Page 70 of It Hurts Me

“I hope you’re wrong about that,” Axel said. “Because if Scarlett tried to leave me, I’d probably jump off the Duomo.”

“It’ll end,” I said. “Once he realizes she’s sleeping with me, he’ll get angry and call a halt to their arrangement. They’ll work on their marriage and do counseling and all that bullshit, and I’ll be out of the picture.”

“What if she leaves him? Would it end then?”

I looked away toward the fire.

“Leaves him for you?”

“She won’t.”

“Why are you so certain?”

“Because I’m not worth it.”

He cocked his head slightly.

“I think she should leave him because she deserves better. Deserves a man who would love her the way you love Scarlett. Who would threaten to throw himself off the Duomo if she tried to walk away.” Astrid was beautiful and smart and thoughtful. She was fiery and passionate. Everything a man wanted in a woman. “But I’m not that man.”

“Does she know that?”

“I’ve told her I don’t take women to dinner. I prefer to pay for sex because it’s easier. I think it’s clear.”

“But you take her to dinner. You don’t pay her for sex.” Axel continued to watch me, serious now that the conversation had settled over us like a heavy fog that had rolled in from the sea. “I think it’s clear she’s the exception.”

“Don’t analyze me.”

“I’m not analyzing you, Theo. I just see what you try so hard not to.”

13

ASTRID

Life was a blur.

I got to work an hour early and stayed an hour late.

I did whatever I could to stay out of the house and avoid my own husband, the man whose last name appeared on my driver’s license and passport. He was supposed to be my family and I should wear his surname proudly, but now he felt like a stranger.

He gave me the space I didn’t ask for. We slept in the same bed and barely spoke over dinner. To the outside, it looked as if that conversation had never happened, but to us, it was as if the conversation was still going, carrying on without words.

I preferred the company of silent paintings. Preferred the colors of fog and midnight blue over the watercolors of spring. Emails from clients came in, but there wasn’t enough work to keep me busy, so I stared at the paintings and tried to find new meaning that I hadn’t noticed before.

Life had been hard in the past, but it had stopped being hard after Bolton. Never once had I thought I’d be standing there alone, relying on a painting made one hundred and fifty years ago for support. I never thought I’d rely on work to keep me busy enough not to cry.

I stood in front of a painting of a Macedonian ship at sea, surrounded by Persian warships trying to sink it to the bottom of the ocean and take all the supplies on board. It was a new acquisition for the gallery after an estate sale by a client. She decided to downsize her accommodations after her husband passed away. It was a collector’s item, and now it was back in our hands to sell once again. Artwork was like real estate. You could sell the same painting again and again, its value only growing over time.

“This is new.”

I heard his voice, would recognize it anywhere, heard it in dreams I tried so hard to remember after I woke. I turned to see him standing beside me, dressed in his usual black attire, a long-sleeved shirt snug on his arms, his height making him a skyscraper. I stared at the side of his face, my heart going from a pace so slow it almost stopped beating to a sprint. “Yeah, we just got it yesterday.”

“How long will it take you to sell a painting like this?”

I was still shocked to see him there because he’d never stopped by unannounced like this. “It depends on the artist. Whenever we get something from one of the greats, it’s gone in a day. For a painting like this, probably a week.”

He gave a subtle nod. “What’s your commission?”

“Fifteen percent.”