Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 94092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
I stare at it and my eyes blur with tears.
My heart is too heavy to feel the pride I should.
All I can see is him and how he looked before he left. I wanted to sob my eyes out after he left, but I found I couldn’t. The pain was too great. If I let go, then I will cry for days. I had to be strong to face Sara. Once that was over, once I was back home, I would let go.
I will let the ache swallow me whole. But not now…
Sara’s back today, and this—this dream that we were a family—is over.
I cling to the memory of the previous night—Max’s hands, sometimes rough, sometimes reverent, tracing my hips, my breasts, his lips searing my neck, his cock deep inside me, slow, then urgent, like he could pour all his love into me before dawn broke us apart.
We’d made love until we were too exhausted to move, my moans muffled against his shoulder. His groans were raw, desperate, each thrust leaving a mark in me that could never be forgotten or erased.
“I love you.” And his voice was pained.
He’d said it over and over again, until I wondered if he even realized he was doing it. Each time it felt like a knife to my heart and yet I wouldn’t, couldn’t tell him to stop.
This morning I’d watched him dress, his movements heavy, felt his reluctance, and then the door clicked shut behind him. And it was over. I have to learn to accept it, to let him go, but I’m scared that without him, I will lose the vibrant, alive woman he brought back to life.
I set down the rag and head over to the chaise. I savor the quiet of the studio, save for the soft chirping and singing of birds in the garden. I think of Sara and wonder if she has returned. She is expected this afternoon, so maybe I should head back to my room to start packing my things. I know that I shouldn’t make it obvious by leaving immediately, but for my own sanity, I am convinced now, the sooner the better.
At that moment, there is a soft knock on the door. The door eases open, and to my shock, Sara steps in, her blonde hair glowing in the sunlight. It is obvious that she had been traveling because she also looks a bit worn with fatigue.
"Amelia," she calls out, a smile that’s both warm and friendly.
I go stiff even as I try my best to return her smile. I hadn’t been listening for the car’s arrival because she was supposed to come in the afternoon. I haven’t prepared myself to meet her or tuck away the guilt. I hadn’t been alerted.
I rise to my feet. “Sara, you’re home. I wasn’t… expecting you until this afternoon.”
She crosses the room, her steps light, and before I can say more, she pulls me into a hug. I have no choice but to accept it. Her arms are tight, her sophisticated perfume wrapping around me like a vice. Making me queasy with shame. My conscience surges like a tide, drowning me in its bitterness. She’s so kind, so trusting, and me... I’m nothing but a double-crossing, ungrateful thief. I took from her, claimed her husband as my own for the two weeks that she had trusted me to take care of her family.
“Amelia,” she murmurs, her voice bright but tinged with exhaustion, “thank you so much for everything. Max told me he gave the staff time off—that was so considerate but scary. How did you manage?"
"It was okay," I reply awkwardly. "We all pitched in."
"I could never," she says. "I can’t imagine how hard it must have been, keeping this place together and looking after Jason. He can be a riot sometimes.” She pulls back and smiles.
Our eyes meet and I swallow hard, my throat tight. "All in all, it was good. Jason’s been… incredible. He’s such a joy.” His name catches, a tender ache blooming in my chest. "How’s your mother doing?" I ask quickly.
She doesn’t answer me. Instead, she turns her gaze to the easel, and her eyes widen when she sees the dragon.
“Oh, Amelia,” she breathes, stepping closer, her fingers hovering over the canvas. I’m nervous for a moment that she will touch the wet paint, but thankfully, she doesn’t. She simply traces the air above it. “You finished it. It is… It’s breathtaking. It’s like it’s alive, like it could fly right off the canvas.”
Her voice is all awe, her brown eyes wide, and I join her at the easel.
“Thank you,” I murmur, my fingers twisting together. Her praise makes me feel even worse. “It took a while, but… It’s done now.” My voice is quiet, reflective. I find it impossible to stand so close to her, so I move towards the table. “Jason’s gotten into painting, too. He’s been drawing dragons—crayon ones, but they’re so full of heart. You should see them.”