Chapter 13 #2
When we step into the open space, it feels like walking into an industrial loft turned artist’s hideout.
Canvases are scattered everywhere, some on easels, others hanging from hooks along the walls.
There’s a lounge area with a couch and oversized poufs, a small kitchen tucked to one side, and, all the way at the back, a bed positioned beside a bold red door.
“She sort of lives here whenever she’s ‘visited by the art muse,’” Alexander says, probably noticing where my eyes wandered. “That’s when she’s not holding one of my properties in Europe hostage or disappearing into one of our father’s.”
I smile at him. “I’ve always heard artists can be... eccentric. But I’ve never really known one.”
“Well, then I’ll have the pleasure of being the first to welcome you into the eccentric world of artists, ma chérie[XXXVIII],” a sing-song voice calls from ahead of us.
She’s tall, almost as tall as Alexander. Her eyes are a luminous olive green, striking and impossible to look away from. Her medium-blonde hair falls in long waves, catching the light as she moves. There’s something in her smile that makes you feel at home... but also a subtle mischief.
She wears a colorful crochet crop top over a black bralette, paired with a flowy black skirt that sways around her legs, splitting into a high slit that runs all the way up her thigh.
And then I notice she’s barefoot. She wiggles her red-polished toes once, then lifts her chin, catching me looking with a tiny smirk.
“Eccentric, was that the word you used?”
My cheeks heat. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to stare.”
“Nonsense,” she says, waving her hand.
I extend my hand. “Cecily Sterling. Thank you for having me.”
She looks at my hand... then sets the wine glass she was holding into Alexander’s hand. Before I can process what’s happening, she pulls me straight into a hug. I pat her back, awkwardly.
She squeezes tighter. “Come on, Cecily, you can hug me. You Americans are so stiff sometimes.”
Behind us, Alexander scoffs. “Just so you know, she was born and raised here.”
I return Aurelie’s hug, and the soft sweep of her hands across my back is strangely comforting.
When she pulls away, she looks directly into my eyes.
“You have good energy. I simply had to hug you.”
I frown a little, not fully understanding, until I remember all the times Alexander mentioned his sister’s love for things like destined souls and cosmic connections.
She looks me over from head to toe. “You’re truly beautiful. And that hair—such a gorgeous color, and natural.”
She shoots her brother a pointed look, and before I can thank her, she plucks the glass back from his hand and keeps going.
“Oui[XXXIX], I was raised here, but I’m also the daughter of a French woman who adored affection and an Italian brother with a family big enough to fill a small apartment building. ”
Alexander chuckles. “You’ve hugged Cecily, overwhelmed her with your eccentricity, and yet you haven’t told her your name.”
Aurelie grins, leans in, kisses my cheek, and says, “Aurelie Lefèvre. It’s so good to finally meet you. Alex talks about you all the time.”
I smile back, genuinely touched. “Likewise. Your brother speaks of you with so much affection.”
She pulls him into a hug, then tells us to make ourselves at home and points out where we can find drinks and appetizers.
Aurelie introduces us to the fifteen or so guests, most of them artists as well. The more she talks and shows us her work, the more impressed I become.
When Aurelie wanders off to greet others, Alexander and I find ourselves standing before one of her canvases.
“I don’t know much about art,” I murmur, “but your sister’s work is incredible.”
He gives me a fond, proud smile. “The little I know comes from the short classes I took years ago... and from everything Aurelie pours into me when she’s talking a mile a minute about her creative process.”
He turns back to the painting. A woman rendered in bold tones, almost glowing with her own light, while long shadows rise around her. But the longer I look, the more it seems the shadows aren’t trapping her at all. They’re what she’s rising above. It’s intense, raw.
“And it’s not just because she’s my sister. She truly has a gift.”
Before I can respond, my phone starts ringing. I pull it from my purse, and when I see Alicia’s name, a knot of worry tightens in my stomach. “Honey, is everything okay?”
“Yes, everything’s fine, Mom. I just wanted to call and say good night.”
At the sound of her voice, the knot in my stomach eases.
“Where are you? I hear noise and music.”
I glance at Alexander and point toward the stairs. He nods, and I walk up to the top where the sound of conversations and jazz fades to a distant murmur.
“Alexander’s sister invited a few friends over, and he asked me to come too.”
“Oh—you’re at a party,” she says, surprised. “Are you having fun, Mom?”
I smile. “Not a party, sweetheart. Just a small gathering to see her artwork. She’s a painter.”
“Cool! Send me pictures later?”
“Of course. I’ll ask her first, these are new pieces, but if she’s okay with it, I’ll send them.”
“I’m glad you went out, Mom. I thought you’d end up alone at home after Ethan left.”
Her sweetness melts my heart. “I would’ve been fine at home too. But the invitation came up, and I decided to say yes.”
“Good. I’m glad you went. Have fun, Mom. I’m gonna hang up and watch another episode of that K-drama with Dad.”
I tell her to enjoy the weekend with her father and that I’ll see her on Monday.
When I hang up and turn around, Alexander is already walking toward me.
“Is your daughter okay?” he asks the moment he’s close enough.
“Yes, she’s fine. She just wanted to call before it got too late.”
He smiles and takes my hand. “Come with me? I want to show you something.”
I follow him down the stairs. He leads me to a door tucked beneath them and enters a code into the lock. We step inside, and with a quick look around, I realize it’s Aurélie’s studio.
Canvases are scattered across the wide room. Some blank, others already claimed by bold, emotional sweeps of color. The space is a beautiful, intentional mess: open jars of paint, brushes abandoned mid-thought, fabrics draped over hooks... everything carrying her signature.
Alexander adjusts the lights, brightening the room just enough while shifting the tone to something cozy and inviting.
“While you were on the phone, it occurred to me that, if you want, we can cross something else off your list.”
I look at him, brow lifting, and he gestures at the materials scattered around us.
“Oh...” slips out. I’m unsure what to say.
Alexander steps behind me, his hand resting lightly on my shoulder as he leans in, his voice low near my ear. “May I?”
I nod and set my purse on the table.
He helps me slide out of my jacket, then hangs it on a hook behind the door. I watch him move across the room, until he returns with a short-sleeved white smock.
“It’s going to be big on you. It’s Aurélie’s, but it’ll keep your clothes clean.”
He helps me into it, and when he realizes it’s a wrap style, I cross the ties in front. He steps behind me again, fingers brushing my back as he knots them securely.
When he comes around to face me, there’s an amused smile on his lips. “Ready to explore your artistic side?”
I laugh, take my phone from my bag, drop it into the smock pocket, just in case Alicia or Ethan calls, then look up at him.
“Show me where to start.”
Alexander rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, and I can’t make myself look away.
The studio lighting catches the rich bronze of his skin, that golden undertone that contrasts so sharply with the crisp white fabric.
The veins along his forearms stand out as he pushes the sleeves higher, every movement revealing another line of muscle until the fabric stops at his elbows.
When he looks up and catches me staring, he smiles, and walks to one of the shelves. “What’s your favorite color?”
“Green,” I say. “In every shade. And yours?”
He turns back, meeting my eyes without a blink.
“Blue.”
He doesn’t say anything else as he finishes gathering the paints. I notice the colors he chooses: several greens, a bold yellow, a few earthy tones I don’t know how to name, and finally a single jar of cerulean blue that stands out among the rest.
“I thought we could just throw paint at the canvas the way Aurélie does sometimes... and see what happens.”
He gestures to a section of wall covered in protective plastic, marked with splashes of past experiments.
“I’m in,” I say, grinning.
We start doing exactly what he suggested, and at first I’m lost, not sure whether to use the brush or the small mixing cups he set out for us.
But the more time passes, the more the hesitation melts away.
I switch between flinging paint with different tools and adding spontaneous brushstrokes wherever my hand happens to land.
I never imagined something so completely... random, messy, rule-less, could be this fun.
After a final swipe of the brush, I step back. It’s completely wild. A full explosion of vivid, uncoordinated colors. A beautiful, unapologetic mess.
When I turn toward Alexander’s canvas, I realize that although he started by throwing paint like I did, he eventually switched to drawing.
The background is layered in greens and cerulean blue, tiny gold dots scattered like a galaxy.
.. and in the center, the sun and the moon overlap, sharing the same sky.
It’s beautiful.
I clear my throat. “Weren’t we only supposed to throw paint at the canvas, Mr. Santoro?” I ask, pretending to be offended.
He chuckles, adding one last stroke to a sunray.
“Sorry. The engineer in me wanted a little more structure.”
I remember what he told me the first time we met. How he always needed to work with his hands whenever he had the chance.
Alexander steps back and comes to stand beside me, looking at my canvas.