Chapter 31
THIRTY-ONE
STERLING
By the time room service has been delivered and we’ve shared the burger and truffle chips that Harlow had ordered, it’s nearing dusk. Outside, the street lamps flicker to life, illuminating the bustling streets below, whilst the distant hum of traffic fades into background noise.
“That’s just awful,” Harlow murmurs after I tell her about Dalton and Daisy’s miscarriage. “They must be devastated.”
“They are. On the drive over, I spoke with Drix who’s keeping them both company at the hospital. He said they’ve decided to tell Carl that Daisy had an appendectomy.”
“Why?” she asks, taking a sip of her wine, a frown knitting her brows together.
“Because if Carl found out the truth—that Daisy miscarried and may never be able to have children again—he’d force them to divorce so Dalton could remarry and give him the heir he’s so desperate for.”
“Wait, what?!” Harlow asks, her face draining of colour as she shifts in her seat. “He would actually do that? What kind of person does that?”
“The kind of person who only cares about himself. The same kind of person as my father. They’re friends for a reason, Harlow. Both of them have been corrupted by wealth, but it’s the power they wield that makes them so cruel. I know that might be hard for you to understand given that so far my father has been good to you.”
“I believe everything you’ve told me about your father,” Harlow says, “And I would never devalue your experiences with him just because I’ve only ever experienced kindness.”
“But?” I question, feeling anxiety unfurling in my chest as I wonder where this is going.
“There are no buts. Believe me,” she continues, giving me a sympathetic smile. “I’m fully aware of what it’s like to have a parent who’s seen one way by the rest of the world but who you experience completely differently. My mother is a perfect example of that, and I’m sorry your father is as harsh and cold toward you as she can be with me.”
“She’s a bitch to you, Harlow. She treats you like an employee, not a daughter. She puts you down, she outright ignores you, and God forbid if anyone compliments you. Fuck, I’ve never met someone who is so jealous that she’ll twist any compliments you might receive into an opportunity to belittle you, I fucking hate it.”
“I know,” she agrees, setting her wine glass down with a soft sigh. “And I’m partly responsible for the way she treats me.”
“Her behaviour is not your fault,” I respond, my voice sharp.
“But—”
“No, Harlow. You are not to blame. Could you be more assertive with your mother? Sure. But should you have to be? Hell no. A parent’s job is to love their child, not to seize every chance to make them feel worthless, and it sure as fuck isn’t your job to make excuses for her behaviour, especially not when you lay the blame at your own feet.”
Harlow lets out a shuddering breath. “I know you’re right. I guess I’ve spent so much time letting the mother I have now treat me terribly, all while wishing the mom I used to know would return. She hasn’t always been this way and it feels as though I’ve been mourning that person, all while still holding onto the hope that she hasn’t completely disappeared.”
“I understand, Harlow. I really do. Hell, I've longed for a different father myself. But while you may have once had a loving mother, I've never known what it's like to have a loving father."
“I’m so sorry, Sterling,” she replies, and for a brief moment Harlow turns her attention towards the window, the fading evening light casting a soft, golden glow on her skin.
“If I ask you something, will you be honest with me, Sterling?” she eventually asks.
“Yes,” I reply.
“I know Robert hurt your mother, and I’m not downplaying how much that’s impacted your relationship,” she says, her eyes studying me closely. “But there’s something more, isn’t there? Something you’re holding back. Will you tell me what it is?”
Even though I’ve mentally braced myself for this moment, my stomach tightens with anxiety. She’s told me she loves me, and I want to believe that means she’ll love and accept all of me—even the parts I’ve had a hard time accepting myself, but like Harlow I’ve suffered years of emotional and mental abuse at the hands of a parent, and it’s hard to let go of the fear that if I tell her about my synesthesia she’ll reject me just like my father has.
“There is something that I’ve kept from you,” I admit, dragging in a shaky breath. “Something about me that makes me different from everyone else. It’s hard for me to open up because in the past when I have, all I’ve been met with is ridicule, cruelty and disgust.”
“Your father?” she asks.
“Not just him. I had a rough time growing up. Part of the reason I choose to keep to myself and have few friends is because I’ve been treated cruelly by a lot of people. Let’s just say that my time at school was something I’d rather forget.”
“What is it that makes you different, Sterling?”
Just at that moment, there’s a knock on the door. “Let me answer that, and I’ll tell you everything, okay?”
“Sure,” she replies, and I feel the heat of her stare as I stride towards the door.
“I have your delivery, Sir. Where would you like them?” a member of the hotel staff asks me.
“I’ve got this, thanks,” I reply, taking the 3ft canvas and easel from him, resting them against the wall before grabbing the bag of oil paint and brushes that I paid over the odds for from a local art shop to get them delivered here on such short notice. He waits for me to tip him, so I pull out a couple of fifty pound notes from my wallet and hand them to him.
“Thank you, sir,” he says, taking them from me with an appreciative smile before I gently close the door.
“What’s this?” Harlow asks, as I tuck the canvas under my arm and grab the other items.
“This is who I am. This is the real me, Harlow,” I say, setting up the easel and placing the canvas on the shelf, securing it in place.
“You’re an artist?” she questions, her eyes widening as she looks from me to the oil paints and brushes that I set up on the table between us.
“I am…” My voice trails off as she frowns.
“I don’t understand why anyone, least of all your father, would treat you so badly for being an artist? It doesn’t make any sense.”
“I have a condition called synesthesia,” I explain, my fingers coasting over the oil paints before I pick up a medium-sized paintbrush, the wood smooth in my grasp.
“Synesthesia? What is that?”
I pause for a moment, trying to find the right words. “It’s when the senses are...mixed up, I guess. For me, it means I can see colours when I hear music, or someone singing.”
Harlow looks at me, processing. “So, you see colours… from sound?”
“Not everyday sounds, specifically music and when I hear someone singing,” I explain, taking a seat opposite her. “When music plays, I can see this whole spectrum of colours. It’s not just random, though. Each note has its own colour, its own texture even. And it’s always there, constantly, whether I want it or not. Painting what I see helps me to deal with it.”
She shifts forward in her seat, her curiosity growing. “But that’s incredible… Why would your dad treat you so poorly because of it? Isn’t it a gift to be able to experience music that way?”
“Not to my dad it isn’t. When I was a kid, hearing music would send me into a tailspin of overstimulation.” I pause, setting the paintbrush back on the table as I recall those early years when everything seemed so frightening, and my dad had been especially cruel. “I’d be bombarded with this overwhelming flood of colours. It was like a sensory explosion, and it was too much to handle. There was no way for me to cope with it back then, no way to explain it because I didn’t understand what was happening to me…” My voice trails off as I look down at my hands for a moment, fidgeting nervously.
“Sterling, I’m so sorry. That must’ve been terrifying,” Harlow says, her brows pinching together with empathy.
“More times than I can count, I’d do things that made my dad embarrassed or ashamed of me. I’d flap my hands around, trying to disperse the colours, but when that didn’t work, I’d just collapse, curling up into a ball on the floor, covering my ears and hoping the world would stop spinning long enough for the sensation to pass.” My hands tighten into fists as I remember the helplessness of those moments, and I drag in a steadying breath, forcing myself to continue. “Most of the time, I’d end up fainting from the overload, the colours just becoming too much for my body to process.”
Harlow gasps, her eyes flashing with recognition. “You fainted that night we met, was it because I was singing…” Her voice trails off when I nod.
“Yes.”
“I had no idea about any of this. Your father never mentioned anything.”
“He’s still ashamed of me, of my condition, so of course he wouldn’t. As you can imagine, my father... Well, let’s just say he wasn’t exactly equipped to deal with a child who didn’t act ‘normal.’ Looking back now, I know it’s because he just didn't want to.”
“God, Sterling. I’m so sorry,” Harlow exclaims. “Did he never even try to understand you?”
I bite my lip, swallowing the pain of his abject refusal to see me as anything other than a problem he needed to fix. “He sent me to countless therapists, made me undergo a barrage of tests with various specialists, all in hopes of fixing me. But none of it helped because I didn’t need fixing, Harlow. I needed understanding, patience, love , and he couldn’t bring himself to give me any of that.”
“What a cruel bastard, Sterling. I’m so angry for you,” Harlow gets to her feet, traversing the table as she ducks down before me and cradles my hands in hers.
“Eventually, when I was old enough to articulate what was happening to me, my mother…” I pause, my voice softening as I think of her. “She figured out that I needed an outlet—something to release everything I was feeling and experiencing. She brought me some art supplies, and together we found a way to manage my condition. When I paint, I can purge myself of the colour, easing that part of me.”
“She sounds like a wonderful woman,” she says, her thumbs gently stroking the backs of my hands.
“It was the first time I felt like someone truly understood me, and yes, my mother is wonderful. Without her love and support I don’t think I’d be here today.”
“Oh, Sterling…” Harlow murmurs, her eyes filling with tears at my confession.
“You can understand why school was tough for me. Kids can be particularly cruel when they know someone is different,” I explain, gritting my jaw at the memory of that period of my life. “Over the years, I’ve found ways to manage my condition. If I’m out where I know I might hear music, I normally wear noise cancelling headphones. In New York, the night we met, someone bumped into me on the street, knocking off my headphones. That’s when I heard you singing, and the colour your voice conjured was so fucking beautiful, Harlow, that I was helpless against it.”
“But I’ve sung so many times in front of you without realising the effect it has on you. That night when I played the piano…” Her voice trails off and she winces. “Have I caused you pain, Sterling?”
“Please don’t misunderstand me, when I was younger it was difficult to manage, yes. But ever since my mother figured out how to help me, I’ve been able to use art to express this side of me. It’s lessened the negative impact of my condition, and enabled me to earn a living as well. I can’t lie and tell you that your singing doesn’t have a profound effect on me, both emotionally and physically, or that I’m not drained after an episode, but I want you to know that I’m grateful for the beauty your voice evokes, and I’m so fucking glad I heard you singing that night.”
There’s a pause as she takes in what I’ve said. Then she reaches up, her voice soft as she cups my cheeks in her palms. “I think this is incredibly special, Sterling. You see the world in a way no one else can.”
I smile, a small, bittersweet smile. “I try to tell myself that. It’s just hard when one of the people who should love you, no matter what, would change you into someone you’re not rather than accept you for who you are.”
Harlow gives me a small nod, her gaze drifting to the canvas. "Well, I think you're brave for sharing this part of yourself with me, and I’m so grateful that you have. I would never want to change you, Sterling. Never . Do you hear me?”
“I do. Fuck, Harlow…” I release a shaky breath, the fear and anxiety I’ve been carrying around with me melting away as she rises up on her knees and kisses me gently, her lips soft against mine.
She pulls back, her eyes searching mine. “No more secrets, okay?”
I nod, my hand trembling slightly as I brush a strand of hair behind her ear. “There’s one more thing I need to tell you.”
Her expression softens, and she waits, patient and calm. “Okay.”
I take a deep breath before continuing. “Back home, on the grounds of Adaga Hall, I have an art studio. And right now… it’s filled with paintings of you.”
She blinks, her voice barely a whisper. “Of me?”
I nod, my heart pounding. “Yes, you. Ever since we first met, you’ve been my muse, Harlow. Every colour, every painstaking brushstroke—it’s all been about you. Fuck, I’ve even…”
“What, Sterling?”
A flood of colour heats my cheeks, but I refuse to feel shame. Instead I meet her gaze and say, “I’ve been so consumed by you, so obsessed with everything about you that it wasn’t enough to just paint your image on canvas. I needed to leave my mark, a piece of me if you will.” Dropping my gaze to my hardening cock, I fist my dick over my trousers. “So I’d fuck my hand until I came, and painted my cum into your lips knowing that a piece of me will forever be a part of you.”
Harlow gasps.
“Does that disgust you?” I ask, bracing myself for rejection.
She shakes her head, her breath hitching. “No, Sterling, that doesn’t disgust me. It turns me on.”
“Thank fuck,” I mutter, swiping a hand through my hair, the relief I feel is palpable. Reaching in my pocket, I pull out my bunch of keys, and reach for the spare to my art studio. Releasing it from the clasp, I hand it to her. “This is the key to my art studio back home.”
She takes it from me. “You want me to have this?”
“Yes. My studio is my sanctuary, Harlow, my safe place, and I want it to be that for you too…”
“Thank you, this means so much,” she replies, grasping the key in her palm and pressing it against her chest.
“When we get back, I’ll show you where it is, okay?”
“I’d like that,” she replies, her gaze flitting to the easel and the canvas resting on it. “So, what happens now?"
“I ordered these art supplies because I want to share who I truly am with you in the only way I know how. I’ve never allowed anyone to witness me create, Harlow. It’s an incredibly personal experience, and I am often so overcome with colour that I can paint for hours straight, days even, until I’m satisfied. I want to share that part of me with you, but in order to do that, I need your help.” I pause, meeting her eyes once more, and then she smiles and it's as if the entire room is bathed in sunlight. “Will you sing for me, Harlow?”
“At this point, I’ll do anything you ask,” she says, repeating the exact same words to me as she did the night we met.