Page 124 of Spearcrest Prince

“Just trying to make amends, sir.”

“Be that as it may,” Mr Ambrose says, “I thought I would inform you that you’ve been selected as the winner of this year’s exhibition. Mr Drow and Mrs Elmsberg were very impressed by your sincerity, vulnerability, and the quality of your work.”

“But I don’t deserve it, sir.” I gesture out into the gallery. “If you had seen Anaïs’s work before I destroyed it, you would know what I mean, sir. I might have shown honesty tonight, but she’s shown it all along. She’s always been true to herself, to her work. She deserves to win, not me.”

“I can’t change the board’s mind, Séverin,” Mr Ambrose says, shaking his head sadly. “I would if I could, but it’s not within my power.”

“Then I want Anaïs to receive the grant. I don’t want it—I don’t deserve it. But Anaïs does. Please, Mr Ambrose.”

“That is within my power, Séverin.” Mr Ambrose fixes me with his dark eyes, a long, searching look that bores right into me. “Are you sure that’s what you want to do?”

I hold his gaze and smile. “Trust me, Mr Ambrose. I’m sure.”

Chapter 43

La Fiancée

Séverin

Anaïscatchesmethefollowing week as I’m packing away my things from the photography studio. She barges into the room, a thunderous frown on her face.

“I don’t want your grant.”

“What do you mean?” I ask lightly.

I’m kneeling on the floor, placing equipment back into cases, and even though she’s towering over me, arms folded, I can’t help but be amused.

“The grant from the competition. It’s just landed—as if by magic—into my account. I didn’t win the award, and I don’t want it.”

I shrug. “Then do what you want with it.”

“I want you to take it back.”

“I don’t need it.”

“I didn’t ask if you needed it. You won the competition. It’s your grant. You do what you want with it.”

“I didn’t win the competition fairly. I destroyed your work, which would have won, and I wouldn’t have won if I hadn’t told every single person at the exhibition that I love you. So I don’t give a shit that they chose me as the winner. I don’t consider myself the winner, and I don’t want the grant.”

“Then give it to someone else.”

“I asked Mr Ambrose to give it to you because you should have it. Don’t you need it for Japan? In case your parents cut you off like they did your brother?”

“So? I’ll get a job.”

“Alright. Get a job.”

I zip the case closed and stand, placing the case on a counter, then turning to face Anaïs. She’s breathing hard, like she’s in the middle of a fight. Her eyes are burning, but her mouth is trembling.

“You don’t have to do this,” she says finally, her voice uncharacteristically hoarse and unsteady. “I already forgave you for what you did.”

“This has nothing to do with that.”

“Why, then? I don’t need your money, Sev. I don’t need anything from you.”

“No, you don’t. But I love you—I don’t know if you heard my speech the other night. Maybe you missed that part. I love you, and I wronged you, and you forgave me, which is great. But I still love you, and I want you to be rewarded for the incredible work you put into your art, and I want you to be free and not have to worry about money as much when you go to Japan. I would love to go to Japan with you and buy you everything you could ever need or want, but I have the suspicion you’d never let me do that. This is the one thing I get to do, and I’ve done it. If you don’t want to keep the money, then you give it to someone else. Give it to Noël, if you like. But it’s yours, not mine.”

She looks at me in complete silence for a long moment. She’s wearing a bright-blue jumper over her skirt, and for once, she’s wearing shoes. There are little smears of white paint on her sleeves. I want to kiss her cheeks and hold her tight.

---