Page 158 of Pink Ink

Glancing over my shoulder, I give him a hesitant nod.Common ground is a good place to start.

I’m slightly unstable walking next to him, both from the alcohol that’s gone straight to my head and from Kimi’s heels, which I thought would be a good idea to wear. The dress I have on isn’t fancy by any means. Maddox had insisted on giving me his credit card to buy myself something to wear for tonight, but this dress has been sitting in my closet for the last three years, waiting for a special occasion.

Mom bought it for me before Dad faked his death, and after she died, I thought I’d never wear it because it didn’t seem like anything good would ever happen to me.

So this afternoon, I put the dress on, did my hair, let Kimi do my makeup, and wore shoes that are outside of my comfort zone, because this is a new chapter. Growing was never meant to be comfortable or easy. If it were, everyone would be the best version of themselves.

The tips of Maddox’s fingers dip ever so slightly beneath the fabric of my dress in a secretive show of intimacy. A hum of approval sounds from the back of his throat. “No tights?”

“No panties either.”

Green eyes flash with excitement as he winks, grabbing a booklet from the reception desk to give to me. For months, Maddox has kept the collection’s name private. Seeing it in bold lettering at the front of the book makes a funny feeling stir in my chest.

The Immortalization.

We come to a halt before reaching the threshold of the exhibit. “A private tour? You spoil me.” I grin, feeling the champagne work its magic.

A soft smile tilts his lips. “Remember what I told you?”

My brows knit. “Which part?”

“All of it.”

“Wow, yes. I know exactly what you’re referring to. For sure.” I roll my eyes, but unease settles in my stomach.

The nervous wrinkle on his forehead gives me pause. I can only imagine the pressure he must be under after being ridiculed by critics for years. In the time I’ve known him, he’s always internalized any concern he might have over today’s event.

“Are you all right?” I ask.

Sighing, he gives me a small nod, then holds his hand out, gesturing for me to go in first. His secrecy regarding aspects of the exhibit has my heart skip with trepidation.

I inhale deeply, grip the stem of the champagne glass tighter, then step through the open doors. The smooth strings of a violin and the piano in the corner of the room mix with the chatter of people congregating around each installation. Photographers and videographers move about the room to record the evening, capturing conversation and looks of what I hope will be awe.

Maddox’s paintings and other mixed-media pieces are hung against the room’s walls and dividers, and his sculptures have been placed strategically for people to flow between each piece.

My sights fall on the sculpture beneath the spotlight in the middle of the room. I recall seeing it in Maddox’s studio the day we went to Halenbeek Museum. It was far from finished back then, but seeing it now, on display for the whole world to see… It’s surreal.

The woman is sleeping in water, surrounded by a bed of…peonies. She rests on her side, using her hand and a lily pad as a pillow. Even without any color on the plaster sculpture, her face looks serene, as if she’s miles away from all the world’s dangers. My heart squeezes. I can feel her peace. It’s unlike anything Maddox has created before. He’s known for the dark themes he weaves into everything he makes. He’s always tried to evoke sadness, disgust, or rage, but never contentment.

Slowly, I circle behind the sculpture to see what’s attached to her back.

Wings. Big, sinewy wings lie against the water, as hornlike ridges trail from the top of her spine down to the tail curved around her leg.

My pulse races as I tentatively pad toward the plaque. Somehow, I know what the sculpture is going to be called without seeing it.

Tears prick my eyes when I read the engraved words:The Little Dragon.

I whip around, searching for Maddox, but he’s nowhere in sight. My attention catches on a nearby sculpture instead; the one I saw in his studio when I woke up from my concussion.

A green two-headed serpent climbs up the scythe strapped to a woman’s back as she cries pink tears. Poison ivy coils around her hand pointing heavenward. A cross between armor and silk covers her body and leaves a hole in her chest exposed.

Perseverance & Death.

Against the wall is the painting of an angel standing at the side of a cliff with seraphim-like wings. Her face was unpainted when I saw it, but now she… The painting is of me.

I’mthe angel.I’mthe one who was painted through the eyes of a lover.

Below the piece are two words:My Muse.