Page 17 of Partnering with the Artist

In my mind, she’s a lone daughter in a clan blessed with frozen powers. Infamous for their gifts, and identifiable by their pure white hair, they are often employed by the ruler of their kingdom—whether he’s benevolent or malevolent, I haven’t decided yet. I still need an antagonist and to flesh out my plot.

What I have decided is that my main character—my angel and the reason why my hand is cramping—was born into this frigid wasteland with the power of life.

Plants rush forth from her fingertips whenever she calls on what is meant to be her icy powers, all while her enigmatic eyes glow…

If I throw a cute forbidden enemies-to-lovers romance in there, the story will have plenty of marketable qualities. People love outcasts and unusuals, after all. Everyone fancies themselves as someone special, someone whodoesn’t quite fit in.

With so many unique pieces wandering about, it’s a wonder anyone believes they’re part of a puzzle at all.

Rising from my seat, I meander toward Maelin, get a better look at the lines of her cheeks, the curl of her lashes, the fullness of her lips. They hold all the color in her face, red as apples against such straight pure white hair and such delicate pure white skin…

My gaze skims down the flawless hourglass of her figure garbed in a simple long-sleeve dress. Homemade, if I had to guess. The billowing style and frills are reminiscent of the clothes she dressed her fox fursona in.

A soft laugh leaves me.

Fursona.

Unbelievable that any woman would be willing to make an entire fursuit to see what crack her ex is on. Incomprehensible that any man would give up such a remarkable woman—only to unknowingly chase her through a convention hall.

What compels such fascinating narrative?

Maybe I need to stop being so hard on myself. Nothing I do is going to come close to capturing this ethereal being. I might as well accept that and focus more on design consistency than perfection. Viktor would say I’m making aproduct, and products don’t need to be perfect to sell. They just need to exist.

As it stands, I should begin laying out the story and frames, contact my agent, pitch the idea, get my PR team building hype…

I’ve got too much to do to worry about every stray hair I can’t put perfectly in place.

Imperfections are human.

I know that.

I’m seven years displaced from the monsters who couldn’t ever accept such a concept.

Yet, still, they haunt me.

Being born after Kaleb—our parents’ failure—was hard. They put all the pressure he refused to live up to on me. Ihadto excel. Ihadto be brilliant. Ihadto master countless art forms. Ihadto make something of myself. Ihadto be like Viktor and Lukas—on best selling lists and stages. Ihadto rise above their useless son who left home at fifteen just to get away from it all.

I had to redeem them. I had to prove that their genetics were still the stuff made of stars.

I…wish Kaleb had taken me with him. Becoming an escort and selling my companionship to strangers would have been so much better than staying here aroundthemand never being good enough.

Some days, I wonder why Kaleb left without a word. Why hedidn’t even try to take Kyran or me with him. But…those kinds of questions serve no purpose, and especially not when the answers are likely simple enough.

He had no idea what he was walking toward, no way to know it would be safer or better. And by the time he found out, trying to reach us would have jeopardized everything he’d found.

People are flawed. Ignorant. Oblivious. And sorely lacking in foresight.

We are all just doing our best. And our best has to be good enough most days.

Settling myself back into my chair, I open a new canvas and begin sketching a headshot.

Imperfections are human.

AndIam human.

And art is human.

And emotions are human.

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