Page 216 of Barinov

“Wexley’s,” I answer.

“He’s got two paintings left before he can finally graduate,” Lex adds, smiling my way.

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Ashmoor Hall - Wexley University

Ashmoor Hall isn’t just where The Legacy dance studio is tucked away between lecture halls and practice rooms. It’s the heart of Wexley’s elite art program. A place I’ve spent the last four years calling my second home.

Usually, the moment I walk through the heavy glass doors, something settles inside me. The familiar scent of acrylic paints, fresh canvas, and graphite clings to the air. Natural light always pours in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating dozens of easels scattered across the open studio. Half finished sculptures sit beneath white sheets, and paint-splattered stools wait exactly where exhausted art students abandoned them the night before.

It’s always been a sanctuary for me here. A predictable and safe constant I’ve grown to love. Art has never once judged me. It’s never expected me to have the right words. When my head gets too loud, all I’ve ever needed was a blank canvas and enough paint to quiet it.

Today… none of that works.

I’ve been staring at these two blank canvases for way too long. Two paintings. That’s all I have left between me and an art degree. Between me and that glorious dream of owning my own gallery one day.

Two damn paintings.

And I’ve got nothing.

I reach for the tube of ultramarine and squeeze a ribbon of blue across my palette. I add in some white, hunter green, and cadmium red. The colors blend beneath my palette knife exactly the way they’re supposed to.

But my brain does nothing. Every brushstroke I imagine turns into more of Bella’s pain. I squeeze my eyes shut so hard my temples ache.

“Just breathe,” I whisper to the empty room. “She’s alright, she’s home.”

I open my eyes, but the peace vanishes. Instead, the horrific memory of Bella lowering herself on Luca’s lap floods my mind. The ghostly sound of her shrieking when he activated that damn collar bounces off the inside of my skull until I completely lose it.

In a blind, suffocating burst of rage, I chuck the palette across the room. It crashes against the far brick wall, shattering on impact as the thick, mixed colors smear into an ugly mess down the surface.

“Well…” her sultry voice fills the echoing space from the doorway. “Looks like I came at just the right time.”

I snap my head around to find Haley in cut off denim shorts and a teal tank top with her fiery red waves braided loosely to the side leaning in the doorway.

“Brought you something.” She winks, striding forward with two cups from The Black and Burgundy in her hands.

“You’re amazing,” I mutter, forcing an exhausted smile.

“I take it that the creative process isn’t flowing smoothly today?” she asks softly, her heels clicking against the tile floor as she closes the distance between us.

“I’ve got nothing, Hales,” I rasp, taking my coffee from her extended hand. “Every time I look at the white space, I just see him.”

Haley steps right in front of my easel, looking over the two empty canvases before turning her gaze to me. She reaches out and rests a hand on my shoulder.

“Cade. You just spent seventy-five days holding your breath and hunting for the girl you love. You can’t expect your hands to just magically switch from survival mode to awesome artist mode in ten short days.”

My brows lift. “Awesome artist mode?”

“Shut it,” she laughs. “I’m a dancer, not a poet.”

“I have to finish. I have to graduate. If I don’t and I can’t get—” I cut myself off, retreating a step.

“Can’t get what?” she prods, setting her cup down on the small table beside us. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“It’s nothing,” I whisper, exhaling slowly as the warmth of coffee settles in my chest. “Just forget it.”

Haley plants her hands firmly on her hips. “It’s like you’ve never met me before,” she scoffs. “Spill it. Now. Don’t make me call Bella because you know I will… or worse, Ellie.”