Chapter 9
NINE
STERLING
“You have the rings?” my father asks me as we take our spot at the head of the aisle, his guests seated behind us talking in low voices whilst we wait for his bride to enter. I’ve spent the morning plastering on a smile and stumbling through conversations to keep up appearances. I’m already fucking drained.
“I have them,” I reply, eyeing my father who nods.
“Good,” he says under his breath, his gaze flicking to the harpist who is playing a beautiful melody that has my synesthesia sparking to life.
It’s taking everything in me not to react to the music, but I’m just thankful that no one is singing, I’m not sure I have the energy to battle the effect that would have on me. I’m barely keeping my shit together as it is.
“Have you got yourself under control?” he adds, clearly noticing my discomfort. “I don’t need you acting up on my wedding day.”
Acting up? Motherfucker. If he had any concern for me, he’d have made sure that my synesthesia wasn’t triggered in any way.
“Would you rather I leave right now? Because believe me, I’m more than willing to oblige,” I bite back.
“You do that and you can forget about your inheritance, son ,” he adds with a snarl.
“I don’t give a fuck about my inheritance,” I hiss back.
He laughs, angling his body towards me as he throws his arm around my shoulder, no doubt to hide the vitriol that’s about to pour out of his mouth. “So you want to live the rest of your life as a starving artist, is that it? How’s that panning out for you?”
Fully aware we have an audience, who at the present moment think we’re having a father and son heart-to-heart given the fake smile plastered all over my father’s face, I grin, keeping up the charade. “You’d love that wouldn’t you, to see me struggle?”
“I’ve spent my whole life watching you flail like a fish out of water, makes no difference to me,” he replies, his smile widening as he removes his arm.
I don’t bother to respond, what would be the point? He wants to see me fail, it would mean every thought he’s ever had about me would be validated. Except he’s so fucking wrong. I’m far from the starving artist he thinks I am. In fact, my paintings have sold for hundreds of thousands of pounds each, and right now I have a very tidy sum in my bank account. It might not be the billions he’s used to, but I’m a relatively wealthy man all on my own.
“Enough of this. It’s my wedding day,” he says, ending the conversation I didn’t want to have in the first place. “We’ll discuss your future after Melody and I return from our honeymoon.”
He fucking wishes.
I’ll be long gone by then. I have no intention of sticking around, and I already have my return flight booked to New York the day after tomorrow. The only thing that has got me through these past few weeks since I returned home is painting in my studio on the grounds of Adaga Hall. I’ve barely seen my friends, choosing instead to lock myself away. The only silver lining is that there are five more paintings, and all of them are of Friday.
Shifting on my feet, I drag in a long, steadying breath, trying to calm my fraying nerves. The sooner I get through this farce of a wedding, the sooner I can get out of here. Frankly, I’m fucking glad my father has kept me away from his new wife and her daughter, I’m not sure I could’ve remained polite, least of all hospitable. Despite my mother’s faith in me, I’ve reverted to the man I’ve always been in my father’s presence. Angry, frustrated, bitter.
I fucking hate the person I become around him.
The minutes tick by slowly, and with every passing second my anxiety builds. I just need to get through the next forty-eight hours, and then I’ll be free to live my life the way I choose, but more importantly, free to continue my search for Friday.
Because here’s the thing. I have a lead on finding her.
A week or so after my mother’s visit, I decided to open an account on Instagram just so I could see whether Friday had ever posted there. Honestly, I’ve avoided the app like the plague just because music is so pervasive in the app, but I was beginning to get desperate after my physical searches for her were coming up empty.
After punching in her name, a raft of variations came up with accounts. There were hundreds, but determined I looked through each of them until I finally came across an account called @FridayI’mInLove . I’d almost passed it by because all the videos were scenes of nature, but something told me to click on the first video. You can imagine my surprise when it was her voice that I heard.
Truth be known, it’d sent me into a tailspin, and for the next few days I didn’t eat or sleep. I was so fucking overcome with inspiration that all I could do was paint, and when I’d finally satiated my synesthesia enough to think straight, I did a little digging.
Apart from her very distinctive voice, there was nothing to correlate the random account name to Friday. Neither was there anything in the content of the posts apart from the title of the song to give me a lead on finding her, and the last time she’d posted was over two years ago, so I figured she no longer used the account. Didn’t stop me from messaging her though.
“You embarrass me, and we’ll have a problem,” my father suddenly says, dragging me back into the present moment.
“What the fuck do you mean by–” I hiss, but the rest of my reply is abruptly cut off by the sound of someone singing.
What.
The.
Actual.
Fuck.
A bomb goes off in my head.
Purple explodes into red, ripping outwards into deep blue, as I blink and gasp trying to make sense of what I’m hearing.
It can’t be.
Green pillows and blooms like a dust cloud, curling into a deep brown and then coral as I shake my head, forcing my eyes to blink.
Is that…?
Silver sparkles against black, as lightning strikes of yellow burst across my vision.
I gasp, dragging in a tremulous breath.
She’s here?
White splinters the colours tumbling around me, merging with grey then twisting into cerise pink as my stomach curls with nausea.
How the hell is she here?
FUCK!
“No!” I mutter as my body stiffens and my skin covers in a cascade of painful goosebumps.
“Sterling!” My father warns, but his voice is lost beneath the pounding of my heart, so loud that I stumble into him.
“Get a fucking grip!” he snarls under his breath.
“It can’t be,” I groan, righting myself on unsteady legs as her voice, the voice of the woman I’ve longed for these past few months, who I’ve listened to obsessively, washes over me.
I’m immediately thrown into a cyclone of more colour that’s so fucking vibrant that the ground beneath my feet undulates with a tidal wave of feeling.
Elation. Joy. Anger. Confusion. Fear. Bliss. Lust. Pain.
Emotions rise up, making me tilt sideways again, and if it wasn’t for my father’s painful grip on my arm, I’d have collapsed to the floor. His grip is the only thing keeping me upright as my brain tries to contend with the onslaught of colour.
Deep reds tumble into velvety purple. Vibrant greens roll into decadent blues. Golden hues of orange and sunburst yellow morph into deep browns and indigo, coal black and star-glittering silver.
All whilst she sings.
The woman I’ve been so desperate to find is here, at my father’s goddamn wedding.
I can’t fucking breathe.
I
Can’t.
Fucking.
Breathe.
And to make matters infinitely worse, she’s singing The Rose by Bette Midler, my mother’s favourite song.
“You piece of shit,” I growl, digging into the anger roaring inside of me, holding on to it with all my might, because without it I’m done. I can already feel the darkness setting in, and I grind my teeth, willing myself not to pass the fuck out.
“Her voice is beautiful, isn’t it,” my father says, leaning in close, his breath cloying against my face.
“ Whose voice?” I manage to grind out as a bead of sweat trails down my temple, fighting against my body’s desire to end the torment.
“Melody’s daughter, Harlow ,” he smirks, before dropping my arm and turning to greet his bride.
And at that moment, as I glance past my father and his bride, my eyes settle on the cause of my pain, the reason for my torment, my inspiration and my obsession.
Friday Love is Harlow Richards, and in just a few minutes she’s about to become my fucking step-sister.
Somehow I make it through the ceremony, my attention focussed on Friday, or should I say, Harlow, as sweat glides down my spine and sticks my shirt to my back. I function on autopilot, passing the rings to my father when asked, nodding in all the right places, barely fucking breathing.
She’s even more beautiful than I remember.
Different somehow, but still just as beautiful.
Her hair is hanging loosely in soft waves just above her shoulders, and this time a decadent purple floats within the strands, a colour my brain has concocted to match her strappy silk dress that clings to her figure in all the right places. Her shoulders and arms are bare, the sheen of her skin sparkling as though doused in glitter. She looks thinner than I remember, and I can’t help but notice the stress around her eyes.
My gaze dusts over her profile that I’ve painted dozens of times over the past few months. Long dark lashes fan against her cheeks as she casts her gaze downwards momentarily, the bridge of her nose, turned up at the tip, already embedded into my memory. Her glossy lips are parted slightly, the colour a deep pink, and only serving to remind me of all the kisses we shared that night in my apartment.
Utterly captivated, I watch as she smiles softly at something my father says, and a mixture of anger, jealousy, and lust fires through my blood, making my pulse pound in my ears, and my cock harden.
Did she know who my father was when we fucked? Of course she must have, otherwise she’d be as shocked as I am. What the fuck is going on?
But despite feeling like the ground has been ripped out from beneath me, despite feeling anger and sharp disappointment curling inside my chest, I can do nothing but stare at the gentle slope of Harlow’s shoulders, the soft curve of her breasts and stomach, at her shapely legs, the hem of her dress gently floating across her knees.
She’s so fucking beautiful.
I want to stride across the aisle, pull her into my arms and kiss the breath from her body. I want to shout and rage about the unfairness of it all. I want to punch the air and shout I’ve found you.
Yet, I do none of those things. Instead I fight the lingering effects her voice has had on my body. Forcing myself to breathe, I remain rigid, my jaw muscles screaming at me from gritting my teeth so hard.
Her cheeks pink up, aware of my intense stare but refusing to acknowledge it as her slim fingers fiddle with the white ribbon hanging from her bouquet. If I didn’t know her better, I would assume that she’s just enjoying the moment, but I can see how tensely she holds her body, how her breath is slightly laboured, snagging the material of her dress over her pert nipples as she takes each breath.
She’s as aware of me as I am of her, and I’ve no idea if that’s a good or a bad thing.
How the fuck can this be my reality?
She’s the daughter of my dad’s new wife.
She’s family now, albeit by marriage.
Fuck. Fuck. FUCK!
How impossibly cruel is this twist of fate?
I’ve longed to see her again, and now here she is standing right in front of me. It’s torturous, yes, but somehow I’ve managed to keep a hold of myself. My synesthesia is still potent, colours still taunt me with the desire to paint, and yet I’ve not passed out from the overstimulation. The utter shock at seeing her again, here of all places, has kept me in check. I can only hope that I can hold it together long enough to get some answers.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the officiant says, dragging me back to the present moment as the guests begin to clap, and my father pulls Melody into his arms, sealing their marriage vows with a kiss.
Moments later they turn to walk down the aisle, and as is tradition, I fall into step behind them, Harlow at my side. For the briefest of moments our eyes meet, and I’m struck dumb by the emotion in her gaze as her pupils dilate and her eyes widen a fraction.
“Sterling,” she whispers, her soft smile hesitant, unsure.
Her fingers briefly brush the back of my hand, sending a spike of need through my whole body.
Fuck, her voice, her touch make me ache .
“Don’t,” I cut out, yanking my hand away and regretting the harshness of my tone the second the word leaves my lips, but I can’t do this right now.
Instead, I nod at the guests who throw their congratulations our way. Everyone is smiling, happy for my father and his new wife, for this joining of two families, but the thought makes me sick to my stomach. How the fuck can I make her mine now? That’s one of many thoughts that tumble through my head as we exit the room and into the reception hall beyond.
Harlow steps away from me, greeted by some friends of my fathers, and I head towards the table of drinks at the back of the room, needing some alcohol to steady my fraying nerves. Grabbing a glass of champagne, I gulp it back, the bubbles fizzing on my tongue as my childhood friend Benedict approaches.
He gives me a tight nod, his green eyes assessing me. “You good?” he asks, taking the empty glass from me and handing me another.
“Could be better,” I admit, loosening the tie around my throat, feeling as though I’m being fucking strangled.
He frowns, but doesn’t say anything. One of the few people in my life who’s aware of my synesthesia, Benedict understands how difficult hearing Harlow sing would’ve been for me. He doesn’t yet know about our history, however. That’s a conversation for another day.
“I feel you, can’t say it’s been easy for me to see Elodie here with her slimy cunt of a husband, either,” he grumbles, his attention straying to the other side of the room, and to the only woman he’s ever truly loved, the woman who dumped him a couple of years ago then promptly married a guy twice her age.
“Fuck, mate. I’m sorry,” I reply. Looks like I’m not the only one struggling today.
He grimaces, picking up some champagne, and sips it. “She has barely glanced my way. Nice to know that I meant so fucking much to her. Still,” he adds, plastering on a smile as fake as the one I’ve been wearing all morning. “Plenty of alternatives available to take away the sting. Harlow’s fucking stunning.”
“Don’t even think about it!” I snap, scowling at him as he casts an appreciative gaze over my woman.
My woman ? Fuck, I’m delusional.
“Woah!” he retorts, holding his hands up. “I’m just kidding. I’m not like Dalton who will fuck any woman regardless of whether they’re married, related to his friends, or just simply has a vagina.”
“Well, don’t. The last thing I need is my best friend making a pass at my…” My voice trails off. I can't even bear to say the words stepsister. “At Harlow.”
“You might want to make that clear to him then too,” he says, jerking his chin towards Dalton who’s currently deep in conversation with Harlow right as we speak.
“God-fucking-damn-it,” I growl, tensing at the way she laughs at something he says.
Dalton is the son of Carl Gunn, who happens to be best friends with my father, and who owns the hotel we’re standing in. We all grew up together. Me, Benedict, and Drix, brought together by our father’s friendships, making ones of our own. Over the years Dalton has formed quite a reputation for himself as the self-proclaimed billionaire playboy, and seeing him flirting with Harlow makes my teeth itch, and my blood turn to acid in my veins.
“I’ll fucking kill him if he makes a pass at her.”
“I see you’ve already got that protective brother streak down,” Benedict says, nudging me with his shoulder. “But I wouldn’t worry too much, Drix and Lia have come to your sister’s rescue.”
“She’s not my fucking sister,” I cut back, eyeing Drix across the room. He dips his head in acknowledgement, and I know I can rely on him to keep Dalton away from Harlow.
“Want to talk about it?”
“Talk about what?” I reply, chucking back my second glass of champagne.
“Whatever the fuck is wrong, of course. You’ve been home for weeks now, Sterling, and I’ve barely seen you. We’ve missed you, all of us. What’s going on? I mean, apart from the obvious.”
“Where do I start?” I throw back.
“I know you’re still pissed at your dad for divorcing your mum, and I get that you’re on edge from having to listen to Harlow sing… But, I know you, something else is up. What gives?”
“Now’s not the time. I need to get through this shitshow first.”
He shrugs. “Fine, then I’ll join you in getting fucked on all the Veuve Cliquot,” he offers, his green eyes sparkling with mischief. “You’re dad’s spent a small fortune on this wedding, and I’m more than happy to sink a few bottles. We can have that chat later, yes?”
“Later,” I agree.
“Uh oh,” Benedict says, pulling a face.
“What now?”
“Your dad’s eyeing us up. Looks like you’re needed.”
“Sterling, come here.”
I tense up hearing my dad’s voice.
“Fuck sake,” I grumble.
“Good luck, mate,” Benedict offers, removing the empty glass from my hands, and passing me another glass of champagne.
“I’m going to fucking need it,” I reply, turning on my heel and heading towards my arsehole dad and his new bride.
“Sterling, I’d like you to officially meet my wife, Melody,” my father says proudly.
I ignore the surprised glances thrown our way from the guests mingling around us, because fuck him and his manipulative ways. He’s always been so adept at spinning a story to suit his needs to make him look like a fucking martyr, and me the difficult son. This is no different, and honestly, I don’t give a fuck about what anyone thinks.
“Melody,” I say with about as much enthusiasm as a criminal on death row heading towards the electric chair.
She smiles at me and her eyes, so similar to Harlow’s, sparkle with happiness. Knowing my father, that happiness will be short lived. If I had it in me to feel sorry for her, I would, but I don’t. She’s my mother’s replacement after all.
“I’m so glad you decided to come to our wedding,” she exclaims, her gaze roving over me before she leans in and presses a kiss against my cheek. “It wouldn’t have been the same without you.”
Swallowing my cutting retort, I simply nod. I’m not one for small talk with strangers at the best of times, and right now the last thing I want to do is exchange niceties with my dad’s new wife. I don’t give a fuck if that makes her uncomfortable.
“Well, I suppose I ought to introduce you to my daughter,” Melody adds after a prolonged, and very awkward, silence. “She’s been dying to meet you.”
“Has she?” I question, meeting my father’s hard gaze as he glares at me, my flippant response needling him.
Part of me wants to inform them that we’re already very well acquainted, the spitefulness my father so easily draws out of me rising to the surface, but I reign myself in. Now’s not the right time. It’ll never be the right time to tell them both that their children have fucked.
“Harlow, come here will you?” Melody calls, waving her over.
My whole body stiffens. I’m not nearly ready to have her in such close proximity again. I need a lot more alcohol than a couple of glasses of champagne to get through this fucking nightmare.
“Congratulations, Mom, Robert,” Harlow says softly as she steps into my periphery, her familiar scent wafting under my nose. I swallow a moan, forcing myself not to react.
“Thank you, darling. We’re so unbelievably happy,” Melody replies, her gaze flicking between us both. A small frown appears between her brows as she senses the tension, assuming it’s because we’ve only just been introduced.
“You sang beautifully,” my father adds, dropping a kiss to Harlow’s cheek, before glancing at me pointedly, unable to hide his fucking delight. “Didn’t she, Sterling?”
“Yes,” I grind out, vibrating with the very real need to get the fuck out of this place.
The truth is, she sang like an angel. It was torturous, and he fucking knows it.
“The song choice was perfect ,” he adds, knowing full well what he’s doing.
It’s as though he wants me to fucking punch him. God, if my mum finds out that they chose her favourite song to usher in his new bride it will break her heart.
Gritting my jaw even tighter, my gaze drops to his hand still lingering on Harlow’s arm, and a sudden rash of possessiveness rushes through my body. I’m going to give him five seconds to remove his fucking hand before I remove it for him.
One , I count inside my head, my body trembling from the effort not to deck him right this second.
Two .
Three .
Four .
Luckily for him, his hand falls away.
“Harlow, meet Sterling. Sterling, meet Harlow,” Melody says, oblivious to the close call, and the rage gaining traction inside of me.
“Nice to meet you, Sterling,” Harlow says evenly, turning her body towards me as she holds out her hand.
My eyes flit from the pleading look in her gaze, to her hand stretched out towards me, the remnants of lilac and gold, peach and crimson, still floating around her body.
Take her hand, Sterling. Just take her fucking hand , I yell at myself.
I know it’s the right thing to do, the expected thing, but if I touch her…
Fuck, if I touch her all bets are off.
Agonising seconds tick by, my breath leaving my body in harsh pants as my fingers curl tighter around the champagne flute. I feel as though I’m underwater, the muffled sound of the wedding guests’ conversations drowned out by the rush of blood pounding in my ears.
I’m vaguely aware of my father’s gaze drilling into the side of my face. He thinks I’m behaving this way because of my synesthesia, and he’d be right to an extent, but I’m trying my best not to do what my body, my fucking soul is yelling at me to do despite still feeling the sting of her rejection, and that is take Harlow in my arms and claim her as mine.
Right here, right now.
“Greet your step-sister, Sterling,” my father demands.
Step-sister.
I snap, my fingers crushing the glass in my hand, shattering it.
“Oh my God, you’re bleeding,” Harlow cries, reaching for me.
I snatch my hand away, unfurling my fingers as blood trickles from my palm. A shard of glass is embedded in the surface, the rest scattering to the floor at my feet.
“Get yourself cleaned up,” my dad hisses as Melody gasps in shock.
Gritting my jaw, I turn on my heel and stride away, the pain in my hand nothing to the agony I feel inside.