Chapter 39
Chapter
Thirty-Nine
AMELIA
It feels like forever since I’ve started this new painting purely because I couldn’t bear not to work.
I’m feeling zoned, unwilling to think about anything else beyond my work.
As soon as Max left, I jumped out of bed, got ready, and headed here, determined to work because I will be leaving soon.
Perhaps tomorrow, I will be able to make some excuse and go back.
I have to for the sake of everyone.
The studio still wraps around me like a sanctuary, its tall windows spilling golden sunlight across the hardwood, but I’m slumped on the stool before the easel. My legs are curled beneath me, and a paint-stained rag is twisted in my hands.
The dragon on the canvas stares back, its emerald scales shimmering, wings arched as if ready to leap into the sky. It’s finally and truly done, and I can see that it is the best work I have ever done. Born from the fire Max reignited in me.
I stare at it and my eyes blur with tears.
My heart is too heavy to feel the pride I should.
All I can see is him and how he looked before he left. I wanted to sob my eyes out after he left, but I found I couldn’t. The pain was too great. If I let go, then I will cry for days. I had to be strong to face Sara. Once that was over, once I was back home, I would let go.
I will let the ache swallow me whole. But not now…
Sara’s back today, and this—this dream that we were a family—is over.
I cling to the memory of the previous night—Max’s hands, sometimes rough, sometimes reverent, tracing my hips, my breasts, his lips searing my neck, his cock deep inside me, slow, then urgent, like he could pour all his love into me before dawn broke us apart.
We’d made love until we were too exhausted to move, my moans muffled against his shoulder. His groans were raw, desperate, each thrust leaving a mark in me that could never be forgotten or erased.
“I love you.” And his voice was pained.
He’d said it over and over again, until I wondered if he even realized he was doing it. Each time it felt like a knife to my heart and yet I wouldn’t, couldn’t tell him to stop.
This morning I’d watched him dress, his movements heavy, felt his reluctance, and then the door clicked shut behind him. And it was over. I have to learn to accept it, to let him go, but I’m scared that without him, I will lose the vibrant, alive woman he brought back to life.
I set down the rag and head over to the chaise.
I savor the quiet of the studio, save for the soft chirping and singing of birds in the garden.
I think of Sara and wonder if she has returned.
She is expected this afternoon, so maybe I should head back to my room to start packing my things.
I know that I shouldn’t make it obvious by leaving immediately, but for my own sanity, I am convinced now, the sooner the better.
At that moment, there is a soft knock on the door. The door eases open, and to my shock, Sara steps in, her blonde hair glowing in the sunlight. It is obvious that she had been traveling because she also looks a bit worn with fatigue.
"Amelia," she calls out, a smile that’s both warm and friendly.
I go stiff even as I try my best to return her smile. I hadn’t been listening for the car’s arrival because she was supposed to come in the afternoon. I haven’t prepared myself to meet her or tuck away the guilt. I hadn’t been alerted.
I rise to my feet. “Sara, you’re home. I wasn’t… expecting you until this afternoon.”
She crosses the room, her steps light, and before I can say more, she pulls me into a hug.
I have no choice but to accept it. Her arms are tight, her sophisticated perfume wrapping around me like a vice.
Making me queasy with shame. My conscience surges like a tide, drowning me in its bitterness.
She’s so kind, so trusting, and me... I’m nothing but a double-crossing, ungrateful thief.
I took from her, claimed her husband as my own for the two weeks that she had trusted me to take care of her family.
“Amelia,” she murmurs, her voice bright but tinged with exhaustion, “thank you so much for everything. Max told me he gave the staff time off—that was so considerate but scary. How did you manage?"
"It was okay," I reply awkwardly. "We all pitched in."
"I could never," she says. "I can’t imagine how hard it must have been, keeping this place together and looking after Jason. He can be a riot sometimes.” She pulls back and smiles.
Our eyes meet and I swallow hard, my throat tight. "All in all, it was good. Jason’s been… incredible. He’s such a joy.” His name catches, a tender ache blooming in my chest. "How’s your mother doing?" I ask quickly.
She doesn’t answer me. Instead, she turns her gaze to the easel, and her eyes widen when she sees the dragon.
“Oh, Amelia,” she breathes, stepping closer, her fingers hovering over the canvas.
I’m nervous for a moment that she will touch the wet paint, but thankfully, she doesn’t.
She simply traces the air above it. “You finished it. It is… It’s breathtaking.
It’s like it’s alive, like it could fly right off the canvas. ”
Her voice is all awe, her brown eyes wide, and I join her at the easel.
“Thank you,” I murmur, my fingers twisting together.
Her praise makes me feel even worse. “It took a while, but… It’s done now.
” My voice is quiet, reflective. I find it impossible to stand so close to her, so I move towards the table.
“Jason’s gotten into painting, too. He’s been drawing dragons—crayon ones, but they’re so full of heart. You should see them.”
Sara’s face lights up, her laugh bright, like a bell ringing through the room.
She claps her hands, delighted. “That’s amazing!
Jason’s never been big on art before. I should leave you here and go and stay with my mother more often.
You’re a miracle worker, Amelia. He’s so lucky to have you.
” Her words are warm and sincere, and they cut deeper, guilt coiling like a snake inside my stomach.
She doesn’t know how much I’ve taken, how I’ve let myself love her husband, how I’ve let him love me back.
I force a smile, my throat tight, and gesture to the small table by the window, where a bottle of red wine sits beside a plate of blueberry scones that Max brought home yesterday. Their tops are dusted with sugar, and they are lovely and crumbly.
“Do you want some wine and scones?” I ask, my voice brighter than I feel. I’m desperate to keep this interaction light.
She nods, her smile easy. “And why not too?”
I pour two glasses, the wine glinting ruby in the sunlight, its scent rich with cherry and oak.
I hand her one. Our fingers brush, and I flinch.
Subtle and I don’t think she noticed, but it’s there, guilt making every touch feel like a new betrayal.
We settle on the chaise, the scones on a plate between us, their buttery scent mingling with the wine.
I take a sip and the velvety taste is just what my dry mouth needs.
I break off a tiny piece of scone and put it in my mouth. The soft crumble melts in my mouth.
We talk, the conversation easy at first—her flight, the heat, and how horribly hot it can get in summer. She tells me about her mother and the details of her treatment, and I set my glass down and listen. My fingers stroke the stem of the glass absently.
Sara’s smile fades as she speaks, her eyes clouding, and then she leans back. She is slow and thoughtful as she speaks, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass.
“She’s… struggling,” Sara says, her voice quieter now, heavy with worry.
“The doctors are doing what they can, but it’s been hard.
Her heart’s weaker than they thought, and…
well, it’s a lot.” She pauses, her gaze dropping to the wine, the liquid trembling slightly in her hand.
“That’s actually why I wanted to talk to you, Amelia.
I have some bad news, and… a big favor to ask of you. ”
My heart stops, a cold dread creeping up my spine. My hands are clasped tight, the scone forgotten. “What is it?” I ask, my voice strange even to my own ears.
Her eyes meet mine, earnest, almost desperate.
Then she takes a deep breath and folds her hands in her lap, her knuckles white.
“My mom’s actually deteriorated quite a bit, more than we anticipated,” she says, her voice trembling but steady, resolute.
“I need to go back to her next week, just for another week, at most two. I know it’s a huge ask, especially with your work and your deadlines, but…
would you stay? Another two weeks? Please?
Jason loves you, Amelia—he’s so happy with you here.
And Max…” She hesitates, her smile softening, tinged with something I can’t read.
“He’s been different, lighter, since you’ve been here.
I can’t stand the thought of leaving them alone again, not now, not when they’re so… settled.”
Her words hit like a wave.
For a few seconds, I can’t even breathe. Two more weeks with Max, with Jason, in this house, this life. It’s a gift, an incredible, radiant gift that sets my heart alight, and my skin tingling. Wow! The possibility of more stolen moments, more nights in his arms.
But it’s also a curse, a blade twisting deeper.
I know how much harder it’ll be to leave, to tear myself away from him when the time ends.
My mind flashes to my publisher’s deadline, the half-finished sketches waiting, the pressure of work piling up, a tether pulling me back to my own life.
I should go home, should run before this love consumes me, before I break under its weight, but Sara’s eyes plead, I see Jason’s grin, Max’s touch, the way he looks at me with so much love, and my resolve crumbles. No more than dust in the wind.
I hesitate, my fingers tightening on the stem of the glass. “Sara, I… I’ve got a deadline coming up,” I say, my voice soft, testing, trying to hold onto reason.
Her face falls, disappointment flickering in her brown eyes. “Oh, please, Amelia. Please help me.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll make it work,” I say quickly, the words spilling out, reckless, binding. “I can stay. For Jason. For you… and Max.” My voice sounds weird, guilt and love tangling, but Sara’s smile is bright, radiant.
“Oh, Amelia, thank you. Thank you so much,” she says, her voice brimming with gratitude. Her hand reaches for mine, squeezing it gently. “You have no idea how much this means to me. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. You’re family, and family always looks out for each other.”
Family. The word is a lie, a truth I can’t claim, not when I’m in love with her husband, not when I’ve crossed every line.
Impulsively, she leans forward and hugs me again, her arms tight, and I stiffen. I find I can no longer bear for her to touch me. Touching her and pretending to be her friend makes me feel like a hypocrite.
Two more weeks of Max and Jason, of this love, this life, knowing it’ll break me when it ends. The wine glass is heavy in my hand.
“Let’s drink to us,” she says merrily.
I force a smile. It feels brittle, but I raise my glass. “To us.”