Chapter 45

Iris

I turn, my drink still trembling slightly in my hand, and there he is—Arthur, standing right next to me, looking unfairly handsome in a tuxedo. The black fabric hugs his broad shoulders, the crisp white shirt beneath making his green eyes pop even more.

I didn’t expect him to be here tonight, but for some reason, the sight of him floods me with an unexpected sense of relief.

But he’s in disguise, a black mask—the type of surgical mask that people wear when they’re sick—covering his lower face and a pair of glasses similar to mine resting on his nose. His hair is styled somewhat differently, too, although of course the curl that used to fall across his forehead is still neatly tamed as always.

Not that I can judge him for hiding his identity this time, though. I’m in disguise, too. Would either of us be in disguise, though, if it weren’t for his situation with Selina?

He nods toward my paintings. “Why didn’t you accept his offer?”

“Because I’m not a whore, Arthur,” I retort. “I won’t sell my body and time for a little extra cash. You should know that by now.”

His expression doesn’t shift into that familiar defensive look that I brace for. Instead, he steps closer to the painting we’re standing in front of, his hands tucked casually into his pockets. He leans in, inspecting the painting.

“This is lovely,” he says softly.

The sincerity in his voice catches me off guard. I study him for a moment, searching for some hidden motive behind those green eyes, but I don’t find anything. “Thank you,” I manage.

He turns to me and gestures around to the paintings hanging on the gallery walls. “Care to give me a tour?”

I relent, gesturing for him to follow me as I weave through the crowd.

“This one,” I say, stopping in front of the park bench piece, “came to me all at once. I didn’t even sketch it out first. The cherry blossoms were tricky, though; I wanted them to look delicate, like they were fluttering down, but not too soft, because I wanted them to be almost indistinguishable from the pieces of canvas past a certain point.”

Arthur studies the painting, his gaze slowly dragging across the petals fluttering down toward the ground. Halfway down, they become almost identical to the shreds of torn-up canvas, creating an illusion that the canvas itself was once part of the tree.

He then glances at me. “How do you decide on the colors for these paintings?”

I blink, surprised by the question. “I layer them—start with a base of something softer, then build up with brighter tones. It takes a few tries to keep it from looking too harsh.” A faint smile touches my lips as I remember the mess of paint on my overalls when I first started this piece.

We move on to the next piece then—the bookshelves framing the round window, sunlight spilling across the hardwood, the broken ladder sprawled on the floor. I think I might hear Arthur’s breath catch slightly as he makes the connection with the day he caught me falling from the ladder, but I don’t mention it, and neither does he.

“This one’s about nostalgia,” I admit, hating the way my cheeks flush ever so slightly as I speak about that day. “The way it holds you up until it doesn’t.”

Arthur tilts his head, studying the painting. He remains quiet, but when I glance over at him, his face is nothing if not contemplative.

Then, he glances at me and says, “I hope you don’t plan on actually breaking my ladder.”

I snort, the sound bubbling up unexpectedly from my throat. “No, but I thought about it. Just to spite you.”

His eyes flick to mine, and we share a brief grin—or at least, I’m pretty sure he’s grinning behind his mask, if the way his eyes squint is any indication. For a moment, it feels like all the tension between us melts away, like the old times when we used to laugh over spilled wine or dance to the record player until my cheeks ached from smiling.

I hate how easy it is to slip into that feeling with him. And how this isn’t the first time I’ve felt the urge to let go of everything and just return to what was once our ‘normal’, as if that’s even possible.

The third painting is ‘Provider’—the woman in the slashed gown, clutching the fabric to her chest, her face red with shame. I hesitate before speaking, the memory of the thrift store stinging like a fresh cut.

“This one is… personal,” I finally say, looking away from him. “It’s about feeling exposed against my will.”

That’s all I can manage.

To my surprise, Arthur still doesn’t say anything, just looks at the painting quietly. This is the first painting we’ve just gazed at without words, without questions or statements or even jokes.

And it’s now that I realize he hasn’t interrupted once so far—he’s just listened, asking little things that show he’s really paying attention.

It’s disarming.

I expect him to make crude comments, to look confused or maybe even try to twist the narratives of the paintings—such as the ladder painting, which clearly has connotations that involve both of us—to try and get me to get back together with him.

And he could, too. He could easily tell me that I’m clearly not over our relationship, that I’m hurting, that we could have our old life back.

But he doesn’t. Somehow, the man who used arrest and legal jargon to bend me to his will isn’t doing any of that now.

He’s just… observing.

We keep moving after that, my voice filling the space between us as I describe the last couple of paintings. We talk about other things, too: the outfits of the other guests, the food, the drinks, the gallery space itself.

And for a while, it’s… nice. Comfortable. Easy.

At one point, as we shift to the final painting, his hand brushes mine—covert and fleeting, the barest graze of his fingers against my knuckles. But a jolt shoots through me nonetheless, hot flares sparking beneath my skin, and I nearly stumble over my words.

I glance at him, but he’s looking at the canvas, and his expression is unreadable. My heart thuds a little too loudly in my chest for comfort, and I swallow hard, forcing myself to tear my gaze away from him.

Finally, we stop in front of the bar, and I’m a little breathless from talking for so long. My cheeks are flushed and my pulse is fluttering more than I’d like to admit, and in a strange way, I hate the thought that this might be the end of our night.

Arthur suddenly turns to me. “I’d like to buy ‘Provider’. For my office.”

I freeze, my fingers tightening around my glass. “Why?” I blurt out without meaning to. I expect this to be some sort of manipulation tactic—perhaps using the money to keep me under his thumb, just as he’s tried to do before.

But Arthur blinks. “I just like it.”

For a moment, I just stare at him. I narrow my eyes, trying to discern what his real angle is. But his gaze betrays nothing, and even though his face is obscured by the mask, I feel like I can see sincerity in his expression.

“I…” I bite my lip, weighing it. I do need the money, but if I accept, will this impact our situation? And more importantly, will it go against everything I’ve stood for so far? After all, I’ve refused his money on multiple occasions now. If I accept now, I’ll just seem weak and desperate.

Suddenly, before I have to make a decision, a shadow falls across us. I turn to see Ezra rushing over, his face pale. My stomach drops instantly. Something is wrong.

“Iris, Arthur,” he says. “Miles ran away.”