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“Is that from him?” I nodded toward the pale pink flower behind her ear.
“It is.” She disappeared behind her easel again. “I promise I am being careful. We haven’t done anything more than talk. There was nothing inappropriate. We talked mostly about flowers, but Amelia, I really like him. I don’t know what to do.”
“I wish I could tell you.” I sighed. “If I had the right answer, I would happily give it to you. It must feel great to be seen as a person and not just a name or net worth, but you know he isn’t a viable option for you.”
“I know.” She put down her pencil and moved to gather the paints she wanted to use.
We worked in complete silence for a while, both lost in thought about the men who made us feel different than anyone else had made us feel before. Rose felt acknowledged and seen, and I felt desire and passion mixed with a distinct and intense loathing.
Why did Mr. Manchild have to have such a powerful effect on my sanity, on my body? That wasn’t the marriage I was meant to have.
I was meant to have a marriage of cold detachment.
We were to be polite and show a united front in public. I was supposed to run my husband’s social calendar, give him heirs, raise those heirs, and have polite conversations over dinner.
A marriage made as a business deal meant that, for all intents and purposes, we would live separate lives that just intersected with the children and social functions.
No one ever said anything about being with a man who made my blood boil with his fucking overbearing bullshit, or who could turn my body into a lustful traitor.
I scribbled through another sheet of paper then tossed it to the side as well, trying my best to stay in the same position for my sister.
On the next page, I decided to work on his eyes first.
If I couldn’t get those right, there was no use in even trying with the rest of the portrait. Starting again, I dragged the charcoal in the thick lines of his low brow, then his wide almond eyes that were always a bit shaded. Getting the intensity in them with charcoal was near impossible. I would have better luck with another medium, but charcoal was what I currently had to work with.
His high, chiseled cheekbones and firm jaw came next, and back to the full, lush lips he used to whisper the filthiest things to me before kissing me like I was the only woman in the world.
A man who could kiss a woman like that, like he was claiming her body and soul, was a man from whom women should run. No one should have that much power over another.
He had the power to destroy me, and we weren’t even married yet.
I had to find a way to break this engagement.
The risk with him was too great.
It would just be a matter of time before he took me apart, before he broke my heart, and I would never be able to recover.
I was destined to be one of those women who were rarely seen outside of high-end rehabs and “recovery resorts,” trying to mend my broken heart and the inevitable addiction to painkillers and alcohol.
That was what happened to women in our world.
Divorce was shameful and did not happen. It didn’t matter if your husband beat you, broke the law, or cheated and had a dozen bastards. The only excuse a woman could use to divorce was if he lost everything. If he was suddenly poor, it was understandable, but that was the only reason a woman could ask for a divorce. For men, of course, that didn’t apply either.
The only option I had was to harden my heart to his presence. I would be the cold, well-mannered woman I was bred to be until I found my way out. Frigid women didn’t love, their blood didn’t boil, they didn’t feel. That was what I had to do.
He was the villain in my story, no more, no less.
I hadn’t realized until this moment how much I wished that wasn’t true. The way he touched me made me feel alive. It made me want.
A knock on the door startled us both.
Rose went to answer it and spoke to someone on the other side for a moment. I stayed where I was and studied the sketch I held. It looked a little like him if I squinted. The features were close-ish, but their placement wasn’t quite right and the proportions were off.
Charcoal was going on the list of things I was horrible with.
“Looks like you are being summoned,” Rose said as she closed the door behind her. She had a piece of paper with the Astrid letterhead at the top, a note from the memo pad the maids used.
“Joy. What does Mother want from me now?”
