Chapter 7 Sophia
Sophia
The final strokes came slowly, deliberately. My body ached with exhaustion, my eyes strained from staring too long at the painting.
But it was nearly done.
Nearly a week of meticulous work, of frustration, of late nights spent chasing something more than just technique. Something that looked how I felt in the gazebo. How Gabriel made me feel in the gazebo. And now, finally, it was a few strokes away from perfect.
I exhaled, steadying my hand as I went in for the last adjustment.
“Hey.”
The voice shattered my focus.
I jolted, my hand jerking, nearly dragging a streak of black across the canvas.
I turned sharply, scowling at Damien, who had somehow slithered into the room without me noticing.
“Would you stop doing that?” I snapped, sucking in a deep breath to calm my nerves.
He smirked, leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed like he had all the time in the world to annoy me. “Just making sure you’re still alive in here. We’re on a tight schedule, you know.”
I waved him off, turning back to the painting, trying to recapture the moment I had lost. “Just finishing up.”
He pushed off the wall, stepping closer. “Looks done to me.”
“No,” I corrected, voice firm. “It has to be perfect.”
He let out a low chuckle. “It really doesn’t.”
I felt my jaw clench, irritation bubbling under my skin. I placed the brush down carefully, trying not to let him get to me. “It should be perfect,” I muttered, more to myself than to him.
I felt him lean in over my shoulder, closer to the painting. “Good thing too.”
I couldn't stop myself. I didn’t want to stop myself.
I whirled around, his next words cut off by a sharp, instinctive slap across his arm. The sound cracked through the air, startling me more than him.
He blinked, clearly not expecting it.
Before he could react, I slapped at him again.
His hand shot out, swatting mine away from him, back toward the canvas.
A sickening, faint scrape filled the silence.
My stomach dropped.
I turned back in slow horror, eyes locking onto the damage.
A thick, jagged indent stared back at me.
No. No, no, no.
I leaned in, heart racing, trying to assess the damage. The paint had smudged. The colors bled together where they shouldn’t have. Worst of all, the canvas itself was damaged. It couldn’t be fixed. It was ruined.
“A week,” I whispered, voice hoarse. “I worked on this for a fucking week.” I screamed.
Damien shifted beside me, unbothered. “Relax, it’s just a—”
“Shut up,” I snapped, my hands hovering uselessly over the damage, my mind scrambling for solutions.
“Shit,” I hissed throat tightening.
“What’s going on in here?”
The deep, measured weight of his voice stopped my frantic thoughts cold.
I turned, already bracing for the judgment and disappointment on Gabriel’s face as he stepped inside.
He took in the room with one sweep, me, the painting, the ruined corner, the panic still thick in the air.
Damien shrugged. “Little accident. No big deal.”
“It’s ruined,” I said, my voice hollow. “I’m sorry, we can’t go to the auction.”
Gabriel moved toward me, his presence steady and unhurried. He didn’t react, didn’t rush to inspect the damage, didn’t offer reassurances.
He simply stood beside me, staring at the painting in silence.
He said nothing for what felt like forever.
“It’s fine.”
My head snapped toward him. “What?”
“It’s good,” he repeated, voice calm.
I searched his face for any indication that he was lying, but there was nothing. No irritation. No disappointment. Just calm, unwavering certainty.
But that made no sense.
It wasn’t fine. It wasn’t good.
A muscle in my jaw tightened. “I worked all week on this,” I said slowly. “It was almost perfect.”
"It doesn’t need to be perfect," he said.
The words stung, though I wasn’t sure who I was angrier at, him, myself, or Damien.
Behind us, two men entered with a glass frame the size of the canvas, designed to protect the wet paint without touching it. They moved with practiced efficiency, lifting the painting, securing it inside, and sealing the frame in a padded crate.
I watched them work, my stomach knotting as reality sank in.
Damien smirked. "Told you."
I barely heard him. I turned back to look at Gabriel, desperate for something, anything, to make this make sense.
"Go change into your dress," he said smoothly. "Put your makeup on. Look the part."
Something in me snapped.
That was it? After everything?
A week of work, pushing myself to the brink, agonizing over every stroke. It was ruined, and all he had to say now was get dressed?
I turned sharply and stormed out without another word.
I barely remembered the walk back to our room, his room. Everything was a blur. The scent of polished wood and stale cigar smoke clawed at my lungs.
When I reached the door, I shoved it open, hands shaking.
The room was dim.
I stood in the middle of it, breathing hard.
In the mirror, my reflection stared back: flushed cheeks, parted lips, frustration etched deep into my face.
Meaningless. All of it, meaningless.
This was never about me getting back in touch with myself through painting like he made me believe. This had nothing to do with me.
I pressed my hands to the dresser, grounding myself. I needed a drink. I needed air.
The door clicked shut.
I didn’t turn. Just gripped the edge of the dresser and stared into the mirror.
He stood a few feet behind me, relaxed.
He tilted his head, studying me the way a predator studies prey.
"You think I dismissed you. That I only care about money," he said, voice smooth. "You misunderstand."
I scoffed.
He stepped forward with care in his eyes. "You wanted me to say it was ruined?"
"No." Too fast. Too defensive.
His gaze sharpened.
"You’re a perfectionist."
I stiffened. "So?"
Another step. Then another. Until I could feel his warmth. His scent wrapped around me, masculine and dark.
I swallowed. "You don’t care about my painting. Or my effort. Just your money. You made me think it was about me. So you could use me."
His eyes held mine in the reflection.
"That’s not true," he said calmly.
"But it’s not a lie, is it?"
His fingers closed around my wrist. Not hard, but firm enough that I couldn’t ignore it. He made me face him.
“If you only accept perfection, you’ll judge everything good for what it lacks, and never be satisfied.”
I didn’t flinch, but my shoulders dropped. What he said was true, but it didn’t change what I felt. I was still mad. Still wounded, but his words landed deeper than I wanted to admit.
"Then why have me do it at all?" I asked. My voice had lost its edge. It just sounded tired. "Why not have Damien throw paint at a canvas and call it good?"
He let out a low laugh. Then, softer than usual, he tucked a stray hair behind my ear. Part of me wanted to press my face against his palm. I didn’t.
"Now that," he murmured, "would be perfect."
The corner of my mouth twitched, but it wasn’t a smile. Not really.
"If it were perfect, like you wanted, and you looked at it a year from now, all you'd see would be the flaws you missed. I never needed the painting to be perfect, and I don’t need you to be perfect either.”
I turned back to the mirror. His reflection hovered just over my shoulder. He didn’t touch me this time. Just stood there, watching me.
My throat tightened. I stared at the mascara-smudged girl in the mirror, wondering when I started needing his approval. When I began measuring myself by his gaze.
His hand was around my wrist again. His voice dropped, low and steady. “You did enough. More than enough. One flaw doesn’t ruin a painting—or you.”
My chest ached. I wanted to believe him. I couldn’t.
He let me go, gentler this time. “Now go change. Put on your makeup. Walk into tonight knowing you belong there.”
I nodded slowly. Not because I agreed. Just because I was too drained to keep fighting.
He stepped back, the air loosening with his retreat.
I cleaned off my face, applied foundation, then reached for concealer.