Secret Heir (Dynasty #1)(38)

“Yeah, sorry about that,” I reply with a wince.

“I’ve known Raph since we were in diapers, and I’ve never seen him so pissed … something going on between you two?”

I balk at his words.

“No. God, no,” I reply quickly.

He eyes me thoughtfully, and I catch a flash of light in the corner of my eye. Raph is standing in the middle of the soccer field, all golden hair and golden skin, looking like the sun itself. And he’s staring right at us.

“Speaking of which, I think I should go.”

Baron follows my gaze to Raph, who is now stalking across the field towards us. He doesn’t look happy.

Baron turns back to me with a shit-eating grin on his face, but I don’t listen to what he has to say as I rush inside into the safety of the art building.



What I love most about painting is that it’s the only time when I can truly lose myself. When I sweep my paintbrush over the canvas, creating colors and contours out of nothing, I feel like I have some semblance of control and direction in my otherwise meaningless existence. The gnawing thoughts in my head quieten and any doubts seem to vanish. When I paint, I’m the master of what I create, the master of my own fate. All the loneliness, all the pain, all the anger of the past vanishes, leaving only me in the vastness of time and space.

I lose track of time as I work on the canvas, building the colors and layering the scene. I don’t know what inspired me to recreate this image, but I feel like it’s something that I need to do, something that I need to see.

So lost to the world, I don’t notice that I’m no longer alone until a voice snaps me back into the present.

“You did that?” I recognize Raph’s voice, but at the same time, it sounds nothing like him. There’s no anger, no sarcasm. He sounds tired almost.

I turn to face him, and it hits me for like the millionth time how utterly beautiful this guy is. He’s wearing grey sweats and a plain white t-shirt that’s similar to the one he wore that first day on the beach. It clings to his muscled body like a second skin. His golden hair looks damp and freshly showered and even with the backdrop of the dimly lit studio, he glows with some ethereal light which I wouldn’t be able to capture, even if I tried for months, years. It’s difficult to remember that I hate him.

“Yeah, I did,” I reply simply, holding my paint stained hands up to show the evidence.

He looks past me and studies the freshly painted canvas for a moment. Those impossibly blue eyes looking thoughtful.

I wait for him to insult the painting—the scene of the sun setting over the beach back in Rockford Cape, the pier in the background with the amusement park lights reflecting off the still waters. But he doesn’t, he looks oddly stunned instead, his throat working as he takes in the rich colors.

“It’s—it’s beautiful,” he says and then I’m the one who’s stunned.

“Thanks,” I reply tentatively, still waiting for the scathing follow up remark.

“Who’s that?” He asks then, gesturing to the two silhouettes walking along the shoreline. A small girl next to a slender woman, walking hand in hand into the sunset.

I suddenly feel like this is all too personal. Like I’m baring a part of myself that no one should see, least of all, Raphael St. Tristan. This painting, this memory, it’s sacred to me.

Still, for whatever reason, I find myself answering.

“That’s my mom and me,” I say.

“She used to take me to this place almost every afternoon when I was little.

“When she died … it’s all I really have left of her.”

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret them. I usually hate telling people about my mom’s death. I hate the pity that I see in their eyes, the awkward moment that follows, because they don’t quite know what to say. As I look up into those vivid blue eyes, I see none of that. Instead, there is something like understanding in those eyes and it confuses the hell out of me. Because what the hell does a spoiled brat like Raphael St. Tristan, born into privilege and who has never wanted for anything in his life, know about loss and loneliness.

He doesn’t say he’s sorry, which is always the worst thing that someone can say, because of course, the car accident that changed my world wasn’t anyone else’s fault.

He walks towards the table next to the wooden easel instead, where my mom’s sketches and photographs are laid out.

“Is this her?” he asks gently, touching the edge of one of the photographs. It’s the strip of photo booth shots that my mom and I took one evening at the amusement park.

I nod, unsure of what to say, because this moment is so surreal, that I’m not even sure it’s real.

He looks at me then and those sensuous lips curl up in a small smile. A genuine smile that I don’t think I’ve ever seen before.

“You look like her,” he says. “Actually, the likeness is scary.”

I feel myself smiling, despite myself.

“Yeah, I’m like her doppelganger.”

He lets out a chuckle.

“She was an artist, too,” I say then, fingering the sketches inside the metal tin.

“I got that from her, too.”

Something flickers in the depths of uncanny blue eyes as Raph turns to me.

I’m suddenly aware of how close he’s standing, and of how alone we are in the dim space. The air in the room suddenly seems too thick, and the sound of my heartbeat too loud in my own ears.