“Because you asked… and because I’ll be putting an early payment towards the loan at the end of next week.”
“How much?”
“Depends on how much we make.”
“You’re going to use every cent of what you make to pay back the loan?” he muttered, still in disbelief, and I nodded.
“Why wouldn’t I? Isn’t that what you do when you have a loan that has an unlivable interest rate and a lender that stabs you in the back?” I asked, almost truthfully.
Brent looked taken aback by my words.
I felt bad, but with years of dealing with unfair interest rates and Gavin as the middleman to speak with him, I think it’s safe to say my hostility and slightly bitter attitude was justified.
“Rosenna… I helped you when you needed me,” he said.
“Unfortunately, after this, I won’t need you anymore.”
“Regardless, I’ve been there for you, Rosenna. Both Gavin and me. You can’t just throw it all away and act like we didn’t help you. Who are you going to find to lend you millions of dollars? Negotiations aren’t as easy as we’ve made it seem.” For some reason, he seemed panicked.
Isn’t this what he and Gavin thought I’d never do? Why is the idea of me paying off the loan better than me actually putting in the effort and finally doing it?
“Even after you pay your bill, as simply a friend, I can still give you assistance,” Brent continued.
I recalled a similar conversation when he encountered Beckham and me outside of the museum.
“If you’re serious about this, you know I’m always available to lend you assistance, Rosenna,” he assured me, but before I could even utter a word, Beckham spoke for me as he tilted his head.
“Something tells me she won’t be needing it.”
Giving Brent a smile, I sighed happily as I shrugged. “Well, something tells me I won’t be needing it.”
He seemed to go quiet as I turned and continued my run.
I didn’t want to leave him speechless, but recently, I found myself speaking my mind more frequently. Maybe it was building up to finally confront Gavin, though I knew I was only building up the courage to face Beckham after what I put him through.
Chapter thirty-six
Beckham
Sittingonmykneesin my warehouse, I found myself lost, as I had been feeling for the last few weeks or so. I’d been keeping my hands rather busy to keep my mind off my misery.
Surrounding myself with portraits of the woman that was consistently on my mind would do me no good, but I couldn’t help myself.
She’d burned a piece of herself into me that I couldn’t explain. Countless sessions, countless late nights of sculpting her body into works of art, countless nights of having her all to myself while her husband wasn’t aware…It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.And I needed to tell her that. I wanted to cherish her, my flower. I wanted to treasure her—and now, I realized I wanted to love her.
I never truly understood what it meant to love. I never thought about it or cared to express it through my art. But through our sessions, I began to understand that Rosennaneeded love.She needed a man who was able to value her. To see her. To understand her.
My flower had rejected my confession. Granted, it was probably too soon, considering we had only been together for a short time. She’d also made it clear several times that there was no “together,” that there was no “us.” Part of me wanted to laugh at that. It was utterly ridiculous that she thought there could be any other outcome.
I knew her better than anyone, better than her clueless husband who failed to see her brilliance, her control and dominance, her depth. It was ridiculous that she believed she could walk away from me, from what we shared. No,from what we have.
The other part, the annoying part of me that suddenly wanted to understand how to feel, understood her conflicting mind, pitied it almost as she was fighting her heart and mind at the same time.
With my hands caked in clay, I leaned my head back as the paintings and portraits that surrounded me mocked me through the silence.
Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. Maybe I should’ve stayed quiet, allowed our fire to burn a little more and my obsession to grow even greater. But my devotion had become much more than my fixation and addiction to her. Our relationship had evolved into much more than simply lustful art sessions or passionate, mindless, and starved sex.
She didn’t realize she could change me, and neither did I. But I did change. I never cared about anything before… but now, the one thing I care about is her. My obsession, jealousy, anger, envy, possessiveness… all of it is because of her. And she wasn’t willing to accept it.
