Page 101 of Broken Pieces
On the other side of the gallery is the open bar. There are tables scattered all over the place with white and gold linen, as well as a dance floor because we wanted to make sure the guests had a nice time. This is better than I could have imagined, but over my dead body am I doing this again.
All the paintings we’ve carefully chosen throughout these few months are all standing out on their own, shining brightly and giving the space a sense of comfort and elegance. The only thing I’m missing is the statement piece. That specific painting, we decided was going to be at the end of the gallery by itself, right in the center of a white wall that would help people focus on it.
Damian places his hand on my waist and guides me to the center of the gallery. “I have something to show you.”
We’re walking to the back of the gallery, to go see the statement piece, I assume. There are people walking and chatting in front of us, so it’s hard to see the painting from afar. As we get closer, my heartbeat quickens, an urge of nervousness taking over me and a wave of nausea swirling my body, wanting nothing more than to come out.
“Damian, what the fuck is this?” I whisper, my voice trembling.
I don’t know why I ask the question, because I knowexactlywhat it is. It’s one ofmypaintings.
There’s one of my paintings in this gallery.
In this very full,busygallery.
Oh My God, I’m going to kill Damian. Yes. That’s it. I can already see the headlines—Psycho much? Curator Aria Petrov murders billionaire Damian Romano.
He stands in front of me, grabbing both of my shoulders and squeezing them. “Are you upset?”
I gape at him. “I’m more than upset. I could kill you right now. Is this some sort of sick joke?”
He shakes his head. “No. Aria. You’re talented, and I think it’s time for you to realize it. I’m sorry if this was the wrong way to go about it, but if I had to do it again, I would.”
“How did you even…?”
“Sophia helped me.”
“Sophia is a very dead woman, is what she is,” I retort.
He grabs my cheek, caressing it softly. “Tesoro, it’s okay. This is good. When I told you you were talented, I wasn’t kidding. It was the perfect painting to tie the collection together.”
My heart stabs my rib, and my hands are sweating profusely. I painted this exact painting thinking about the collection we had so carefully put together. But this is not fucking okay. I’m far from okay.
Why am I so upset? Would it really be that bad if people see my painting? It’s not like they know who did it. My signature is not even there.
The realization hits me like a strong wave crashing against me.
I’m not upset. I’m embarrassed.
I’m embarrassed because I never thought I was good enough to hang a painting in a gallery, much less a gallery like this one. Because it’s like I’m a kid all over again, excited to show my mother my very first painting. Remembering her stabbing words, the way she dismissed something I love like it was…nothing.
But this isnotnothing. I can’t let my mother dictate how I live my life anymore. I can’t let her take this moment away from me. If I do, then there was no point in cutting her out of my life for good. I need to cut her from the root, starting with those hurtful words. Starting by accepting that I deserve this. Accept for once that I’m talented enough tohave my painting hanging at a gallery and let people admire my art. Art was made to share, after all.
Anger floods through me now, but not at the situation or at Damian. I’m angry with myself, because I’ve brushed this part of my life as an useless hobby, as something unimportant. But art—my art—is more than important. It’s a part ofme. My art is all of me; the good, the bad, and the ugly.
My throat tightens, and the words are hard to put together because I’m hit with so much emotion. “Thank you,” I manage to say above a whisper.
He hugs me tightly. “You don’t have to thank me. You are good enough.Tesoro, you have no idea how good you are. I’ve wanted nothing but to tell you this since the day we walked out on your mother. You are selfless; kind; dedicated.” His forehead meets mine, our eyes holding each other’s gaze.
He grabs my cheek and caresses it, softly. “There’s a fire in you that I never want to see put out by anyone. You deserve this. You deserve the whole fucking world. So let me give it to you.”
His voice is hoarse now, his eyes filled with an emotion I can’t place. I’m at a loss of words because no one has ever done something like this for me. He brushes his thumb against my damp cheek. “I love you,” he whispers hoarsely.
My heart bursts open with a thousand emotions. Surprise; relief; happiness. Because goddammit, I’ve fallen inlove. And I’ve fallen in lovehard, with the last person I thought possible.
I close the distance between us with a kiss, tuning out everything happening around us. All I can see is him, standing here, in front of me. A man that’s so much more than the coldhearted asshole everyone thinks he is. Because I see a completely different side of Damian. A man who, just like me, had broken pieces he needed help picking up. And God, I’m here to pick them up for him for the rest of my days, until my last breath. Put them together one by one, like he has done with mine.
I break the kiss as I look into his eyes containing so much longing and emotion. I get lost in them for a moment, because that’s what he does to me. He envelops me, becoming my weakness. Funny thing is, I’ve always felt stronger by his side. There’s no other place I would rather be than here.
