Beautiful Damage (Ugly Beautiful)

Chapter One

Chapter 1

SIENNA

AS MY EYES SCAN THE ballroom of glittering gold and black, the mantra I picked for this evening plays out in my head: One feather can tip the scale.

My own scale has always tipped the wrong way through some incredibly bad life choices. Those choices haunt me, shred me to pieces, leave gaping holes that might someday swallow me.

But not this time. Choosing to come here tonight has to be something that will help me do some actual good in this world, something to balance out all the darkness I’ve created.

My eyes dart across the black masks that cover everyone’s eyes, a fitting visual for this art gala’s theme of ‘Hidden Desires.’ My insides are so shaky I feel like I might faint. But I can do this, dammit. I can schmooze one of these rich assholes and get some funding for the community art program I want to create.

And I’ll do it all in a faded gold thrift store dress.

Clutching my champagne in one hand, I take a step toward a group of men in designer suits. One in particular, with shimmery gold pants, black jacket, and a gold feather resting in his chest pocket, has a relaxed posture and looks approachable. Of course, I don’t really know what kind of man he is beneath his outward appearance, but he’s wearing a smile at least.

When I’m close enough to introduce myself, an old woman beside him pins me with her eyes. Under her scrutinizing gaze, all words die in my throat. Maybe she’s bitter toward everyone, but her stare makes me feel exposed.

Like she knows all my secrets.

After checking my black mask to make sure it’s still hiding the top half of my face, I retreat, weaving through clusters of bodies. Now it seems like everyone’s shadowy eyes are on me, and they’re all collectively thinking: “Imposter.”

I stop at the edge of the ballroom, grateful for the distance between me and all the masked people. I really hate crowds; they’re great for escape yet also the perfect opportunity for a kidnapping.

I never know who might be watching me.

Glancing at the marble tile, I shake my head. Why did I think sneaking into this thing was a good idea? I’m an art student—an old college student—and these people are all successful artists or art collectors. They don’t want to help with my dumb art program.

I tug at my dress, suddenly wanting it off.

Through the sea of black and gold attire, Jada catches my eye. Her dark skin is radiant against her crisp white server’s uniform, and her blonde and crimson braids are pulled back into a low bun at the nape of her neck. She weaves through the crowd with a tray of caviar, her movements as graceful and precise as when she dances ballet.

She stops in front of me and flashes her practiced, professional lip curve. “Caviar, miss?” she asks with a fake British accent.

I stifle a laugh. She’s never once been to England, and she also curses like a sailor. Her mouth can be so filthy that she even makes me blush sometimes.

And I’ve seen some terrifying shit in my life.

I guess we all have those adjacent, conflicting parts of Self. We all have the capacity to become someone different, for better or worse.

Jada leans in, her contacts making her soulful brown eyes green today. She whispers, “Try some. Fucking proper posh nosh.”

I’m not sure how she said that without getting tongue-tied, but I have the feeling her British kick is going to last for a while this time.

I grab a cracker piled high with the glistening black pearls and then take a bite. It’s salty and squishy, with a texture that makes me want to gag. I force myself to swallow, washing it down with a sip of champagne; the bubbles sting my nose until I grimace. Ugh, I detest drinking—this flute is only a prop to blend in—but getting that fish taste out of my mouth was an emergency.

“Oh god,” I mutter under my breath.

Jada gives me an evil smirk. “Start talking to people or I’ll make you eat another. I didn’t sneak you in to stand in a corner.”

I exhale, wiggling my toes inside my gold heels. There are some big names here from the art world. Even though everyone is wearing the same black mask, I recognize a few artists, mostly by their signature styles. Yet, here I am like a smudge of charcoal on the Mona Lisa—someone is going to discover I’m a blemish and quickly erase me.

Just last week, one of my teachers noticed the muddied colors and bleeding edges where I’d overworked the watercolor paint, trying to cover up a mistake on my final canvas. He’d only frowned and said, “Rough edges. No control. Your layering is wrong. Are we still at basics, Sienna?”

God, that stung, especially since I’d poured everything I had into that painting.

“Miss,” Jada says, reeling my attention back. She waves the tray of caviar near my face, forcing me to take a whiff. “Try another. I insist.”

The skin on the bridge of my nose wrinkles like bunched fabric. I give her the side-eye and she smirks again. “Fine,” I whisper. “I’ll mingle.”

“That’s my bitch,” she whispers back.

Taking a slow, calming breath, I adjust my purse strap on my shoulder and weave through the crowd. I decide it’s time for another mental pep talk, so I repeat one of my go-to motivational mantras in my head: In every challenge lies an opportunity.

I can do this.

I am capable.

Focus on the end goal and my purpose for being here; the rest doesn’t matter.

My hand is trembling, so I grip my champagne flute tighter. The stem feels flimsy in my fingers, like I’m going to snap it. But really, why am I so nervous? I’ve survived way worse situations in my life—all I have to do tonight is mingle and try to find someone interested enough in my goals to exchange contact info.

Way easier than fighting for my life.

I scan the ballroom once again, heart pounding. My eyes catch on a woman wearing a princess gown made of lace and embroidered with pearls. I watch the subtle sway of the fabric, the shadows shifting along her collarbone, the reflection of chandelier light off the crystals in her up-do. If only I could sit in a corner and paint her. Instead, I try to commit the woman to memory for a later sketch. My work tends to be macabre, so I’m imagining her delicate dress in a forest of black, twisted trees, two red glowing eyes watching her from the darkness.

There should definitely be red, watchful eyes.

As I’m passing by a group, I hear the name ‘Soulages’ and my ears perk up. We were just studying him in my art history class, so he’s fresh in my mind. I casually float over to the clique of older attendees and linger on the outskirts.

A woman with bright mauve lipstick is saying, “Well, I saw the show at the Louvre. There were a few paintings reminiscent of Soulages.”

The group falls into a momentary pause, so I cut in before I can overthink it. “I love his technique—creating different sheens and textures from only the color black.”

“Honestly,” the man beside me says, “I’m not a fan.” The group erupts into a heated debate.

I do my best to keep up and add comments, but they barely acknowledge me. I’m about to admit defeat when the Josefina Montoya suddenly appears; I know for certain it’s her because she’s not wearing a mask. Her shock of red hair and cheekbones that could cut glass are jarring under the ballroom’s warm, romantic lighting. Yet, she’s undeniably captivating.

My heart stops for a second. Montoya is known for her mixed-media pieces that explore human emotion and trauma through found objects. Her work has been an inspiration for me since I started painting myself out of my own struggles.

She glances my way, lowers her sharp eyes over my dress, and then turns to the man beside me. “Soulages is a master, of course,” she says. “But I find his work a bit…one-note, don’t you think? Always black, black, black. Where’s the range?”

A few in the group shrug, but there’s a lull and my heart leaps. I feel sick and jittery all at once, but I say, “Isn’t that the point? He’s exploring the depth and complexity of a single color. It’s a study in restraint and nuance.”

Montoya’s gaze snaps to mine, her perfectly shaped eyebrows peaking. Her mouth twitches down. “Restraint can easily become repetition. True artistry lies in pushing boundaries, not limiting oneself.”

I feel a flush creep up my neck, but I forge ahead, barely understanding what flows out of my mouth; I’m only repeating things my art history teacher said during a lecture. “There’s something to be said for fully exhausting a concept. Soulages has spent decades proving black isn’t just a color, it’s a universe unto itself.”

Montoya gives me a painted-on smile that lacks contrast. “Decades? And what have you been doing for decades, dear? From the looks of that dress, I’d say haunting Goodwill.”

The group laughs, and I feel my face burn. I glance down at the faded fabric squeezing my body, suddenly aware of every flaw, every sign that I’m not elegant, wealthy, or sophisticated. That my art is just simplistic watercolors and moody macabre scenes, lacking the labyrinth of meaning found in works by Soulages or Montoya.

When the laughter wanes, I lift my chin even as my insides are sinking. I try to laugh it off. “Busted,” I say, forcing a smile, but I hate how tiny my voice sounds. “I’m actually a student. I’m studying—”

“Aren’t we all?” Montoya cuts me off with a wave of her hand. “But study doesn’t equal talent. It takes more than a few classes, dear, to understand the complexities of the art world.” She angles away, shutting me out. “Now, Edward, I noticed you haven’t…”

I stand there for a moment, frozen, with a dumb smile on my face. I take a fake sip of my champagne, pretending not to mind Montoya’s comment as I try to focus on the conversation. But what’s the point of lingering? Even if, by some miracle, I say something interesting, these people will always see me as an outsider.

No, I shouldn’t keep standing here. When the group ripples with laughter again, I take one last glance at my idol, then slip away.

I just need some air.

As I’m making my way toward the patio doors, my cheeks still burning, a man steps on the stage across the room. There are a few speeches scheduled for tonight that I’m interested in, but I’ve lost the heart to listen.

The people outside start flowing in, and the room quickly becomes suffocating. I stop at a bar to abandon my drink, then a few minutes later I’ve escaped into the chilly night air. Thankfully, I’m alone in the garden.

A deep, cleansing breath helps the world feel stable again. I push my purse to one hip and lean against a railing overlooking the koi pond. My fingers twirl the silver locket around my neck as streaks of red, orange, and black fish twirl in the dark water below. Around me, the patio is a paradise of plants and flowers lit by ground lights. It’s another scene I long to paint—feels appropriate to fill it with bloodthirsty wolves waiting to pounce, eyes watching from all sides.

“Study doesn’t equal talent.”

She’s right. Practice doesn’t equal talent either; some artists never achieve that elusive something that makes a piece truly great. My pieces, according to my teachers, are all rough, uninspired, drab…

I stare up at the crescent moon and touch the tear trying to escape down my cheek. So dumb. Why am I crying over this? These people don’t deserve my tears; Montoya doesn’t. No one does.

So why have I always given away my tears so freely?

As I shiver from the cold air hitting my bare shoulders, I hear the clack of footsteps behind me on the concrete. When I glance to my left, a man has stopped beside me to lean on the railing and stare into the murky waters of the pond. I tense and lean away, knowing I’m out here alone with this stranger, but he acts like I’m not here. He watches the fish—dark masses swimming around, blending into the shadows.

Even something so colorful and innocent-looking contains darkness.

“Beautiful night,” he says, finally glancing my way.

“Yes.” I study him for a moment, trying to gauge what kind of man he might be.

It’s hard to see his eyes because of the mask and the lighting, but he’s smiling at the shadow fish. His temples are gray, but there are no fine lines around his mouth, his fingernails are perfectly trimmed and clean, and the cut of his torso suggests he’s got a muscular build. It seems he takes care of himself.

That doesn’t tell me how he treats others, though.

My eyes wander back to his smile and the mole below his bottom lip. Something about the smile’s soft angle helps me relax some in his presence. And I like that he’s not pressuring me for conversation; he only gave me an opening if I wanted to make small talk.

We rest in silence together, and I close my eyes for a heartbeat. I just need a second.

In every challenge lies an opportunity.

I have to believe that, because without the thin sliver of hope I’ve held on to my entire life, what’s left except despair?

Once the heartbeat passes, I open my eyes and straighten. Maybe talking to this man is the opportunity I’ve been seeking tonight; that sliver of hope tells me I have to try.

“It was getting a bit stuffy inside,” I comment.

The man chuckles. “I saw you talking to Montoya, so I can only imagine.”

“An acquaintance?”

“I’m an art dealer, so I’ve bought a few of her pieces. Mostly, I’ve heard rumors.”

Hope surges—he’s an art dealer. He’d be a great connection because he might be able to direct me to people interested in funding my art program.

I take a huge risk, hoping this guy has a sense of humor, and respond, “The rumors are correct. She’s a bitch.”

The man laughs, a deep, genuine sound that eases more of the tension in my shoulders. “That’s the art world for you,” he says with a lazy shrug. “Talent and ego go hand in hand.”

I nod; the sliver of hope is growing.

“I don’t believe I caught your name,” he says. He angles his face toward me, catching some light so the shadows around his mask disappear. He holds my gaze with warm, friendly brown eyes.

I’m finally comfortable enough to smile. I extend my hand, about to respond, when a deep, rumbling voice comes from behind us.

“You don’t need her name.”

Mr. Art Dealer blanches when he lays eyes on our brooding intruder. My breath catches, but I’m sure for a very different reason.

This interloper is somehow the epitome of everything this networking gala symbolizes—sophistication, intellect, wealth. Or maybe it’s better to describe him as a walking art piece, a tan Michelangelo sculpture made real. Either way, he’s a lot of exquisite masculinity in a custom three-piece black suit. The gold rose pin on his lapel, sparkling with diamonds, catches my eye for a moment before I’m distracted by his inky black hair, firmly etched mouth, and intensely blue eyes that pierce through the shadows of his mask.

“W-we were just having a friendly conversation,” Mr. Art Dealer stutters, cowering in the man’s presence. “Stop policing me.”

“Someone has to.”

I’m in a daze as I watch their exchange. Half of me is trying to piece together what’s going on because it seems they know each other, while the other half is still mesmerized by Mr. Imposing.

His words are hard and final when he speaks again to the art dealer. “Your conversation is done.”

Blinking out of my daze, my initial reaction quickly turns to irritation. The art dealer starts to leave, trying to escape the intruder’s overpowering presence, but I can’t let this opportunity slip away. I need the art dealer’s contact info at least; I’ve been fighting an uphill battle with my art program for so long I need this break.

“Wai—” I begin to say, taking a step to follow, but Mr. Imposing blocks my path. I huff and try to sidestep him.

He sidesteps too, preventing me from following the art dealer.

“Excuse me,” I bite out, hoping he’ll get the hint and take a hike.

“You’re excused,” he responds, “but not if you’re following that man.”

I huff again because who does this guy think he is? Stepping back to create an opportunity, I try to rush around him.

The jerk actually puts his arm out , forcing me to stop abruptly so I don’t smack into his inner elbow.

“Wait,” I call out to the art dealer in a last attempt to salvage the situation.

But he either doesn’t hear or he ignores me, slipping inside to lose himself in a sea of people. Since he’s wearing a generic mask and dressed identically to other men, it will be impossible to find him.

A red coal flares in my stomach as I cross my arms and stare up at the man who lost me an opportunity. “That was a bit rude. What is your problem?”

His eyes capture mine and something shifts between us. He’s looking at me with such a scorching intensity, and the magnetism between us is so strong that I falter in my irritation and have to take a step back.

Then he asks something I’m not expecting, “Are you alright?”

It’s a phrase I’m not used to—Jada was the first person in my life to ever ask.

I lick my dry lips before answering. “Yes. I’m fine. But it was rude to interrupt my conversation.” I somehow pull myself away from this striking man’s orbit and face the koi pond again. “I really needed to network with that guy.”

Mr. Imposing moves to the railing, completely focused on me, but I refuse to look in his direction. I can’t believe I was so close to making an actual professional connection and this jerk ruined it. Sex appeal doesn’t excuse rudeness.

“Why’s that?” the man asks. Now that he’s so close, I catch his sinful smell. It’s not an overpowering cologne; it might just be sandalwood body wash or shampoo. Whatever it is, it’s mouthwatering.

I grit my teeth. “Doesn’t matter. I’m too pissed at you to say.”

He laughs—deep and resonant—and the sound makes my stomach flutter. “Pissed? You should thank me.”

Now it’s my turn to laugh. I finally look at him from the corner of my eye. “For what? I’ve been trying so long to find funding for my art program, and that guy could’ve been a great connection. He’s an art dealer, so I’m sure he has a robust network. And you ruined it. Actually”—I turn to face him, steeling myself before looking at those brilliant blue irises—"he seemed to know you. Are you acquaintances? Can I please have his contact info?"

Dismissing my question, he asks, “What art program?”

My arms cross again, anything to shield myself from this man’s raw energy. “It’s a program I want to start for struggling teens and young adults. It will be like art therapy and a safe place where they can go, twenty-four seven, to express themselves and escape for a few hours. Escape their home life or…anything.” I look away—I have to. The man’s gaze suddenly shifted when I mentioned escape; I caught something in his eyes that I recognize in myself.

An open wound.

Now I’m wondering what kind of man he is, and I’m annoyed at myself for not considering that before engaging in this conversation. His appearance and energy just caught me off-guard.

That’s never good.

I move away from him an inch and hug myself tighter because it’s suddenly more chilly in the garden. The man unbuttons his jacket after a shiver rattles through my shoulders. He wraps the warm garment around my torso, then tugs on the lapels, closing them but also pulling me a step closer.

His woodsy scent snakes through my lungs again and I breathe deep, unable to pull any part of myself away from his orbit.

He’s not flustered at all; the man is completely self-possessed and confident in every word he speaks.

Still holding the lapels, he says, “That art dealer you were talking to has a nasty obsession with groping women, primarily artists and his receptionists. It’s better to stay away. I’m glad you caught my eye earlier, and I saw him follow you out here.”

My breath stalls, and I squeak out, “What if you’re lying? I don’t know you. I don’t know that’s true.”

The corner of his mouth twitches in annoyance and he releases the jacket lapels. “I’m not a liar. If you need proof, fine.” He pulls his phone from his pants pocket and taps on it. Finally, he shows me the screen.

There’s a news article with a picture of the art dealer—I recognize the brown eyes and the mole under his bottom lip. In big, bold letters the headline reads, “Rising Artists Unite in Legal Battle Against Predatory Art Dealer.” The first few lines of the article mention that at least ten women are involved in the lawsuit about sexual misconduct.

I shrink away from the phone, moving back until I hit the railing. Why do I have such awful instincts? Why can’t I judge someone’s character correctly? He seemed nice. I took time to observe him and his demeanor was putting me at ease…

A memory invades my mind: A tall, willowy teenage boy sitting next to me on the grass, a permanent crease between his eyebrows. He sat with me while I cried. Talked to me. Listened. He was the first person in my life to really listen.

He was friendly at first too.

A sick feeling swirls around my gut, my open wound festering.

I glance up at my rescuer, wondering what he might look like under his mask. “Thank you,” I say softly, still processing what he just revealed. That art dealer was another wolf in sheep’s clothing, hiding in the gloom, hungry and waiting to pounce. I’ve encountered too many people like that in my life. Too many. I hug my waist under the large tuxedo jacket, trying to protect my most vulnerable places. “I-I think I should go home.”

My protector is no doubt noticing my sudden shift—the waver in my voice, the shrinking of my body. I’m not scared of him because he saved me from a creep…I just need to be alone. Forget this entire night.

He nods. “Did you drive here?” I shake my head, and he pulls his cell phone from his pocket. “Let me call you a ride.”

I don’t protest; I don’t pull away when he places a light hand on my shoulder and guides me inside and to the exit. And I feel safe as he waits with me near the curb.

Is this safety just another illusion?

I stare up at a street light, letting it blind me. “Why did he say you were policing him?” I ask.

“Because I am.”

“But what does that mean?”

He pushes a thick hand through his dark hair before shoving it in a pocket. “Well, I attend a lot of art and charity events. Somehow, he’s at half of them, and I always find him in some corner talking to a beautiful woman. They’re usually in their twenties. Usually alone. So I chase him off.” He curves his mouth in a slight smirk, and I get the sense he may never fully smile. “Bastard should be going to jail soon.”

“Why bother?”

He glances at me and his expression is hard to read under the mask, but his lips have curved down. “Why? You want more victims?”

“No, of course not. I mean, why you? You could simply ignore it. Other people have read the articles, right? Gossip spreads. No one else is watching that man and keeping tabs on what he’s doing.”

“That’s why I have to.”

Through the dim light, I see those piercing blue eyes filled with conviction.

I don’t know why, but I long to stand here all night just gazing into them.

Get away from him, Sienna.

A sleek black SUV arrives, and the driver hops out to open my door.

My rescuer is staring at me now like I’m a puzzle he wants to figure out, and I think I’m staring at him the same way. I’m drawn to his sense of justice, the straightforward way he talks. I want to trust that he’s a good guy, but considering my instincts are always so, so wrong…

“Thank you,” I tell my protector again, touching his arm without thinking. His biceps are large, unyielding.

He glances down to where our bodies are meeting, and his forehead wrinkles, like he’s quirking an eyebrow under the mask. He covers my hand with his; it’s warm. Inviting. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

I yank my hand away from his heat.

“Here.” He slides a business card from his pocket and holds it out. “If you need connections, I can help you find some for your program.”

I run my thumb over the embossed name on the card: Declan Conte. There’s only a name and a phone number, so I have no idea what this man does for work or who his connections might be. Regardless, there’s a major problem with accepting his offer: a conflict of interest.

“Sorry,” I say, returning the card. “I’m attracted to you, and the last thing I want is to get involved with a man I can’t trust myself around.”

Blunt? Yes. But I’ve been through too much shit in my life to walk on eggshells.

I think I hear a soft groan in his throat as his eyes burn with interest. His gaze sweeps down my body.

I clearly wasn’t wrong in thinking the attraction might be mutual. Though why he’s attracted to me when my thrift store dress is so obvious, I don’t know.

He opens his mouth to speak, but I cut in. “I am grateful for your offer to help. Really. And for everything else. Thank you. But, um, good night.” I slip into the SUV and the driver closes the door.

Once the driver is inside, I give him my address. I buckle up as the vehicle pulls away, then I sag into the plush leather seat. That’s when I realize I’m still wearing Declan’s jacket.

I feel a shard of guilt, but I wrap the garment tighter around myself, a cocoon of masculine scent and warmth and safety. I finger the gold and diamond rose pin on the front.

“I’m glad you caught my eye.”

I’m wondering if he noticed me because I was so clearly out of place—some poor, Midwestern, almost thirty-year-old woman who thought she could mingle with the elites.

Well, whatever momentary insanity and chemistry we just experienced, I know it’s not right for me to keep his jacket, especially since it feels so damn expensive. I pull my phone from my purse, then add Declan as a contact, punching in his phone number before I forget it. Once I’m recovered from this whirlwind night, I’ll reach out to return the jacket.

With that settled, I let Jada know I’m heading home, then I lean my head against the cool tinted glass window. The Golden Gate bridge appears in the distance whenever the SUV crests a hill. It’s lit up and shimmering in a sea of black.

I’ve painted that bridge so many times, yet I’ve never once captured its beauty—there are too many blemishes on my soul for me to do that.

I’m flattered that a man like Declan noticed me, saw me as someone worth rescuing. But I’m sure he didn’t notice the shadows that follow me wherever I go. The secrets, wounds, scars.

If he knew how dark my past was, he’d want nothing to do with me.