhibition will be crucial. The High Caste has noticed you, but you need to secure your position. A strategic marriage?—"

I tune him out, staring across the New Solas skyline without really seeing it. Instead, I see Harmony kneeling in the garden, dirt under her nails, that small furrow between her brows as she concentrates. I recall the exact sound of her laugh when I surprised her, the way warmth blooms in my chest when she looks at me.

"Are you listening?" Sior demands, his voice slicing through my thoughts.

I blink, pulling myself back to the present. "I was thinking about a new series."

"Forget new work for now. Focus on the commissions you've already accepted." Sior taps a calendar where he's marked deadlines in red ink. "Three pieces for the Allekian embassy by month's end. The altar triptych for the Temple of Light within fortnight. The?—"

"I'll handle it," I interrupt, suddenly desperate to be alone. "I always do."

After Sior leaves, silence fills the studio like a physical weight. I stand at the windows, watching the evening light transform New Solas into a city of gold and shadow. The spires catch the dying sun, blazing brilliant for a few heartbeats before surrendering to dusk.

I move through my apartment—spacious rooms filled with expensive furnishings chosen by someone else, artwork I created but no longer recognize as mine. The ceilings soar high to accommodate my wings, but the space feels confining, each room a gilded cage.

In my private studio—the smaller room where I create what I want, not what sells—I pull out a fresh canvas. The blank white surface stares back at me, waiting. I mix colors automatically, muscle memory guiding my hands while my thoughts spiral elsewhere.

Red ochre. Burnt umber. Viridian. I prepare my palette, but when the brush touches the canvas, the vision shatters. I try again. And again.

Nothing flows. The colors sit wrong, muddy and lifeless. Lines that should dance instead crawl and die. My brush strokes—usually confident, bold—turn tentative, then aggressive. Too harsh. Too soft. Nothing right.

"Fucking useless," I mutter, scraping paint from the canvas, only to smear it worse.

I add more red, trying to capture the exact shade of Harmony's lips when she bites them in concentration. It's wrong. I add yellow, hoping to mix the precise gold flecks in her eyes. It's flat, dead.

The face taking shape on my canvas is hers, but it's a ghost, a poor imitation. It captures nothing of her warmth, her quiet strength, the way she inhabits her skin without apology.

With a roar of frustration, I rip the canvas from its frame. The tearing sound is satisfying, primal. I hurl it across the room where it hits the wall with a wet slap and slides to the floor, leaving a smear of colors.

My chest heaves as I stand there, fists clenched. Paint stains my hands, my forearms. A streak of blue mars one of my wings.

"This is what they've reduced you to," I tell the empty room. "A commission machine. A status accessor. A fucking commodity."

This isn't art. This isn't why I picked up a brush as a child, why I spent nights without sleep, driven by visions I had to make real. This isn't what made me who I am.

I pace the length of the studio, wings rustling with agitation. My talent made me an asset. My success made me a target. Now nobles who couldn't identify true art if it slapped them across their pampered faces hang my work in their dining halls to impress guests.

And Sior wants me to marry into that world? To bind myself to someone who would see me as a status symbol?

I throw open the balcony doors and step out into the evening air. Below, New Solas glitters with magical lights as darkness falls. Beautiful, distant, cold.

"I don't want this," I whisper to the night.

What I want is simpler. Warmer. A garden with herbs and vegetables, growing things tended by hands that know how to nurture. A table with mismatched plates and honest conversation. A woman who sees me—not my wings, not my fame, not my market value.

Just me.

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