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Calum–past

My love for dark and beautiful things will be the death of me, I think, as I watch her from across the room.

The gallery lights hum softly above me, a buzz just beneath hearing, but enough to set my teeth on edge.

The champagne flutes in everyone's hands catch the light and throw it around the room, fractured and glinting off the polished floors.

They crowd my paintings like supplicants at a shrine.

Critics, collectors, voyeurs, all swarming around the canvases as though they might wring some secret from the brushstrokes.

But my gaze isn’t on them. It’s on her.

Annabel glides through the crowd like she’s part of the art—no, like she’s above it.

A living masterpiece. The hem of her dress swishes against her calves, black silk that clings to her like the shadows of a fire-lit room.

Her inky-black hair shimmers under the light, like a raven's wing caught mid-flight. The strands fall in a cascade of iridescent sheen down her back, as if they absorb the light, a veil of night itself. A few stray strands fall loose around her face, like she’s spent the night in the arms of a lover. My lover. My muse .

My Annabel.

She stops in front of Falling Sky, the painting I nearly ruined with rage the night we fought over Jonathan. I remember her tears, how they left glistening trails down her cheeks as she begged me not to leave her. “Calum,” she had said, voice trembling, “Please I don’t want to live without you.”

Now she tilts her head at the painting, a coy smile playing on her lips, as if she’s daring it to look back.

Someone beside her—a man, young, eager, and oblivious—leans in too close, pointing at the piece like he understands it.

Her laugh cuts through the din, high and sharp, like glass splintering underfoot.

She leans closer to the man, whispering something that makes him flush red to the tips of his ears.

My hand tightens around my champagne glass.

“Quite the toast you gave,” Jonathan’s voice slides in from behind me, oily and low. “Your muse and future, huh? Bold words for someone who can’t keep her attention for five minutes.”

I turn to face him, and there he is, leaning against the bar like a smirking devil.

His tie is loosened, his jacket slung carelessly over one shoulder.

The glass in his hand is amber with whiskey, and his eyes are sharper than I remember, cutting into me like he’s peeling back my skin to see what’s beneath.

“She’s happy tonight,” I say, keeping my tone even, though the air between us could spark if it weren’t already so heavy with tension. “Something I’m sure you wouldn’t recognize.”

Jonathan’s grin widens, predatory and slick. “Oh, I recognize it all right. She’s got that shine in her eye she gets when she’s playing a game. Tell me, Calum, do you even know the rules she’s playing by? Or are you just another pawn?”

The glass in my hand trembles, but I steady it. “Annabel and I understand each other. That’s more than you can say. ”

His laughter is low, a sound that curls in the space between us like smoke. “If that’s what you want to believe, go ahead. But we both know she’s never belonged to anyone, not really. Not me. Not you.”

“She belongs to herself,” I snap, the words spilling out before I can stop them. “That’s what makes her?—”

“Untouchable?” Jonathan cuts in, and there’s something dangerous in his expression now, the smirk dropping into a snarl. “Or just unreachable? Don’t fool yourself, Calum. You can paint her face a thousand times, but you’ll never own her.”

My fist tightens, but Annabel’s laugh rings out again, pulling both our gazes. She’s moved now, weaving her way toward me, a drink in her hand and that familiar glint in her eye. When she reaches me, she hooks her arm through mine, a casual gesture that sends a shockwave through my entire body.

“There you are,” she says, tilting her head up to me like I’m the only one in the room. “What are you two boys whispering about over here? Plotting my demise?”

“Just admiring your handiwork,” Jonathan drawls, his voice slick again, like he’s slipped on a mask. “Calum here was telling me all about how you’ve inspired him.”

Her lips curve into a slow smile, but her eyes stay on me. “Is that so? You’ve been singing my praises again, darling?”

“Always,” I say, and it’s the truth. No matter how much she torments me, twists me into knots with her games, she’s the only muse I’ll ever need.

Her gaze flicks to Jonathan, and something passes between them, quick and sharp as a knife. Then she tugs me closer, her body warm against mine.

“Come on,” she murmurs, low enough that only I can hear. “Let’s dance.”

I don’t argue. I can’t. She pulls me away from Jonathan, away from the crowd, toward the open floor where the band plays a slow, sultry tune. The lights are dimmer here, casting shadows that dance across her face as she looks up at me.

“You’re tense,” she says, her voice lilting. “Don’t let him get to you. He’s just jealous.”

“Of what?” I ask, though I already know the answer.

“Of this,” she says, sliding her hand up my chest. “Of us. Of everything we have.”

I study her face, searching for something real beneath the layers of artifice. But Annabel is a mirror, reflecting back whatever you want to see. Tonight, she’s mine. Tomorrow—who knows?

“You don’t mean that,” I say, my voice low.

Her smile sharpens, and for a moment, I think she might agree. But instead, she leans in, her lips brushing against my ear as she whispers, “Don’t I?”

The memory of our first kiss floods in. We were nineteen, sprawled on the dunes behind her family’s summer house on Ravensreach Point. The wind had whipped her hair into a wild halo, and her laughter like the tide, pulling me under.

“You’re going to be famous,” she’d said then, her fingers tracing idle patterns on my arm. “And when you are, I’ll be right there beside you. Your muse.”

It had felt like a promise. But now, under the lights of the gallery, with Jonathan’s shadow looming and Annabel’s words slipping like smoke through my fingers, I wonder if it was just another one of her games.

By the time the night ends, the gallery is empty save for a few lingering patrons and the staff clearing away glasses and plates. Annabel perches on the edge of the bar speaking to one of my biggest supporters, sipping the last of her champagne, her heels dangling from her fingers.

“Mind if I steal my muse for a while?” The man raises his glass in good humor, retreating with a nod.

“Did you have fun?” I ask .

She tilts her head, considering. “It was perfect. They all loved you, Calum. Loved your work.”

“And you?”

She smiles, slow and deliberate. “I always love your work.”

The words should soothe me, but they don’t. There’s a weight to them, a finality that presses against my chest like a stone. Jonathan’s words echo in my head: You’ll never own her.

As if sensing my thoughts, she slides off the bar and comes to stand in front of me, her gaze steady. “Don’t let Jonathan get in your head,” she says softly. “He thrives on chaos.”

“So do you,” I say, and the words hang between us, sharp and cutting.

For a moment, her mask slips, and I catch a glimpse of something raw and unguarded beneath. Then she smiles again, bright and unbothered, and the moment is gone.

“Come on,” she says, linking her arm through mine. “Let’s go back to the hotel.”

“Not yet. Come with me.” The gallery’s hum fades as I close the rooftop door behind us, the heavy thud cutting off the distant murmur of voices.

Out here, it’s just the balmy night air and the stars, the city below a dim blur of restless lights.

Annabel steps ahead, her black dress catching the faint glow of the moon, a ripple of silk against the night.

“You’re breathtaking, have I told you that tonight?”

“Yes,” she says, teasing. “Twice. But you can tell me again if it makes you happy.”

“It does.” I brush a kiss to her temple. “You make me happy. Come with me.”

“Calum—?”

“I’ve wanted to do this for a long time,” I cut in, my heart hammering against my ribs. “And maybe it’s not perfect—this isn’t how it’s supposed to go. But I can’t wait anymore, Annabel.”

Her lips part, and for once, she’s silent. The wind presses against us, and the world seems to hold its breath as I drop to one knee.

I don’t have some sparkling monstrosity in a velvet box. That’s not what this is. What I hold up to her is simple—a gold band with a single diamond, modest but solid. Real. Like the life I want with her.

“I love you,” I say, the words breaking free, raw and unpolished. “I’ve loved you since the first time I saw you almost seven years ago, and I’ll keep loving you until—” My throat tightens. “Until there’s nothing left of me to love you with. Annabel, will you marry me?”

For a moment, there’s only the wind and the faint sound of New York City below. Her expression is unreadable, her eyes searching mine as though trying to decide if I’m serious.

Then she smiles—a real smile, not the coy, practiced one she wears like armor. She drops to her knees, her hands cradling my face.

“Yes,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “Yes, Calum.”

Relief crashes over me, and I pull her into my arms, the ring still clutched in my hand. She laughs, the sound brighter than I’ve heard it in months, and when she kisses me, it’s like the world tilts on its axis.

“I didn’t expect this,” she says when we pull apart, her fingers tracing the curve of my jaw. “Not tonight. Not like this.”

“I couldn’t wait,” I admit, sliding the ring onto her finger. It fits perfectly, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t feel like I’m chasing her. She’s here, with me, real and solid and mine.

She looks at the ring, tilting her hand to catch the light.

“It’s beautiful,” she murmurs, but there’s a faint tremor in her voice.

“Are you okay?” I ask, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You look?— ”

“Overwhelmed,” she cuts in, her smile flickering. “In a good way. But I think—” She hesitates, pulling back slightly. “I think I need to sit down. I’ve been feeling off all day. Maybe coming down with something.”

Concern flares in my chest, but she waves it off, standing and brushing imaginary dust from her dress. “It’s nothing serious. Just... a lot of champagne and not enough food.”

“We can leave,” I offer, rising to my feet. “Head back to the hotel.”

“No,” she says quickly, her hand on my arm. “Not yet. You should go back down, celebrate. This is your night, Calum. Your moment.”

“It’s our moment,” I insist, but she shakes her head, a playful smirk tugging at her lips.

“Don’t argue with me. Go be brilliant and adored. I’ll meet you back at the hotel.”

Her words should reassure me, but there’s a shadow behind her smile, something I can’t quite place. I hesitate, but she leans in, pressing a kiss to my cheek.

“Go,” she whispers. “I’ll be fine.”

When I return to the gallery, the room feels different. The warmth, the energy—it’s all dulled somehow, like someone’s turned down the brightness. The patrons are still here, still talking, drinking, admiring the art. But without Annabel, it all feels hollow.

Jonathan is by the bar, watching me with that same knowing smirk. He raises his glass in a mock toast as I approach, his eyes gleaming with something cruel.

“Back so soon?” he drawls. “I figured you’d be busy celebrating with your... fiancée.”

The word drips with disdain, and my jaw tightens. “She wasn’t feeling well. She went back to the hotel.”

“Ah.” He swirls the whiskey in his glass, his gaze cutting through me. “And you believed her.”

“Of course I did.” My voice is sharp, defensive, but Jonathan only chuckles.

“She’s a good actress,” he says, leaning in slightly. “Always has been. But you should know that by now, Calum.”

I don’t respond. I can’t. His words dig into my chest, unearthing fears I’ve buried too deep for even myself to acknowledge.

Jonathan smirks, finishing his drink in one long swallow. “Good luck, old friend. You’re going to need it.”

I spend the next few hours speaking with art patrons and donors, all introduced to me by the owner of the gallery. The success of the show has opened doors I never dreamed possible, opportunities coming at me so fast and furious a strange exhilaration for the future hums through me.

Later, the drive back to the hotel is a blur. My mind is a storm of thoughts, doubts, hope, memories of Annabel’s smile and the way it sometimes doesn’t quite reach her eyes. By the time I reach our suite, my heart is pounding.

The door is unlocked.

I push it open, the room dark except for the faint glow of the bedside lamp. Annabel is sitting on the edge of the bed, still in her dress, her back to me. She doesn’t move as I step inside, her shoulders rigid, her head bowed.

“Annabel?” I ask, my voice low. “You wouldn’t believe the conversations I had after you left–the board of directors at the New York Public Library is commissioning a mural and they’re considering me for the project.”

She doesn’t respond. The air feels heavy, suffocating, and when I move closer, I see the tear tracks on her cheeks, glinting in the dim light.

“What’s wrong?” I crouch in front of her, taking her hands in mine. “Talk to me.”

She looks at me then, her eyes glassy and distant .

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it,” she whispers, her voice barely audible.

“Do what?” My chest tightens, panic rising. “Annabel, what are you talking about?”

She shakes her head, pulling her hands free. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” I insist, standing. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Her laughter is soft, bitter. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

She stands abruptly, moving to the window. Her reflection stares back at me, fractured and ghostly in the glass. “You’ve built me up so much in your head, Calum. This perfect, untouchable version of me. But that’s not who I am.”

“I know who you are,” I say, my voice firm. “I love who you are.”

“Do you?” She turns to face me, her expression unreadable. “Or do you love the idea of me?”

The question cuts deeper than I expect, leaving me raw and exposed. But before I can respond, she moves past me, her hand brushing mine.

“I’m tired,” she says, her voice flat. “Let’s talk in the morning.”

She disappears into the bathroom, the door closing softly behind her. And I’m left standing in the dim light, the weight of her words pressing down on me like the tide.