Sofia gives me another hug before floating off to talk to someone else, leaving me standing alone in front of the painting again. But now I can’t focus on the art at all. All I can think about is the genuine joy in Sofia’s voice, the way she talked about Ben and me like we were the answer to all her romantic dreams.
She’s not the only one. As I move through the gallery, I notice other people recognizing me, whispering to their companions and shooting glances in my direction. A few people approach to congratulate me on the engagement, all of them talking about how “perfect” we are together and how “lucky” I am.
Lucky.
I excuse myself from the third conversation about my “fairy tale romance” and step outside onto the gallery’s small patio. The evening is warm, and the sounds of traffic and distant music from a nearby restaurant create a comforting urban soundtrack.
But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m living someone else’s life.
Three weeks ago, I was just a struggling artist and graphic designer, unremarkable in every way that matters to the wider world. Now I’m the fiancée of billionaire Ben Lawlor, romantic inspiration to strangers, subject of engagement photos that apparently make people “die” from their perfection.
The problem is that none of it feels like me. It feels like playing a character in a story someone else wrote, hitting marks and delivering lines while my actual self watches from the sidelines.
I finish my wine and decide to leave early. The art isn’t speaking to me tonight, and I’m tired of pretending to be the blissfully happy bride-to-be that everyone expects me to be.
The walk back to my apartment takes twenty minutes, giving me plenty of time to think. By the time I climb the stairs to my studio, I know what I need to do.
I need to paint.
I change out of my dress and into my oldest jeans and a paint-stained T-shirt, then set up a fresh canvas in the middle of my studio. I don’t have a plan or a vision, just a desperate need to get something out of my system before it consumes me entirely.
I start with black. Bold, angry strokes across the white canvas, creating jagged lines that cut through the space like wounds. Then deep red, the color of secrets and lies and feelings you’re not supposed to have. Blue for sadness, for the loneliness of being surrounded by people who see a version of you that doesn’t exist.
I paint until my shoulders ache and my hands are covered in color. I paint until the rational part of my brain shuts up and lets the emotional part take over. I paint until the canvas looks like the inside of my head—chaotic and beautiful and completely honest.
When I finally step back, hours later, I’m looking at something I’ve never painted before. It’s abstract, but there’s emotion in every brushstroke. Pain and longing and confusion all swirled together in a way that makes perfect sense even though it shouldn’t.
It’s the painting of someone who lost herself somewhere between what she wants and what she’s agreed to do.
It’s the painting of someone who’s falling in love with a person she can never have, even though she’s going to marry him in a month.
I clean my brushes in the kitchen sink, watching the colors swirl down the drain. My phone is buzzing again. It’s probably Ben, wondering why I haven’t called him back yet. But I’m not ready to talk to him. I’m not ready to pretend that everything is fine and that our business arrangement isn’t slowly killing me.
Instead, I grab some water and sit in front of my new painting, studying the chaos I’ve created.
Sofia was right about one thing. I do deserve someone who loves me the way Ben “obviously” does in those photos.
But I’ll have to wait, because my knight on a white horse won’t be riding in anytime soon.
CHAPTER 12
BEN
“You realize this is ridiculous, right?” Freya says, holding up the bright orange golf ball they handed her at the counter. “Billionaire CEO plays mini golf for date night. Your shareholders are going to think you’ve lost your mind.”
“That’s exactly the point,” I reply, selecting a red ball and testing the weight of my putter. “Relatable billionaire enjoys simple pleasures with his fiancée. Carson thinks it’s perfect for humanizing my image.”
We’re standing at the first hole of FunTimes Mini Golf, a family-friendly course in the suburbs that Carson specifically chose for its “authentic, down-to-earth appeal.” There are plastic dinosaurs, a miniature windmill, and what appears to be a pirate ship on hole seven. It’s about as far from my usual Saturday night activities as possible.
Which is probably why I’m enjoying it more than I expected.
“When’s the last time you actually played mini golf?” Freya asks as we wait for the family ahead of us to finish.
“Honestly? Probably when I was twelve and my parents took me to that resort in Florida. Even then, my father spent the entire time on business calls.”
“Of course he did.” Freya lines up her shot, her red hair catching the early evening light. “Well, prepare to get destroyed. I was mini golf champion of summer camp three years running.”
“That’s right. How could I forget?”
