“I don’t know what she would do… and I don’t know what to do myself,” I admitted.
“Not knowing what to do next is what makes us human.” He gazed at the paintings and sculptures thoughtfully. “Even if she wouldn’t know what to do… she would see the way Rosenna consumes you, the way she makes you reckless. The way she makes you feel…” He paused, tilting his head. “Well… human.”
Silently, he approached me, and as he stood a few feet away, something between us felt different… The look in his eyes, the one that always seemed inquisitive, cautious… was seeming more and more likeunderstandingthe longer we stood.
He wasn’t simply trying to see through me this time.
“You love her,” he murmured, “butloveis neverjust lovefor men like us, is it?”
My jaw clenched, but I said nothing. And again, I could feel him staring into me again as I reluctantly looked away.
“Look at me, Beckham,” he said with the same maddening patience he possessed my entire life, that he always wielded against me.
I kept my eyes locked on the sculpture, my fingers curling into fists, clay cracking against my skin.
But then I felt it. The firm grip of his fingers beneath my jaw. Not rough. Not forceful. But unshakable.
With an unhurried certainty, he guided my face toward him, refusing to let me spiral any more, refusing to let me turn away from what I already knew.
His thumb pressed just enough to make me meet his eyes, those cold, knowing eyes that had built empires and crushed men without ever raising his voice.
I swallowed, my pulse pounding in my ears.
“All of your desires… emotions are right here. Every paint stroke, every edge and curve you’ve sculpted. It sits in this room. You told her how you feel… you are stubborn to know that if one way doesn’t work, you need a different approach.”
For a split second… I could see part of myself in his eyes. The part I hated, the part my mother loved, the part Rosenna could see.
“Don’t just tell her you love her…show her how much you do.”
Drinking from my glass of bourbon, I silently stared at my flower in each painting within my warehouse, evidence of my devotion, utter descent into madness and love. It was probably after midnight, but after my father had left a few hours ago. I didn’t quite focus much on the time—not when I was drowning in self-doubt. Maybe I wasn’t good enough for her. Maybe I would never be good enough for her.
Fuck, Rosenna. What have you done to me?
Placing the glass down, my fingers traced the spine of the sculpture. As my eyes closed, envisioning her skin under my fingertips, part of me began to question my distinction between obsession and love. The line between the two seemed to be blurred.Obviously, I had a bit of overlap.
The questions burned in my mind, almost as the bourbon burned my throat. But the yearning for her was much more than a simple obsession or admiration. At least, that’s what I thought and confessed to her.
Maybe I had gone too far.
My father’s words again rang in my mind. I could never express my feelings, much less understand or tell them in a way that truly conveyed their intensity. But I showed Rosenna what it meant for a man to cherish her, to show her the utmost devotion, to want nothing more than to be with her. In understanding her through my art, I captured her essence, I understood her, and I began to own her in a way that was risky but worth it in every way.
He doesn’t deserve her. He will never fucking deserve her.
My eyes darkened as my fingers continued tracing the sculpture.Itook the time to understand her.Itook the time to treasure her.Itook the time to love her…and she was fucking mine.
She knew it already. She knew the second I laid eyes on her. She knew the day she walked into our first session. She knew it when I whispered sweet nothings into her ear as I claimed what was rightfully mine.
But my sweet flower was still holding onto the past despite me telling her I would give her my everything. If telling her I wanted to be with her wasn’t enough, then I would heed my father’s advice andshow her that I did.
Chapter thirty-seven
Rosenna
Thursdayafternoonhadrolledaround, and I was feeling antsy for tomorrow’s big day. Beckham was still actively ghosting me, Gavin was still distant, and I hadn’t heard from Brent after our run-in.
I was happy I was being left alone, but secretly, I still wanted to hear from Beckham. Just to know he was doing OK. Toying with the keys he’d left me to his warehouses, I glanced over to Kira, who was walking in with my coffee and notes for the afternoon. If there was anyone who was more excited than ever about this event, it had to be her.
She would be majorly coordinating everything in the back end while I planned to busy myself by greeting guests, keeping them engaged, discussing prices with potential buyers, and keeping track of what sold.
