Muse [18+] • REVISING

Epilogue | Only We Know

D A M I E N

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Two Years Later

The sound of a piano filtered through the speakers, filling the room. Dropping the paintbrush I was holding into a glass jar of paint-colored water, I stood up from the stool, taking a step back and looking at the nearly finished canvas in front of me.

The past few weeks had been spent in the studio, where I practically locked myself up until I finished compositions for the reopening of my family's gallery, an asset of my mother's that Nicolas and I agreed to never sell. I knew one day I'd want to turn the place into something grander than it already was. Something different from what I remembered it as, as a kid. I loved that familiar faces came and went now and then, but all I ever saw when I visited was a building with lost potential. It reflected the life of my mother.

I'd finally taken on the project earlier in the year when I stepped down from overlooking the affairs that went on at Musée de l'Érotisme, letting my best friend and my fiancée take full control. The reason being, I just really needed to catch my fucking breath.

I also wanted to focus on something that wasn't strictly work-related for a change. Yes, Musée de Dupont would still bring in the money, probably even more once it was reopened after the holidays and branded with my name, but it was never about how much I'd make out of it for me. It was about resurrecting my mother's dream and living it out to the fullest, in the only way I knew how.

I studied my work, narrowing in on any imperfections I could find. One spot in the corner needed more thin strokes of brown. There needed to be a few more shadows between her legs. Something didn't feel right about the placement of her hand. Or the way that one strand of hair fell. I sighed, reaching for the pack of cigarettes that sat in the tray underneath the easel. I'd gone through half a pack today, and although Vera didn't mind when I smoked, I didn't like the times when I had to depend on it.

Hitting the carton against my palm, I took one out, placing it between my lips and grabbing a lighter from my pocket. Lighting the end, hearing the quiet sizzle of tobacco and paper, I inhaled a puff, feeling the relieving sting fill my lungs. I closed my eyes, savoring it for a second or two before blowing the smoke out, along with an exhale I had been holding for who knows how long.

I looked down at the painting again. I just wanted everything to be perfect.

Hearing a door close, I reached for my phone and lowered the volume of the music. Keys clanked against glass, the sound of groans following. Vera. Not the ones I particularly liked, though. She sounded annoyed.

The wood floors creaked at the beginning of the hallway, and I knew she was coming to see me. Walking in front of the easel to block her from wanting to see the piece that sat on the other side, I took another puff, waiting for her to walk through the door.

As she usually does when she's in a mood, she flew the door open, and unlike the many times she marched into the studio with an attitude to give, this time she remained silent. And completely drenched from what I assumed was a result of the current weather. Drops of water dripped from her hair, little strands pressed against her face, and her clothes were a shade darker. I knew it was supposed to rain all week, I just hadn't realized how hard.

I tilted my head to the side, noticing for a split instant that she was wearing the very outfit she had worn on her first day at the museum over two years ago. I hadn't seen her all day until now. She wore her crimson red coat and a long-sleeved black dress with tights underneath. Even the rips in her stockings were the same. I paused.