Page 137 of King of Pain
It’s impressive. Expensive. A far cry from the place we used to share.
I run a hand over the cool marble countertop that separates the kitchen from the living area, trailing my fingers across the smooth surface. The kitchen itself is pristine—state-of-the-art appliances, dark wood cabinetry, bar stools neatly lined up along the island. It’s the kind of place that screams success, and not for the first time, I think about upgrading when my lease is up.
I can afford something like this now. Maybe not quite this level of luxury, but something better. Something nice for me and Little G—who’s currently sniffing around curiously but behaving himself.
With a final brush of my fingers against the countertop, I wander into the living room, admiring the rich leather furniture and the floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a breathtaking view of the city skyline. The sun reflects off the glass buildings, bathing everything in warm golden light.
As I take it all in, a door to my right catches my attention. It’s cracked open just enough to see inside, and curiosity gets the better of me. I check on Little G one more time before stepping toward it, pushing it open a little more.
The first thing I notice is a stack of canvases leaning against the far wall.
Chance’s art.
I hesitate. This feels a little intrusive. But the pull is too strong. I step further inside and stand in front of the stack of art, my fingers grazing the edge of the first canvas. It’s facing inward, hiding its contents, but something in me—something deep and desperate—needs to see.
With a slow inhale, I pull it forward.
The wind is knocked out of me like I got punched in the gut.
I stare, my pulse thundering in my ears. My own face stares back at me from the second canvas, rendered in soft strokes of color and shadow. The emotion in my painted eyes is so raw, so intense, I feel stripped bare just looking at it.
Shaking, I flip to the next canvas.
It’s me again.
The next one. Me.
Canvas after canvas. Painting after painting.
All me.
My knees buckle.
I reach for the wall to steady myself, my breath shallow, hands trembling as I flip through them, each one more stunning, more devastating than the last. They capture me in ways I didn’t even know I existed—in laughter, in contemplation, in moments of quiet vulnerability. There’s love in every brushstroke, devotion in every line.
He painted me. Over and over and over.
For three years, I thought he forgot me. Thought I was just a part of his past, something he left behind without a second glance. But this?
This tells a different story. A story I’m not prepared to hear.
Then, a knowing shiver runs down my spine, the hair on the back of my neck standing up.
“Ant, I—”
His voice is soft, hesitant.
I spin around, and the moment our eyes meet, Chance’s breath catches. His gaze flickers to the tears streaming down my face, his expression shifting to something raw and unguarded.
“Oh, Beautiful—”
“I’m not ready for this,” I choke out, shaking my head. “I need to go.”
“Ant, please don’t leave.” His voice cracks, his hands clench like he’s fighting every instinct to reach for me.
But I can’t.
I brush past him, my skin ignites from the brief contact, my emotions a tangled mess. I clip Guinness’ leash onto his collar and head toward the front door.
