Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 75195 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75195 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
He looked at me for a long moment. Then he sighed, running a hand through his hair.
And, his expression changed, hardening with a pain that couldn’t be disguised even though he tried so valiantly to keep it hidden from view.
His voice held no humor. “You should go.”
What?
Shock vibrated through my body.
I opened my mouth to protest, but no words came out.
He placed his hands into his pockets and put his back to me. “Charles will take you home.”
Are you serious? Just like that? No more date? No more. . .anything?
I wanted to plead with Tristan to let me stay, but I could see in his face that he had made up his mind.
He didn’t want me there anymore and that was the end of it.
And as much as I enjoyed our time. . .I truly didn’t have it in me to grovel.
Pressure filled my chest.
Stunned, I took a deep breath with my eyes fixed on his back. “Fine. I’ll go.”
Did I really mess up that much? Or was it him?
Turning, I made my way to the door without looking back. It was the most uncomfortable walk of my life. So embarrassed, I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
But before I left, Tristan spoke. “Nova.”
There was a hint of desperation in his tone.
I hesitated with my hand resting on the doorknob.
Then, slowly I turned to face him.
My heart pounded with a mix of fear and hope.
He was still standing by the window, but now he was watching me.
And I yearned for him to say anything to keep me in this room.
Anything!
Couldn’t we just. . .start over with the conversation?
Wasn’t there more to our time together than that stupid masquerade party?
There, I remained by the door, yearning for an excuse to not leave.
“I’m sorry, Nova.” He sighed. “I wish it could have worked out, but. . .we truly are two different people. . .”
He trailed off, his eyes searching mine, as if trying to convey something he couldn’t put into words.
Damn.
While he wanted me to go to some masquerade in Budapest, he’d already had me participating within his own wicked masquerade right here.
Since the moment we met, he had never taken off his mask to show me who he really was, and never would he dare.
And while in this moment of vulnerability, I saw a little bit of the man he was beneath the mask—the tortured past and secret pain.
It wasn’t enough for me to forget my own value. . .it wasn’t enough for me to stay.
“I’m sorry too, Tristan.” I walked out the door.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Silent Abyss
Hours later, I paced back and forth.
A relentless path wore into the wooden floor of my studio.
My chest ached with every breath I took.
Ever since Nova left, I felt. . .disjointed.
A moment like that—my being displeased with a woman and having her leave—that had happened tons of times in my studio. It was nothing new.
However. . .this sense of emptiness was much different.
Women come and go. Get back to the art.
I stopped pacing and returned my attention to the canvas—untouched and pure white.
What will I paint today?
Instead of picking up my paintbrush, I glanced at the blank TV screen imbedded in the wall. Its dark surface seemed to be a window into my soul, a reflection of all the emotion swirling within and trapping me in its depths.
Is she okay?
Charles told me the return trip was fine, but. . .
I could just check to make sure she is fine.
The urge to turn on the screen gnawed at me.
No. Dominic’s men are monitoring her. I don’t need to watch her anymore.
I placed my hand on my chest.
Why is my heart pounding?
Like a mad man, I returned to pacing, but this time I clenched my fists.
Tension thickened in my shoulders.
Okay. What am I going to create today?
I scratched my head.
It could be concepts for the next collection.
I went back to the canvas.
What do I want to say to the world?
Still unsure, I turned my gaze to the paints lying next to the canvas. They called to me—a melody only I could hear—yet I couldn’t bring myself to reach for them.
Any other time, there was a dance—a ballet—between my brush, the canvas, and the vibrant hues that spilled from my soul.
But tonight that dance had withered.
I scanned the space, unsure of where I was anymore.
My studio—once a sanctuary of creation—had somehow shifted into a barren abyss, filled with relics of my former self.
I looked at the paint again.
Their colors were still vivid but no longer speaking to me. They were like half-remembered verses from a love poem, and I was at a loss for words. The red was a passion gone cold, the blue a longing unfulfilled, the yellow a sunshine I couldn’t feel.
The smell of turpentine filled the room. It had been a euphoric perfume that used to intoxicate me with inspiration.