Chapter 20

It’s wrong. It’s all wrong.

I set the paintbrush down on the easel and stare at my latest work, the painting rendered from the sketch I drew at Lake Superior months ago.

The frigid waters, white-tipped waves crashing against the hard rocks, the lighthouse, a lone sentinel warning sailors and lost souls of the rugged terrain. Every stroke, every swipe of color is infused with a piece of my soul. It captures the haunted loneliness, the restlessness I felt that day.

And yet, something is still missing, a riddle I can’t solve, but the answer feels just within reach. I’m thrown back to my dreams last night.

I had my arms wrapped around the mystery woman whose face I still couldn’t see, the one who was painting the canals of Venice. In this dream, she was running through the rose garden before the scene shifted.

Moonlight illuminated the canvas in front of her, the scent of roses lingering in the air.

She laughed, her voice blurry, but I remembered the way my heart skipped a beat.

“Someday, I’ll learn to paint…so I can paint you,” I whispered before pressing a kiss to her dark hair.

I woke up with heartache in my chest. Fucking dreams.

Puccini’s “O mio babbino caro” plays from the phonograph, the song made famous by the classic movie, A Room with a View , from the eighties—a movie both my grandfather and Mom loved when they were still alive .

Rolling out my tight shoulders, I stare at the art I’ve spent the last hour on after a dreary day of meetings at Fleur, after which I’d made the mistake of reviewing news articles reporting the latest upheaval over my sudden marriage. Word has leaked that I drank too much at the reception and now the narrative has turned me into an unstable man.

Fuck. I was just trying to forget the attraction I felt toward my wife .

Our stock has marginally improved, but the public definitely isn’t buying the image of a family man yet.

Twisting my heirloom ring on my finger, I regard the canvas.

The strokes are too heavy, the colors too muted. I frown. This is what you get for not painting what your muse is asking you to paint. It’s still the best work I’ve done this year, and I don’t want to contemplate why that is the case.

My fingers twitch, another impulse to get a new canvas and start on it…the one thing I want to paint but couldn’t bring myself to.

A full portrait of Belle in the rose garden.

Gritting my teeth, I close my eyes, listening to the heartbreaking melody. I don’t speak Italian, but there’s something about art and music that transcend languages and touch the soul.

“Aarroooooo!”

The hurried sounds of paws darting down the corridor interrupt my thoughts, followed by, “Silas! Naughty dog! You aren’t supposed to pee on the rug! You have an acre of gardens and grass to pee on and you decided to do it here. Come back here!” Belle’s dulcet voice cuts through the gloom and I hear her sprinting down the hallway.

More barking is followed by a few yips and halting footsteps. I guess she caught Silas.

My lips twitch as amusement sifts through me.

Fuck. She named the damn dog Silas.

I can imagine her lips pursing as she enacts her petty revenge by naming the one-eyed terror after me. The dog, who has been a menace, not only bares his teeth whenever I talk to his mistress, but has also been scratching at the doors, stealing food from the kitchen, much to Mora’s dismay, and wreaking havoc in the mansion.

But he makes her happy. I see it in her smile as she ruffles his fur. I hear it in her voice when she talks to him at night, saying God knows what as he howls in reply.

He also gets to curl up in bed with her, enjoy her sweet kisses, and be the sole object of her affections.

And damn if I’m jealous of a dog.

I guess I deserve it. For being a complete asshole to her for the past month she’s been in residence. I’ve mostly stayed away from her. During the day, I’m sequestered in the study while she’s at work, and in the evenings, I usually hang out at The Orchid with my siblings and friends or spend my time in the studio.

We haven’t consummated the marriage—the whole fucking purpose of this arrangement—to beget heirs. Because every time I think about it, my cock hardens to a point of bursting like a horny teenager who can’t get enough. I imagine whispering dirty words in her ear as I thrust into her wet heat, listen to her moans as I fuck orgasm upon orgasm out of her.

Fuck. There’s no way I’ll be able to control myself with her.

So, despite having the bluest balls in the history of mankind, I’ve stayed far away until I can figure out what to do. But my body is attuned to her, my ears perking up when she speaks, my eyes seeking her out whenever I walk into a room, and I have to remind myself to breathe and look away when she directs one of her smiles at me.

Because I can’t fall for her. To protect her, I have to stay away; I have to make her hate me.

More images of Sydney’s bluish skin, glassy eyes, her stiff body on the sand rise to the forefront of my mind, and a heaviness sits atop my chest.

I have to stay away. So why the fuck did you marry her then, you asshole?

Because the thought of her being with another man has me seeing red.

“Silas, if you don’t behave, Agnes will have my ass and yours. Now, I’m going to scrub out your mess before she sees it,” she whispers.

The dog whines, like he understands his mistake.

Only Belle would be afraid of the housekeeper who works for her. Only she would go out of her way to make sure she—or in this case, her dog—doesn’t inconvenience others.

Because she’s kind that way. Just like how she was as Anna all those months ago.

It feels like a lifetime ago.

Her footsteps slow and pause in front of the closed door of my studio. I hold my breath. Knock on it. Come in.

A few seconds pass by, my ears straining to listen to her movements above the soprano’s voice.

“Let’s not disturb him,” she murmurs, no doubt to Silas, and she walks away.

Disappointment crests inside me and I fight every urge to throw open the door and chase after her, to be in the presence of her radiance and joy.

But I don’t. Ugh. I want to bash my head against the wall.

Knock. Knock.

My heart skips several beats. Did she come back?

“Come in.”

The door opens and the hope bubbling in my chest deflates when I see Morris striding in. Of course it’s not her. Why would she want to spend time with you, asshole?

“Sir, I was wondering if you need anything from me before I head out.” Morris rubs his leg again. I wish he’d retire and enjoy his remaining years instead of working so hard.

“I’m fine, Morris. Thanks for asking,” I reply. “I ordered a bouquet of roses—white ones, her favorite, like you told me before. They should be here for you to take to the cemetery. ”

Something flashes in his eyes and he looks away before I can figure out what it is. “Thank you, sir, for remembering. Ruth would’ve loved you if she were here.”

“You’re welcome. I wish I had met your sister too.”

What more is there to say to someone grieving? Even if it’s been years, the event happened long before I was born. But then again, there’s no timeline for mourning. And I wouldn’t know what I’d do if one of my siblings was brutally murdered with the killer still at large.

Morris nods before leaving and heading to his family’s burial plot on the anniversary of his sister’s death.

My chest aches for the old man. We’re all that he has left—the closest thing to family.

Perhaps I’m unlucky to live a life with death hanging over me, a curse banishing me into a lifetime of loneliness without loving another woman, but at least I have my family.

And her.

Even if I need to keep my distance for her sake.

Things could be a lot worse.