Page 25 of Doomed

That’s when I see it. Nestled within the swirling darkness of my painting are two bright blue eyes—Knox’s eyes—staring out from the canvas with an intensity that makes my breath catch. I didn’t consciously paint them. They simply appeared under my brush, as if my subconscious had been plotting against me from the day we met, capturing the very essence of the man I’m trying so desperately to resist.

Elliot’s eyes linger on the doorway where Knox just exited before turning back to me.

“That man is trouble,” he says quietly, moving closer to examine the painting. “But I must admit, he has excellent taste in art.”

I busy myself rearranging the paint tubes Knox scattered in his... whatever that was. My lips still tingle from his kiss.

“You don’t need to be diplomatic, Elliot. I know he’s a walking red flag.”

Elliot chuckles, helping me gather fallen brushes. “A red flag that somehow inspired this.” He gestures to the canvas. “I’ve never seen such intensity in your work before.”

I study the unintentional blue eyes staring back from my canvas. “That wasn’t intentional.”

“The best art rarely is.” Elliot hands me a rag to wipe paint from my hands. “Just be careful, Bianca. The Blackwoods have a way of consuming people.”

“Speaking from experience?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood.

Elliot’s posture stiffens. “Let’s just say I’ve witnessed their effect on others.”

We work in comfortable silence for a moment, restoring order to my workspace. Despite having known Elliot only since I began showing at his gallery three months ago, there’s an easy familiarity between us.

“Are you attending the Henderson opening tomorrow?” Elliot asks, carefully wiping a paintbrush.

“God no. Those stuffy gallery events make me want to stab myself with a palette knife.”

He laughs, relaxing. “I’d offer to bring my date as a buffer, but Veronica just canceled. Again.” He rolls his eyes. “Third time this month.”

“Not going well with the society princess?”

“It’s...” He pauses, hands fidgeting with a tube of paint. “Complicated. Sometimes I wonder why I bother.”

There’s something in his tone—a resignation that feels deeper than simple dating frustration.

“Maybe you’re looking in the wrong places,” I suggest gently.

His eyes meet mine, startled. “What do you mean?”

“For connection. The gallery assistants were gushing about that new bartender at Pulse—Marcus? You two seemed pretty friendly at the last opening.”

Elliot drops the paint tube he’s holding. “I—we were just—” His voice rises slightly before he clears his throat. “He was recommending wines. For the gallery.”

“Of course,” I say, pretending not to notice how his ears have reddened. “My mistake.”

I suppress a smile as I watch Elliot fumble with the paint supplies, his ears still crimson. It’s not the first time I’ve noticed his awkward reactions whenever attractive men are mentioned. For months now, I’ve seen the pattern—the lingering glances at certain male patrons, the way his voice shifts when talking about “professional relationships” with men like Marcus, the careful construction of heterosexual dating stories that never quite add up.

The “girlfriend”, Veronica, who constantly cancels but whom no one has ever met. The practiced way he mentions women in conversation, as if reading from a script he’s memorized but doesn’t quite believe in.

I gather the last of the fallen brushes, giving him space to compose himself. A part of me wants to just tell him it’s okay, that he doesn’t need to hide who he is with me. But I know that’s not my place—coming out is deeply personal, a journey someone has to make on their own terms.

“You know,” I say carefully, “whoever you’re interested in—whatever makes you happy—I’m all for it.”

His hands pause briefly before resuming their methodical organization of my supplies. “I appreciate that,” he replies, voice neutral.

I wish he trusted me enough to be himself. The art world is hardly the most judgmental place, but I understand that old habits and fears run deep. Maybe he’s not even fully acknowledged it to himself yet.

“I value you as a friend, Elliot,” I add, keeping my tone casual. “Not just as my gallery owner.”

He gives me a quick, genuine smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Same here, Bianca.”