Page 47 of Muse (The Forbidden Hearts #1)

O ne Year Later

The gallery’s already crowded when we arrive, people clustered around wine tables and walking the perimeter of the space, admiring the showcased art. I tug at the hem of my dress, nerves causing a knot to settle heavy in my stomach.

I stand across from a charcoal drawing, eyeing it precariously. My name’s on the plaque beneath it.

Sophie Wilson

Featured Artist

“Fragments of Becoming”

That alone should send me spiraling, but I’m oddly calm. My brain has decided on giving me some peace today. This is a huge moment for me, my first art show, and I’m soaking it all in.

I hear my name and turn. A young woman in a hot pink blazer grabs my hand with both of hers and calls my work “raw” and “achingly tender”.

I smile and nod, whispering a quick “ thank you ” in the soft, even tone I’ve learned from watching Theo survive small talk. She drifts off to refill her wine .

Theo slips up beside me a second later, a crooked grin on his face, two cups of sparkling cider in his grasp. “You disappeared on me,” he says, pressing one into my hand.

“I needed air,” I murmur, though we’re very much still inside.

He leans in a little. “I am so proud of you, Trouble.”

I glance up at him, letting the word settle in my chest. “This just feels so surreal.”

“It is surreal,” he says. “You’re a big time artist now. You have your drawings up in an art gallery.”

“Don’t push it, I’m still just a student.” I elbow him lightly, but he catches my hand and laces our fingers together, squeezing tight. His thumb brushes my knuckles once, his hand feeling steady and strong in mine.

We find a bench tucked in the corner, mostly blocked by a student sculpture. I kick off my shoes with a sigh, and he chuckles and pulls me closer.

He nods toward my charcoal drawing of a girl standing on the edge of a rooftop across the room. “You hung that one.”

“Yeah,” I pause. “Didn’t think I would, honestly. It still makes my stomach twist when I look at it too long.”

He doesn’t need to ask why. He knows.

“I remember the night you made it,” he says quietly. “You didn’t say a word for hours. Just sat on the floor with that sketchpad and let the emotions pour out of you.”

I glance down at my drink, then back at the piece. “It felt like the only way I could vent. Art gives me that safe space.”

He nods. “It shows. In the best way.”

I shake my head. “I almost didn’t bring it. I thought it was too raw. Charged with too much emotion to share with the world.”

Theo turns to me, his voice steady. “It’s real. And you’re allowed to take up space with the truth.”

That catches me off guard a little. I don’t say anything right away, I just reach out, slide my fingers through his, and squeeze once.

“Thanks for always knowing what to say,” I whisper, voice soft.

He bumps his shoulder against mine, a smile ghosting his lips. “I just know you, Trouble.”

My throat tightens, but I don’t look away.

The gallery swells with noise again as someone tells a joke nearby, the group surrounding him bursting into laughter.

I glance around, and for a second, just a second, I half-expect to see my mom standing stiffly near the door.

But she’s not here. She said she “wasn’t sure if it was appropriate”. Whatever that means.

She did call last week. That’s something, I guess.

No yelling or fighting, thankfully, just…

polite distance. She asked if I was still “involved with that man,” like Theo’s some dangerous stranger, and not the person who believed in me when I didn’t even believe in myself.

I told her yes. That he’s kind. That he makes me a better person.

She went quiet after that. Said, “Well. Take care of yourself,”.

I didn’t expect more, and I’m not sure I ever will.

Low expectations help curb the inevitable disappointment.

I don’t know that I will ever understand why my mother seems to hate me.

Maybe one day, we will have that discussion.

But for now, I am choosing to move forward.

For now, I choose myself and my happiness.

Some relationships aren’t meant to last.

“You okay?” Theo’s voice is soft now, his hand warming the small of my back. Holding me steady.

I nod. “Just thinking about my mom. She’s trying. Barely. But… I’m not holding my breath.”

“You don’t have to,” he says. “You’re already breathing just fine.”

I lean my head on his shoulder. “You’re not half-bad at this boyfriend thing.”

He smirks. “You moved in with me. I think I’ve graduated beyond “ boyfriend ”.”

“Well, you still don’t fold the towels right.”

“That’s fair.”

“But I love you anyway.”

His grin softens. “Yeah? ”

“Yeah,” I whisper. “I love our life.”

We sit there a while longer, letting the noise blur around us. I watch people pass in front of my art. Some lingering and taking in the brushstrokes, others barely noticing the drawing as they walk by. And I realize I’m okay with either.

These pieces are mine. They hold the girl I used to be, the ache of loss, the weight of loving someone you're not supposed to.

They hold the quiet mornings with coffee and music.

The late nights with charcoal-stained hands.

The silence after my heart broke, and the sound it made as it was stitched back together.

I reach over and tug Theo’s hand into mine again.

“This still feels like the beginning,” I say quietly.

“It is,” he answers, no hesitation in his voice.

And I believe him.