Chapter 37

Iris

“Hello, Iris,” Selina says, flipping a blonde curl over her shoulder with a manicured hand. “Fancy seeing you here.”

I freeze in the doorway to the living room, suddenly feeling out of place in what was once my own home. Arthur is sitting in an armchair across from Selina, who is perched on the edge of the couch in a delicate little purple dress. She looks as statuesque as ever.

There’s a pile of papers between them, and it only takes a glance for me to see mockups of wedding invitations and know that they’re in the midst of wedding planning.

My throat tightens. Even though Arthur told me their marriage was only ever meant to be for political purposes and not love, it still hurts to think about it. And it hurts even more to see her here, especially in the same place as my son. I’m glad Miles seems to be playing upstairs, judging by the sound of his footsteps pattering overhead.

“Selina,” I manage, forcing a thin smile that has no levity behind it. “Is that your painting in the hallway?”

Selina’s eyes flash with something bordering on gleeful malice, and she waves her hand dismissively. “Oh, that little thing? My interior designer picked it up from a random vendor at the park today. I’m not really a fan of it, but she said the vendor seemed so pitiful and desperate for cash that she just had to help her.”

I feel like I’m going to be sick. Surprisingly, Arthur doesn’t react. He never saw the finished product of the painting, so I wonder if he even realizes it’s mine. I hope not.

Just in case they really don’t know it’s mine, to save face, I smile and nod. “I see. That must have been very kind of her, then.”

Selina’s upper lip curls into a little smirk. “Indeed.”

With that, I turn to head upstairs, not wanting to interrupt their meeting. But Selina gets up then, scooping up the piles of papers with a dramatic sigh.

“Well, Arthur, darling, I’ll send the invitations back to the designer as soon as possible for a new round of mockups. We shouldn’t delay our wedding any further, though, you know. You’ll have to make a decision at some point.”

Arthur is silent, but Selina doesn’t seem to notice or care. She saunters past me, her slender shoulder brushing mine as she walks by, and picks up the painting between two fingers.

“As for this,” she says, holding it up and wrinkling her nose as she inspects it in the light, “I suppose I could hang it in my bathroom.”

And just like that, she’s gone.

It’s only once the doors shut behind her that I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. I turn to Arthur, who’s standing now, and I hope desperately that he doesn’t know the truth about the painting. I’m not sure if I could handle the extra shame right now.

“Iris, I have a question for you,” he says, not addressing the wedding invitations or the painting. He crosses over to the dining room and walks behind the bar, pouring himself a tall glass of bourbon. “Are you still planning on using the patronage funds?”

“Why would I?” I retort, placing my hands on my hips. “I still plan on backing out of the contract.”

He shrugs one shoulder and takes a sip of his drink. He looks like he needs something to take the edge off after Selina’s visit. And when he holds up the bottle in my direction, silently offering me a glass, I nod and move over to the bar. I need something to take the edge off, too.

Pouring my glass and handing it to me, he says, “You don’t have to back out of the contract, you know. I still stand by what I said about wanting to support your art.”

I suppose it doesn’t matter at this point if I back out or not, since that clause will still prevent me from leaving the country with Miles for a year regardless. Unless I get legal help, of course. Which I will. Once I earn enough money.

Still, I have no intention of using Arthur’s money for anything. Especially not now.

“I’m not planning on using it,” I say flippantly. “In fact, I just worked out a deal with the Marsiel curator that has nothing to do with the patronage.”

Arthur’s brows lift in surprise, and I realize I’ve inadvertently admitted that I’m in a financial bind. But if he’s offering for me to use the patronage funds, I assume he’s already figured as much by now.

Surprisingly, though, he simply nods and says, “Very well. But you should know that if you need support in any way, I’ll help you.”

My blood simmers.

“Help me by nullifying the contract,” I blurt out before I can stop myself. “Let me go.”

Arthur’s eyes flash. “I won’t let you take my son where I’ll never see him again,” he growls. “Sorry, but that’s where I draw the line.”

His words frustrate me, but I knock back my drink and set the glass on the bar, choosing not to comment. I thank him for the drink and turn to leave so I can get to work on my paintings.

But luck isn’t on my side.

“Iris,” Arthur says, stopping me in the doorway. “That was your piece, wasn’t it? The one Selina purchased.”

I swallow hard, my shoulders stiffening. Before I can answer, he adds, “It’s a lovely painting. I’ll make sure she hangs it somewhere deserving of respect.”

I snort and turn to face him again. “I don’t care where she hangs it,” I reply. “I got my money, so the piece can burn now for all I care.”

His brow furrows. “Why were you selling artwork on the street, anyway? Why not sell it at the gallery? Unless you really do need the money…”

Of course, I’m too ashamed to admit out loud that I can’t afford a lawyer right now, so I shrug and say, “I wasn’t. And I don’t. I was just sitting on a bench with the piece while taking a break on my way to Marsiel. A lady approached and asked to buy it, so I took the money, figuring it was easier.”

For a moment, I think my lie might work. But then Arthur moves, closing the distance between us in three quick strides. His scent hits me like a brick wall, smoke and bourbon and the slight tang of spearmint slamming into me.

His breath, hot and minty across my face, nearly makes my knees give out.

“You know, even after all these years,” he murmurs, gently flicking the tip of one of my ears, “your ears still turn red whenever you lie.”

His voice is deep and seductive, the type of timbre that once would have made me succumb despite my best attempts. Even now, it has a similar effect on me. My face heats, my low belly pooling with warm honey.

Without even meaning to, I tilt my chin up to look at him, my lashes sweeping across my cheekbones. His eyes flicker to my lips, which part slightly as if in invitation. Maybe it is an invitation. This close, our mate bond is nearly irresistible, just as it was that night in the alley.

But he doesn’t kiss me, or even touch me. He just gives me one last little smile, as if he’s satisfied by my reaction, before he brushes past me. He grabs his suit jacket off the hook by the front door and leaves without another word.

My knees tremble in his wake, and I have to press my hand into the doorframe to keep from collapsing.