Page 31

Chapter Thirty

Annabel

The gallery lights are too bright, reflecting off the glass of champagne flutes and art pieces, casting fractured beams that ricochet around the room.

I stand in the center, a fixture among fixtures, a piece of Calum’s curated collection.

My dress is red—his favorite color—and clings to me like a second skin.

He’s always wanted me to look like this: something striking, something impossible to look away from.

“Can I talk to you?” the familiar voice comes from over my shoulder.

I bristle instantly. “No.”

Jonathan clears his throat, moving to face me directly. “So you’ve heard.”

“About your wedding? Yes, I’ve heard.” I remain cold, detached.

“There wasn’t a wedding, we eloped.”

“As if this makes the fact that you married my cousin any better,” I scoff. “How could you? Do you hate me?” My eyes finally meet his. He looks like a broken puppy, empathy and pain swirling in this stormy irises .

“I wish I hated you,” he finally says. “I just wanted to hurt you.”

“Well, now I hate you,” I seethe under my breath. He clutches my elbow but I tear myself from his grip. “Don’t.” I shake me head, fighting tears. “How could you do that to her? She’s young–na?ve.”

“I wanted to feel loved–you–you–”

“Stop it. You’re weak, broken–how could I ever love you?”

“Annabel–just listen–” he reaches for my arm again but I back out of his reach.

“Don’t do this. Not here–I won’t let you ruin this night for Calum.”

Jonathan’s eyes cloud with anguish. “I made a mistake–I–I need you. Just give me a few minutes to explain.”

I shake my head, fighting back stubborn tears.

“Annabel, you’re radiant.” Someone interrupts us then.

The voice is familiar–an investor often in attendance at Calum’s shows.

I turn to find the older man, his silver hair slicked back, his suit impeccable.

He looks like money—old money, the kind that doesn’t shout but whispers, and somehow still commands the room.

“Thank you,” I say, offering him the smile I’ve perfected for nights like these. “Calum’s work does most of the radiating.

He laughs politely, raising his glass. “And yet, it’s clear who his muse is. Every brushstroke screams your name.” His eyes flick from me to Jonathan. “I’m sorry if I interrupted you.”

“No–it’s nothing,” I turn away from Jonathan and sip my champagne, letting the conversation drift to safer waters—Calum’s meteoric rise, his talent, his vision. Always Calum. Even in his moment of triumph, I am an accessory, a piece of art complementing the exhibit.

Across the room, I catch sight of him. He’s magnetic tonight, his presence pulling every eye, every conversation into his orbit. He’s in his element, charming patrons and collectors, speaking passionately about his work. About me .

He saunters slowly to me then, smiling that boyish grin that makes people trust him instantly.

“Mind if I steal my muse for a while?” he asks the silver-haired man, his hand finding the small of my back. The man raises his glass in good humor and retreats, leaving us in our own little bubble of light and expectation. “Did you have fun?” he asks.

“It was perfect. They all loved you, Calum. Loved your work.”

His eyes flicker across the room to land on Jonathan’s brooding gaze trained directly on us. “And you?”

“I always love your work.” I smile and slide off the bar, my gaze holding his. “Don’t let Jonathan get in your head,” I say softly. “He thrives on chaos.”

“So do you,” his words hang between us, sharp and cutting.

My smile slips at his accusation, but I catch myself quickly. “Come on,” I say, linking our arms. “Let’s go back to the hotel.”

“Not yet. Come with me.” He leads me across the room to the elevator.

He punches the button for the rooftop, we ascend and a few moments later the doors slide open to reveal the starlit sky.

“You’re breathtaking,” Calum says as we walk out onto the rooftop, his eyes scanning my face like he’s cataloging me. “Have I told you that tonight?”

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

“It does.” He leans in, his lips brushing my temple. “You make me happy.”

The weight of his words settles between us, heavier than the champagne flute in my hand. He takes the glass from me, sets it aside, and intertwines his fingers with mine.

“Come with me.”

I don’t question it. I never do with Calum. He leads me through the throng of people, nodding and smiling at those who try to stop him, his grip on my hand firm and possessive. We take the elevator to the rooftop, the hum of the crowd below fading until it’s just us and the distant hum of the city.

The air is cooler up here, the lights of New York spread out like a constellation at our feet. Calum releases my hand and turns to face me, his expression soft and unguarded in a way that makes my chest tighten.

“Calum—?”

“I’ve wanted to do this for a long time,” he starts, “and maybe it’s not perfect—this isn’t how it’s supposed to go. But I can’t wait anymore, Annabel.”

He pulls out a small velvet box and drops to one knee. The motion is fluid, as though rehearsed, but I know it hasn’t been. He’s too sincere for that.

“I love you,” he says. “I’ve loved you since the first time I saw you, and I’ll keep loving you until—until there’s nothing left of me to love you with. Annabel, will you marry me?”

The ring he holds isn’t ostentatious. It’s modest, understated, a single diamond that catches the rooftop lights and glimmers softly.

It’s beautiful, and it’s wrong. It doesn’t belong to the girl I really am, the one he doesn’t see.

I think of Brittany and Jonathan, of the twisted way love can ruin you or save you in the span of a breath.

I wonder if I have it in me to love with all of my soul, or if I will always be this: wracked with a torturous indecision, skin crawling just when peace and happiness settle in.

Calum has made love and art his religion, but I find love is the most painful religion.

“Yes,” I hear myself say. “Yes, Calum.” The word tumbles out before I can stop it, and the look on his face—pure, unfiltered joy—makes me hate myself.

He stands, slipping the ring onto my finger, and pulls me into his arms. I bury my face in his chest, breathing him in, trying to convince myself this is the right choice. That I can be the person he thinks I am.

But I’m not.

Back in the gallery, the champagne flows more freely than before, the crowd buoyed by the announcement of our engagement. Calum is radiant, his arm around my waist, introducing me to everyone as his fiancée. The word feels foreign, heavy on my skin.

“You have to come for drinks after this,” someone says—a man in an expensive suit who smells like cigars and ambition. “There’s a group heading to The Peninsula. The people there are exactly who you want to meet, Calum.”

Calum hesitates, glancing at me. “I don’t know... Annabel mentioned not feeling well. We might call it an early night.”

I play my part perfectly, laying a hand on his arm and offering a faint smile. “I’ll be fine. You should go. This is important.”

“I’d rather be with you,” he says softly, his eyes searching mine.

“You’ll be with me,” I say, brushing a kiss against his cheek. “Tomorrow. Go, Calum. Celebrate.”

He finally agrees, though reluctantly. He flags a cab for me, opening the door and making sure I’m settled inside before leaning in. “Call me if you need anything,” he says. “Anything at all.”

I nod, and he kisses me—a kiss that feels more like a vow. Then the door closes, and I’m alone.

The hotel room is silent when I enter, the luxury almost oppressive. I kick off my heels and pour myself a glass of wine, sinking into the armchair by the window. Outside, the city glitters, alive and endless. It’s everything I thought I wanted, and yet, tonight it feels hollow.

I glance down at the ring on my finger, turning it so the light catches the diamond. It’s perfect, like Calum. And like Calum, it feels like a trap.

I love him, I think. Or at least, I love the idea of him. The artist who sees me as something more, who immortalizes me in his work, who loves me so completely it leaves no room for doubt. But that love is suffocating, a weight I can’t bear.

He doesn’t see me. Not really. He sees what he wants to see—a muse, a partner, a wife. He doesn’t see the cracks, the flaws, the parts of me that don’t fit into his perfect picture.

And Jonathan...

The thought of him slips into my mind unbidden, unwelcome. Jonathan, who knows my flaws and loves me anyway. Jonathan, who makes me feel alive in a way Calum never could. Jonathan, married to my cousin.

I take another sip of wine, the bitterness settling on my tongue. Tomorrow, I tell myself. I’ll figure it out tomorrow. Tonight, I just need to breathe.

But even as I close my eyes, I know there’s no escaping the choice I’ve made. No escaping the storm I’ve set in motion.

Are you awake?

The message sends, the faint whoosh carrying it into the ether, and I curse myself. But almost immediately, the screen lights up.

Always. Where are you?

I hesitate. My thumb hovers over the keyboard, but then I type the words that will undo me.

The Chelsea. Room 120.

It takes less than ten minutes.

When the knock comes, I’m already at the door, my breath shallow, my pulse erratic. I hesitate for half a second, fingers on the cool brass handle, before pulling it open.

Jonathan stands there, his hair damp from the rain, his tie slightly loosened. His suit jacket is nowhere to be seen, and his expression—always so composed, so carefully indifferent—is raw tonight.

“You shouldn’t have texted me,” he says, but he steps inside anyway. His voice is low, edged with something dangerous.

“You shouldn’t have come,” I counter, closing the door behind him. The lock clicks into place, the sound louder than it should be.

For a moment, we just stand there, staring at each other. The room feels smaller with him in it, the air heavier. His eyes, dark and searching, rake over me, lingering on my hand where the ring glints faintly in the dim light.

“So it’s true,” he says, his voice breaking slightly. “He proposed.”

I nod, unable to find my voice.

“And you said yes.”

Another nod. The tension in the room is unbearable, the silence electric. I watch as his jaw tightens, his hands balling into fists at his sides.

“Why?” The word is a whisper, a plea. “Why him, Annabel?”

“Because he’s safe,” I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. “Because he’s steady and sure and everything I should want.”

“Should,” Jonathan echoes, stepping closer. His presence is overwhelming, his heat, his intensity. “But not what you do want. Not what you feel. ”

I can’t argue with him. I can’t look away from him, my heart rattling with a slow-building rage. “Why her?”

His eyes falter to the ground. “Because I loved you so much I started to hate you. I wasn’t thinking straight–I only wanted you to feel the pain I’ve been feeling.”

“Revenge?” I shake my head. “I knew it. You don’t feel love, it’s only selfish hatred that lives in your soul. You’re cruel.” Hot tears leak from my eyes.

“I–I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“She’s not even twenty! You’re a monster!”

“Only when I’m not with you–seeing you with him makes me want to murder him just to make the pain go away. Makes me want to murder you–”

“Jonathan...” I start, but he cuts me off, his voice rising.

“You love me. I know you do. Don’t stand there and tell me otherwise,” his words are seething, accusatory.

“Love isn’t enough,” I say, my voice trembling. “It’s not enough to build a life on.”

“And safety is?” His words are a slap, sharp and biting. “You’re lying to yourself, Annabel. You don’t want a life. You want a cage.”

His words hit their mark, and I flinch, the wine glass slipping from my hand and shattering against the floor. The sound is a gunshot in the silence, and for a moment, neither of us moves. Then Jonathan steps forward, his hand reaching for mine.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I didn’t mean?—”

“Yes, you did,” I snap, pulling away from him. “And maybe you’re right. Maybe I do want a cage. Maybe I need one. Because being with you... it’s chaos, Jonathan. We’re a storm.”

“And Calum?” he asks, his voice heavy with disdain. “Does he make you feel like you can breathe?”

“No,” I admit, tears stinging my eyes. “But at least with him, I know where I stand.”

Jonathan lets out a bitter laugh, raking a hand through his hair. “You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to marry him. Come with me, Annabel. We can leave tonight. Go anywhere you want.”

“And then what?” I ask, my voice rising. “What happens when the chaos takes over? When you realize I’m not who you think I am?”

“I don’t care,” Jonathan says, stepping closer again. His hands find my face, his touch firm yet tender. “I don’t care who you are, Annabel. I just want you.”

His words undo me. Before I can stop myself, I’m kissing him, my hands clutching at his shirt, pulling him closer, deeper. The world tilts, and for a moment, nothing else exists. Just him. Just us.

Jonathan kisses me like he’s drowning, his desperation matching my own. His hands are everywhere—my waist, my back, my hair—anchoring me to him as though I might slip away. And maybe I will. Maybe I already have.

When we break apart, gasping for air, his forehead rests against mine. “Don’t leave me,” he whispers, his voice raw. “Please.”

I close my eyes, tears slipping down my cheeks. “I can’t do this, Jonathan. This has to end.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “It doesn’t. It doesn’t have to.”

“It does.” I pull away from him, putting distance between us. My chest aches, my entire body screaming at me to go back to him, to let myself fall. But I can’t. “You don’t understand.”

“Then make me understand,” he pleads, his voice breaking.

I shake my head, wrapping my arms around myself. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

Jonathan stares at me for a long moment, his expression a mixture of heartbreak and fury.