Maybe if he just captured her one more time, she’d finally set him free.
And so commenced the bargaining. Leaving his meal half finished, he’d spent the night in front of the canvas, working from memory and the only crystal clear thought he’d had in days.
Ellie. Telling him she loved him.
He wanted to draw something…anything…else; any other emotion, any other expression – and there were hundreds of enticing ones that would have sufficed, but suddenly, he couldn’t recall any of them. Every moment with her became a blur until she’d whispered that she loved him – the happiness, the hope, the life that shone through in that moment was the only thing he could remember. So, he went to work, his hand moving to capture an image that he knew was far beyond his capabilities, but he had no choice. He drew all night, betting that this portrait would put an end to his heartache – and just like most places where betting occurs, the passage of time played no part in his gamble.
The alarm on his phone was what alerted him to the fact that time in fact was continuing to pass, even though he was no closer in getting the drawing to resemble the Ellie in his mind.
She still wasn’t right.
But, she would have to wait until later. Tonight, he would finish her and be finished with her. That was his consolation as he walked into his office, hoping that would let him focus on something else for the rest of the day.
He left the office over lunch in search of espresso and a break from the catchup he’d been playing all that morning, pouring over the Vanguard client list, looking to see what kinds of returns they were getting, which managers were providing good returns, and which ones weren’t. He’d only taken a portion of the list – the portion with the most valuable accounts to make sure that those clients entrusting them with billions of dollars would see a return equal to that trust. The caffeine and fresh air started to clear his head as he walked into his office. He’d taken a late lunch, so it was almost three o’clock by the time he sat back down in his chair, barely setting his coffee down on the desk before Donna buzzed him.
“Yes?”
“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Black. There a package here for you.”
“Ok…” Tristan replied, genuinely confused because she normally handled these things without giving him a play-by-play. “Can you handle it?”
“It’s to be hand-delivered,” Donna clarified. Immediately, his heart began to race wondering if it was her. For a second, all thoughts of fear and anger fleeing him. For a second.
“By whom?”
“A Mr. Jack Carter.” Fuck.
“Send him in,” Tristan said with resignation, surprised and unprepared for this visit. At the same time, he found himself oddly desiring the prospect of punishment from someone else’s justifiable hatred.
Tristan rounded his desk, staring at the solid oak door, waiting for what was to come. His blackmailer entered, carrying a familiarly-shaped box, and appearing much less threatening and much less worthy of his hatred than he had just over a month ago.
“Mr. Carter,” Tristan drawled, taking command of the situation out of habit, “how can I help you?” He saw the instantaneous and intense indignation flash in Jack’s eyes, but it didn’t last, quickly diffusing into his calm features. That’s when Tristan realized that there was something else motivating the man’s presence here today.
Someone else.
“Mr. Black,” Jack began gruffly, “I just came by to return your drawing and let you know that I am ashamed of my actions and how I handled this situation; I’m very sorry. I know it’s no excuse, but I was only thinking of my daughter.” He finished his sentence by setting down the packaged piece of artwork against one of the chairs in front of Tristan’s desk.
Join the fucking club.
Anger coursed through him. What in the living fuck was going on?
Tristan was expecting anger, rage – rightly so for how Tristan had treated his daughter. He wasn’t expecting this – an apology. He wasn’t expecting it and he didn’t want it. He wanted the rage. He wanted to be punished for what he’d done to Ellie and the inexcusable things that he’d said to make her believe the unbelievable. He wanted someone to make him pay for not just his cruelty, but for his cowardice. He wanted to apologize to her, to beg for forgiveness, he wanted her affection and to give her his.
But he was just too much of a fucking coward, letting his rational, yet irrational, fear control him.
“Thank you,” Tristan began, coolly, letting the part of him craving castigation antagonize the man most suited to give it to him. “Did you come expecting to get the portrait of your daughter?” His question punctuated with a smirk.
“I don’t expect anything from you, but yes, I would like the portrait of Ellie if you have it.”
Her name was like a firebrand on his skin; he hissed as is seared him. “And what if I refuse to give it to you?” Tristan continued to provoke him.
“You would go back on your word?” Jack asked him – but it was with surprise, not anger.
“You did,” Tristan practically snarled.
“Well, I can’t see a reason why you would want to keep it; you’ve gotten what you wanted from my daughter, from what I’ve been told. You don’t care about her, you’ve gotten your mother’s portrait back, what purpose could you have for keeping it?” the old man asked, insightfully, irritating Tristan even more as he pushed on. “I’m not here to argue; you can keep it to punish me if you want. I will find someone else to make one for me before she leaves.”
Tristan coughed as the air was sucked out of the room. ‘Before she leaves.’
Tristan felt his heartbeat thudding through him. She was going to do it; she was going to leave the country just like she’d been wanting to. The mention of the portrait’s subject cruelly reminding him that she was still here, still alive, still able to be his if he could just let him be hers. He didn’t respond to Jack, he couldn’t. The anger had left him with only sadness in its wake.
“So, you won’t give it back to me then?” Jack asked, an odd touch of resignation and hope in his voice.
“I…I can’t,” Tristan ground out. It was as close as he could come to admitting that he couldn’t give up Ellie’s portrait because it was all he had left of her.
“I see,” was Jack’s response. The faintest hint of a smile touching his face, as if he could see Tristan’s internal suffering and the real reason he wouldn’t give up the drawing. “Well, then I’ll get going. Thank you for your time.” He turned and made his way back to the door.
“How is she?” Tristan sharply soft voice cut through their last moment of silence; his need to know unable to be stopped. Maybe if he just knew that she was ok, he could let her go.
Bargaining, again?
Jack just looked back at him as if his outburst had confirmed what his refusal to give back her portrait had suggested – that he couldn’t let her go. “Unpredictable,” the old man said with a grin before leaving Tristan alone again with his thoughts…and her ghost.
As soon as the door shut behind him, Tristan turned and smashed his fist onto the top of his desk.
What the fuck was going on?
All of his anger was gone. As soon as he heard Ellie was planning on leaving, a switch had flipped inside. Hunched over his desk, he stared at the drops that splattered from his eyes onto the splintered wood. He turned back to his mom’s portrait – the start of this whole story, the start of this whole mess. Tearing off the paper it had been wrapped in, he looked at the first woman who had truly loved him, and the first one to leave him. Every time he looked at her face, all he could feel was her love for him.
Maybe that’s why it was the only expression of Ellie’s that he could remember.
He stared at his mother’s kind and caring face and he remembered, just like she wanted him to, how much she loved him. Smiling with the irony, he also remembered her simultaneous wish for how much love she’d wanted to give him. Well, she had – her portrait had. It had brought El
lie to him.
She’d wanted to give him love and she’d given him Ellie.
Somehow, she’d managed to accomplish that, but then again, mothers always had that uncanny ability to do whatever they set their minds to.
Picking up the portrait, he propped it up on the chair, sitting back down at his desk, he buzzed Donna.
“I’m not to be disturbed for the rest of the morning. Thank you.”
“Of course, Mr. Black.”
He stared at the image he thought he’d lost forever, stared at his mom’s smiling face, and spent the rest of the morning telling her about the man who had stolen her portrait and the woman who had stolen his heart.
And so began his descent into depression, the fourth stage in this dreadful spiral.
He hadn’t slept all night, again. No, instead, he been up all night working on Ellie’s new portrait – bringing to life a face and a singular memory that he was desperate to preserve. He didn’t know what compelled him, but his eyes had refused to close, his mind had refused to think of anything but her, and his hand had been unstoppable. All of this meant that this morning he was in an exceptionally bad mood.
He loved her.
And he had lost her. Even if he found the strength within himself to not be afraid, to not live his life with the fear of her dying, there was no way she would take him back now – not after everything that he’d said to her and what it had implied. He’d chosen them carefully, the words to enlighten her – the weapons to destroy her. He could have just told her that he didn’t love her, but no, that wouldn’t have satisfied his pain. No, he couldn’t just simply break her heart; he’d had to break her and that everything that he’d made her believe about herself. He’d dared to lie that he never would have chosen her if it hadn’t been for her father.
Truth – he’d chosen her the second that she’d walked in the room.
He’d dared to lie that his mother’s portrait was the only reason he’d created one of her.
Truth – he’d drawn her because she’d given him no choice; she’d been a walking inspiration, one no artist would resist.
He’d dared to lie and tell her that he never loved her.
Truth – he’d begun to fall for her the day she tripped into his audition, he’d loved her…he couldn’t even pinpoint the moment; it was like trying to pin-point the exact stroke or shadow that transformed a sketch into a life-like portrait – you can’t. The image is made up of all the little lines and lights coming together, all disconnected until you step back and look at the final result and realize there is a person staring back at you; love is made up of all the little words and gestures coming together, all separate until he now stood back and looked at their time together as a whole and realized that the only thing he could see for certain was his love for her.
He’d worked the whole of the night and she still wasn’t right. Maybe in breaking her, he’d broken his talent too. It had been over a week now and all he wanted was to see her, even if it was just on a piece of paper looking back at him. Frustrated, he threw the pencil down and changed for work – looking forward to locking himself in the mind-numbing compartment that was business-building for the next few hours.
It had been a perfect plan; he should know by now to expect those to not work out for him.
“Donna,” he snapped at his secretary, whose eyes had widened at the vehemence of his tone, “cancel any meetings on my schedule for today, whoever it is, they can wait. I need a venti red-eye and then I need you to make sure no one disturbs me all day.”
“Of course, Mr. Black,” she replied, her eyes barely meeting his, surely frustrated by the fact that this was the third time in as many days where he’d had her push off most of his schedule.
“Sorry,” he said gruffly, “and thank you.” He’d have to give her an extra nice Christmas present this year for all of the rudeness that she’d had to put up with him, especially this past week.
Tossing his stuff onto his desk, he collapsed in his chair, praying that the change to his work environment would be enough of an impetus to let his brain take back control over of his body from his heart.
Fuck this.
After the denial, and the anger, sitting alone in sadness his brain was began to process so much more – so many little things that he’d missed: how could she not have told him? How could he not have known? Now it all made sense – why she saw herself the way that she did, why she tried to hide her arms and the ‘abuse’ of her past. He laughed at his own foolishness, how he thought she’d been in an abusive relationship with a guy, when it had really been with a disease.
God, he would have preferred it to be another guy right now – that, he could handle.
And then there were the reasons that felt like his heart was being ripped from him every time they crossed his mind; he was slipping slowly down the path into the dark depths of depression.
How could he have treated her the way that he did?
While she sat there in the hospital, recovering – a moment when support is what she needed most, he’d chosen to decimate her in a way that was probably worse than anything that the cancer could do to her. His heart burned at the thought, trying to imagine if he or his father had done something similar to his mom…the pain was suffocating.
He rubbed his hands over his eyes, knowing it was a mistake to close them. The only thing behind his lids was her stricken face when he’d told her about his deal with her father. Her emotions were always written on her face, it was one of the reasons why he loved her.
Fuck fucking fuck.
Now though, it was a curse, haunting him every time his lids tried to shut. The vision of her heartbreak cascading over every exquisite inch of her face when he told her that everything between them was a sham, that it was all part of his plan. He yanked the garbage can out from underneath his desk and vomited into it, his gut clenching and revolting against the horror that he had inflicted.
He’d been in pain – blinding, searing pain, but even that was a pitiful excuse. He saw her in the hospital bed, heard the words being thrown out around him, bringing back vivid memories of his mother’s agonizing battle with cancer before it had finally taken her from him. Wiping his mouth with a tissue, he laughed sadly at himself.
It wasn’t pain, you fucking idiot; it was fear.
In that instant, he saw his past become his future. His life flashed before him as he watched the most beautiful woman he had ever known and loved being slowly and tortuously taken from him while all he could do was stand by and watch.
For the second time in his fucking miserable life.
Tristan rubbed his eyes again, pulling his hand back in surprise at the wetness that was coating his fingers. He shook his head in disgust, hating his weakness, hating the fact that every person he had been chosen to love was doomed to leave him.
He loved her. Every breath into his body existed only to fuel his love for her, but sometimes, love isn’t enough. Sometimes, love isn’t stronger than fear or the pain of loss. Shaking his head resolutely, he knew that he couldn’t go through that again, not even for Ellie. Losing his mother was hard; losing her would kill him. At least, leaving her this way was his choice, something that he had a slim and distant chance of recovering from. Watching her being taken from him permanently, without having any say in the matter, well, it was just more than he could bear…
Just like everything else about her, like everything else he felt about her – it was all just more...
The intercom buzzed, a blessed slap back into reality, even though he’d told Donna that he didn’t want to be disturbed.
“Sorry, Mr. Black, I know you said to not disturb you, but I have Mr. Bose here. He said he just wants to have a quick word with you and that it won’t take long. Should I send him in?”
Christ.
Jim was the last person that he wanted to deal with right now, but he didn’t have a choice; Jim was too big of a player to just brush off.
This better be fucking qui
ck.
“Send him in,” he bit out, rubbing his hands over his face trying to bring some life back into it.
“Tristan!” Jim exclaimed as he opened up the office door.
“Jim, good to see you.” Tristan forced a smile on his face and energy into his legs to carry himself over to the intruder and greet him with a friendly handshake.
“I’m sure you’ve got a lot going on, I know, I’ve been there so I won’t stay long,” he began warmly, “I just wanted to stop by and thank you in person for everything that you’ve agreed to do for me. I just…I just can’t tell you how much I appreciate it, with the charity and all, just really put my mind and my heart at ease.”
Yeah, he really could not do this right now.
“Of course, Jim, it was the least I could do,” he managed to bite out with the barest hint of happiness to his voice.
“Well, you didn’t have to – you know it and I know it, so thank you, son.” With that endearment, the older, graying man reached up and patted Tristan on the shoulder, looking like he was fighting off tears.
“You’re welcome.” It was all Tristan had left in him to say. He should be thanking Ellie was what he had thought.
“Alright, well I’ll get out of your hair then,” Jim began, turning back towards the door, seeing that Tristan was in no mood for conversation. He breathed a sigh of relief, about head back to his desk when Jim stopped and turned. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but are you ok, son?”
I do mind. I do fucking mind because no, I’m not ok.
His mouth opened to respond – to lie, but nothing came out. Jim just looked at him for a second. That was all it took for Jim to recognize the familiar struggle in his eyes, a gaze that glow with life-changing loss.
“I just lost someone that I care about, that’s all.” He tried to low-play it, but Jim could hear the pain in his voice.
“Did you lose them or are you just living in fear losing them?” Jim asked, his question startling Tristan with its distinction.
The Artist's Touch (The Gentlemen's Guild Book 1) Page 38
