Page 76 of King of Pain (Damaged Hearts #1)

“I think it’s pretty clear that when I painted all these,” he says, “I had a very specific inspiration.”

He turns, finds me in the crowd again, and holds my gaze.

“You see,” he continues, “at the time I painted most of these, I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to lay eyes on the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen—ever again.”

My stomach flips.

He drops his gaze to the floor and says softly, “So I had to get every memory I could onto canvas. Every detail. Every expression.”

Gulp.

“I couldn’t risk my memory failing me at any point in a future that was certain to be a miserable existence without him.”

He lifts his head again, eyes shining under the lights.

“But that beautiful creature…” he smiles, “well, he saved me from that miserable future. And now I get to look at the original masterpiece every day.”

A murmur rolls through the crowd.

Jen whispers behind me, “Oh. My.God . ”

I feel my skin burn under the attention, but I don’t look away from him. I can’t.

“And that made it possible,” he says, “to be able to share his perfection with you all.”

My heart is raging against my chest.

“And now I’d like to invite my muse up here for the rest of what I have to say.”

What?

My pulse kicks. Chance is motioning for me to come up. “How about a hand for Anthony Pacini, everyone?”

The applause is deafening. Jen nudges me forward. I stumble a little on my first step.

Oh God, don’t trip. Don’t trip. Don’t–

I make it.

Chance pulls me into an embrace so warm, so grounding, I melt into it. His lips press to the curve of my neck as he whispers, “I love you.”

Chin tucked against his shoulder, I whisper back, voice barely there, “I love you too.”

He pulls away and turns to the crowd, one hand still warm at the small of my back.

“As Liz mentioned,” Chance says into the mic, “all sales from the entire HIM collection are going to a very special cause.”

I’m nodding along—until I hear what comes next.

“Every dollar is going to upstart the funding of Thrive: The Pacini Foundation for Queer Survivors. ”

I freeze.

What the fuck?

Chance doesn’t look at me. Not yet. He keeps speaking, his voice steady.

“Queer youth are twice as likely to experience physical, mental or sexual abuse, bullying, abandonment, and homelessness,” he says.

Finally, he turns. He gives me a look so soft, sofull, I nearly fall apart.

“We are a community known for surviving,” he says. “And while there will never be enough resources or preventative measures to help at-risk youth while they’re in the thick of it, Anthony’s vision is to provide support for not just surviving—but thriving through all the years that follow.”

A tear breaks free and slides down my cheek. I reach for his arm, gripping it tightly.

“Chance,” I whisper.

He meets my gaze.

And the way he’s looking at me—it guts me.

I don’t care that we’re standing in front of a hundred people.

I want to kiss him senseless.

Chance looks back at the audience, his voice smooth through the mic.

“Anthony’s original plan,” he says, “was to use his career in sports talent management to eventually open an agency for queer and female athletes. To provide fair representation. To fight for easier paths forward when an athlete decides to come out. And to dedicate a percentage of agency revenues to fund a foundation for survivors like him. Like us.”

I stare at the side of his face, speechless. There’s a humming in my ears. I have no clue where he’s going with this, but I can feel the ground shifting beneath me.

Chance turns slightly toward the crowd. “You all may have been wondering,” he continues, “why this exhibit is here, in a random office building downtown… and not at the gallery itself.”

I glance out and see people nodding.

“You see,” Chance says, that smile creeping in at the edges, “an agency and a foundation, well they need operating space.”

Wait.

Wait.

I snap my eyes to him, but he doesn’t look at me.

“Welcome to—” he says, voice full of something—hope, nerves, pride—as he gestures behind him and a sudden rustle makes my head whip toward the HIM signage.

The banner starts sliding down, caught in soft lighting like a theatrical curtain drop.

I hear people gasp as it slowly peels away to show what’s underneath.

No. Fucking. Way.

Staring back at me, gleaming in brushed silver and matte black acrylic, is signage for an agency that should have been years off.

Pacini & Evers Sports Talent Agency

The name is etched in elegant, modern typeface. It’s clean. Sleek. Professional. Right there in the lobby of what served as tonight’s pop-up gallery space.

It’s now a headquarters.

People are whistling. Clapping. Cheering. But I can’t hear any of it properly because the sound in my head is just a stunned, howling wind.

I turn to Chance, wide-eyed. “What did you do?” I manage, voice thick. “What is happening? I can't—are you crazy?”

Chance grins, but there’s something soft in it. Something vulnerable.

He steps closer, cups the side of my head.

“Yeah, baby,” he murmurs, eyes locked on mine. “I’m crazy.”

Then he leans in and presses a tender kiss to my lips.

“Crazy for you.”