Page 21 of Chasing Eternity (Stealing Infinity #3)
By the time I make it back to my room, Braxton is nowhere to be found. And as much as I ache to have him by my side, tell him about my meeting with Arthur, it’s probably for the best that he’s gone. Exhaustion clings to me like a second skin, demanding sleep more than anything else.
After kicking off my sneakers and shedding my jeans, I slide beneath the covers, still wearing my blue Gray Wolf Academy sweatshirt. Within seconds, I’m out, claimed by a deep, dreamless sleep that lasts for the next eight hours.
When I wake, the soft, waning light that filters through my window tells me I probably have just enough time to dress for dinner downstairs. As I step inside my expansive walk-in closet and rid myself of my sweatshirt, I notice an additional golden circle has appeared on my arm.
I trace a finger over the delicate curving lines, staring in wonder at the sight. Taking it as a good omen that the knowledge I gained in New York really did manage to stick, my gaze drifts to the overflowing racks of designer dresses and gowns. I’m struck by how much I’ve changed since I first arrived on this rock to find all this waiting for me.
Before I came to this place, I used to fantasize about having a closet like this. The girl I used to be was sure that unlimited access to beautiful things would fill the emptiness in my life. I truly believed that surrounding myself with elegance and beauty could somehow compensate for my lack of identity, purpose, direction, and, most importantly, someone who genuinely loved me.
But now, as I stand among all this luxury, I can’t help but view it as an extravagant waste. Of course, I still recognize the inherent beauty of these fabrics, the suppleness of the leathers, the thick, soft weaves of the cashmeres and silks, the artistic expression behind the designs, and the meticulousness of the handsewn buttons and seams, but they’re no longer placeholders for what truly matters to me.
The essence of who I am, and the love Braxton and I share, can’t be enhanced or changed by wearing fine clothes and jewels. Real fulfillment lies beyond designer labels. This fact seems so obvious now that I can’t believe I didn’t see it before.
None of these beautiful, aspirational things can ever fill the voids in my soul or prop up a weakened sense of identity. These things are fleeting, bound to lose their luster as seasons inevitably shift. The endless cycle of wanting, chasing, acquiring, and discarding stems from an unconscious quest to feed a need that no material thing ever can.
And yet, even after knowing all that, there’s no denying the power of fashion when it comes to sending an unspoken message.
As I sift through my wardrobe, I find a dress that I hope will project my newfound strength and purpose. It’s a vintage piece with long sleeves, a high neckline, and a bodice that cinches tightly at the waist before flaring out into a dramatic, asymmetrical hem that falls to mid-thigh. The fabric, a luxurious silk blend, shimmers in a rich emerald hue that catches the light.
For shoes, I choose a pair of black ankle boots. Their pointed toes, sleek leather finish, and slim heels add just the right touch of boldness to the sophistication of the dress.
And of course, no look is complete without the right accessories. Along with my gold signet ring, I adorn my fingers with stacks of jeweled rings, each embellished with emerald details that tie in with the dress. I complete the ensemble with the beautiful emerald-and-pearl earrings Braxton brought back from Renaissance Italy, and the talisman he had made especially for me.
Slipping my slab into an elegant black clutch, accented with gold hardware, I turn my attention to makeup and hair, aiming for a look that’s both striking and refined. I focus on my eyes, creating a dark, smoky look while leaving my hair to fall in long, loose waves that soften the sharp silhouette of the dress.
As I take in the result, I’m met with an image of a young woman who’s stepped into her power, one who’s ready for whatever challenges Gray Wolf, Arthur, Killian, and even Elodie, might throw her way—leaving no uncertainty in their minds that I’m no longer the girl they’ve mistaken me for.
Yet, beneath the surface, amid all that strength and resolve, a whisper of doubt continues to linger—an internal battle that bridges the gap between who I’ve become and the insecurities that still shadow my mind—throwing into question everything I felt so certain of just a few moments before.
Despite all the progress I made with my dad, am I truly ready to take on someone as powerful as Arthur Blackstone?
Ready or not, I have no choice but to keep moving forward. Still, before I go, I take a moment to pause before Salvador Dalí’s The Persistence of Memory. Back when I chose it, I was hoping it would remind me that there’s a whole other world outside these walls—a world where I truly belong.
But now, after seeing a print of the Dalí panting hanging on my dad’s wall, I’m no longer sure which came first.
Could Nietzsche’s notion of time being a flat circle really hold truth?
Are we all just caught in an eternal recurrence—an endless loop of reliving the same experience—where every now and then a memory of that experience breaks through, and we unknowingly interpret it as déjà vu?
Or is this something of Arthur’s making?
I’m halfway to the door when my slab dings and I check the screen to find a message from Braxton.
Braxton: Miss you.
My heart swells as I read those two simple words, and I don’t hesitate to write back.
Me: Miss you more.
Braxton: Dinner in the Moon Garden?
I take a moment to consider. The Moon Garden is one of my favorite spots on this rock—a place I think of as uniquely ours. But as tempting as his offer is, it’s better for us to eat with the rest of the Blues—to at least give the appearance of playing by Arthur’s rules.
Me: Maybe after. See you downstairs?
Braxton: I’ll save you a spot.
Moments before I’m about to enter the Winter Room, I pause just outside the doorway, captivated by the haunting cadence of the opening strains of one of the most beloved and recognizable pieces in classical piano—Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata .
It’s funny to think how, before I came to Gray Wolf, I didn’t know or care about classical music. Yet, standing here now, with the sonata’s gently rolling notes washing over me, I’m so ensnared by the music’s spell I barely register the warmth of an arm encircling my waist.
“You are breathtaking,” Braxton says, and I turn to find his deep blue eyes brimming with such intense admiration, it ignites a surge of happiness within me.
“And you’re as handsome as ever,” I reply, noting how the bandages that once wrapped his head and neck are replaced by bandages that are far more discreet.
My eyes trace the sharp lines of his charcoal gray suit, surprised to see he’s paired it with an emerald silk pocket square that perfectly matches my dress.
“Shall we?” He grins, clasping my hand. As we step inside the room, my eyes widen with wonder at the spectacle unfolding before us.
“Wow,” I say, “Arthur has truly outd one himself.”
Gone are the quaint, Disney-esque scenes Arthur usually favors for our dinners—like the hologram fawn teetering across ice, under the watchful eye of its mother as a light holographic snow falls from the sky. Instead, we’re immersed in an environment that transcends mere decoration or theme.
Tonight, I’m actually walking the swirling landscape of Vincent Van Gogh’s Starry Night .
This painting, a staple of college dorm rooms and a muse to countless artists, now surrounds us in stunningly real holographic form. Its iconic imagery brought to life in a way that’s both breathtaking and surreal.
Yet, amid the awe, a deeper, more unsettling feeling begins to take root. As I watch the holographic night sky pulse with Van Gogh’s vibrant collection of stars, the true message behind this choice seems to crystallize before me.
This isn’t just a dinner.
It’s a declaration, a signal of Arthur’s intentions laid bare in the guise of artistic tribute.
Arthur is dead set on securing his Star, and he won’t let up until I bring it to him.