The Artist's Wife (BWWM)

Chapter 14~ I Can

Learn to take your own advice.

Those six words haunted me all the way home.

Immediately I entered the penthouse, I knew he was home. Don't ask how I knew, it was just a feeling. It was almost like we were attuned to the same frequency since the night of the black eye incident. If he was anywhere near me, by some freaky feeling, I would know.

I sat on the armchair near the coffee table and kicked off my ankle boots before propping my leg up on the table, staring at my little toes. Since that night, things hadn't changed between us, we still went on ignoring each other but there was a certain air of mutual understanding between us now.

Meaning we didn't pry into each other's private life. Marriage to him wasn't actually as difficult as I made it seem initially because the guy mainly allowed me to do as I pleased. He didn't question my whereabouts or movements because he didn't care. I was allowed access to all his credit cards, different cars and all, also he didn't particularly find it important to insist on performing his husbandly duties on me. Not that I wanted to actually go to bed with him, I wouldn't mind it if I was being honest, but I didn't want it either.

Then why did I hate this situation so much? Why did I feel so dissatisfied and even more unhappy than usual? I wasn't suffering, he had provided every single thing I wanted yet I wasn't satisfied.

What else do you want?

I stood up with my legs moving on their own accord and me not particularly trying to stop them, I wanted to do this too. I was going to his room and my reason for going there still remained unclear yet I was going.

Learn to take your own advice.

My legs finally stopped moving when they got to his door, his room was opened and the paint fumes wafted out. I knew the smell so well from the number of times I had helped Lance repaint his apartments. It was actually a smell I enjoyed, the same way the smell of markers or iodine made you happy.

The Jade-Eyed Bastard had his back to me, as he was sitting on a high stool facing a canvas. He was wearing black sweatpants, a faded black tee and he was barefoot. He held a paintbrush dripping black on the floor he had covered with white sheets to avoid staining the floor. The white sheets were completely stained with paint of different colours.

I stared at the back of his tousled dark brown hair which he had probably run his hands through several times, wondering what was going through his head and inched closer, moving to get a look at whatever he was painting. I was sure that he wasn't aware of my presence yet because he seemed completely absorbed in the painting.

I finally saw the painting and my heart quickened its pace, dropping rapidly before picking up double time once again.

It was a girl.

A young girl holding a white rose.

There was nothing particularly spectacular about the pale, young girl with the delicate features smiling in the black outfit or the rose she was holding. In fact, it looked like a perfectly normal picture of a young girl sitting outside a cabin home, except for one thing.

Her brown eyes.

Her eyes were the most captivating part of the painting, they looked so sad, empty and lifeless, they made her smile seem shallow and forced. The smile didn't reach her eyes at all, it made her beauty mysterious and entrancing. At first sight, one might think the smile was real but when you looked into her eyes, you saw almost had a glimpse of the demons haunting her.