The Lies I've Told (By the Bay #3)

Chapter One - Aiden

It was a solid turnout.

The best of my career—or so everyone kept telling me.

Every piece in the collection had been sold, some for far more than the asking price. It was the biggest gallery showing I'd ever had. After years of scraping by, doing the whole starving-artist routine, begging for my work to be shown in a place like this, I'd finally done it—made a name for myself as an artist. Aiden Fisher, master sculptor. Finally, people were clamoring to get my pieces into their homes. Well, the overly inflated, self-indulgent wealthy people were. The regular man-about-town type still had no idea who I was, but in certain circles, I'd become a legend.

A legend who currently had nothing left in his wine glass...

Looking down at the crowd from my private perch on the balcony, I watched as people binged on the free booze and appetizers, pointing and chatting about my work. My eyes naturally gravitated to the heavy-stone pieces I'd put so much of myself into, and I couldn't help but let out a heavy sigh. It really was quite a sight. How many hours of blood, sweat and tears had gone into everything here today? How much of my soul had I sacrificed? Part of me hated to see some of them go.

My hand fell to my pants pocket and my heart clenched, remembering what lay inside. Reminding me that, only a handful of hours ago, I was just as happy and carefree as they were. But in the blink of an eye, everything had changed.

Funny choice of words, asshat...

No, let those pieces find new homes, I decided, as I stood there watching everyone gawk at them. They weren't mine anymore. Seeing each piece now, after the day I'd had, it only tainted everything.

All that hard work meant nothing now. All those memories...

Nothing.

As I leaned against the balcony, my hand threaded through my jet-black hair as I contemplated my next move. My glass of red had been empty for quite some time, and tonight was not a time to be sober.

Out of the corner of my eye, I recognized something. Turning, I caught James entering the gallery.

He was the last person I wanted to see right now.

He shook hands with the director of the gallery, who gave my rat bastard of a brother a welcoming pat on the back as James took a look around. He'd changed since I saw him that afternoon, opting for a slim black suit that looked like something out of GQ rather than the white lab coat I remembered from his office.

My eyes narrowed, trying to find a glint of something in his stature.

Remorse.

Guilt.

Sorrow.

But he appeared to be nothing but happy grins and handshakes as he made his way through the room. Fucking tosser.

Looking down at my empty drink, my hand gripping the glass a bit tighter than before, I took my growing frustration as a sign that I needed another drink.

With one last look at the scene below, I headed for the stairs.

No, tonight really wasn't the time to be sober, especially with my brother around.

Scratch that, ex-brother.

As I made my way down to the gallery, several people patted me on the back and tried to make small talk. A few women tried to stop me, fawning over how hot my English accent was, like I was the first bloke from Britain to come to this country. I mostly ignored them, focusing on the stairs instead as the dim light made it difficult to see. I held on to the banister, ignoring the female chatter, knowing I was probably coming off as rude. Or perhaps a bit drunk.