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Fine, then. Conversation is oftentimes overrated. I cross the studio and open the doors on the opposite wall. I’m not sure she saw them before. Both sets of doors were designed to disappear into the surrounding space so they wouldn’t become a distraction.
Daphne steps forward. Light plays over her face. The angles take my breath. The halo glow of the lamp. The stark cuts of the bulb that shines down on her canvas. She hovers in the doorway, trying to see past me.
I reach behind and turn the switch.
“Your bedroom.”
She searches my face again, no doubt for some sign that I’m joking with her. Perhaps I should, at some future date. Though—is it playfulness, if it’s exactly calibrated to Daphne? If it’s at the outer edges of what I’m capable of?
Violence, yes. Patience, yes. I’m not so certain of play.
But then she takes another step forward, and I feel that pain again. A dangerous one. Daphne is not like the other Morellis. Her art, and her shitty apartment, are testament to that. The snarling creature who tried to scare me off is a facade. Emotion doesn’t translate for her that way. It’ll have to be around the canvas, then. Use her art as a steppingstone.
I want to make her cry and I want to make her laugh.
I take several steps back from the bedroom’s entrance so that she can pass by without touching me. The corner of her mouth turns down when I do. I’ll never get tired of these contradictions in her.
The air stirs as she moves into the bedroom. The clean scent of my shirt hasn’t erased the bright, floral scent of her shampoo. A fleeting regret whisks by with her. I should have woken her up with my tongue on her cunt. I should have tasted her again before I delivered the news.
“This is the same as yours.”
Resurfacing from thoughts of her sweet flesh is a real hardship, but I lean against the doorframe nonetheless. Daphne stands in the center of her bedroom. It’s a mirror image of how we were before. Only the art studio stayed in position.
“The bedroom?”
“It’s the same bedroom.” She lifts her hands, almost helpless, and lets them drop to her sides. “Same bed. Same bookshelves. Less books, but…” Daphne twists her head to look behind her. “Same size closet.”
“The same en suite bathroom as well, if you wanted a complete list.”
“You’re giving me a bedroom just like yours?”
“The art is different.”
Daphne takes the risk of turning away to scan the walls. The space above my bed is taken with one of her paintings. The space above hers, however…
“That’s a Giorgia Russo.” She pads closer to the bed, letting her fingertips skim the comforter. “Is that—”
“The original.”
On the canvas above Daphne’s bed, a warrior goddess raises a knife above her head. She wears a satisfied, determined expression in the captured moment. A breath before dealing a fatal blow. It makes my pulse quicken to see the painting. It makes my chest heat to see Daphne taking it in.
Her shoulders drop. Her chin lifts. Awe. That’s what she feels.
“The opposite of Lehmann,” I say to her back. “Ms. Russo’s value has gone up significantly since this purchase.”
“Did you buy this for me?”
“I brought it to the gallery, but you were gone.”
Daphne turns to face me. Her cheeks glisten with tears.
“You are…” The sentence is interrupted by a shuddering breath, bordering on a sob. “You are the cruelest person I’ve ever met, Emerson.”
A strange urge. Fix it. Whatever’s making her cry. Of course, the person making her cry is me. “You don’t like it?”
“I love it.” Daphne’s voice catches. “I love her work. I love how—how unapologetic it is. This piece shows the kind of strength I wish I had.”
“It’s the strength you do have. It’s why I chose it for you.”
