Chapter 6
The painting was one of my proudest creations.
I thought no one but me would ever remember it.
Yet, years later, he still did.
A soft corner of my heart felt gently stirred, like a quiet ripple on still water.
“I…” I opened my mouth, but words escaped me.
“Are you applying to the Rhode Island School of Design for grad school?” Julian asked.
“Yeah”
“If you need help, just let me know.” He paused, his voice steady but warm. “I majored in design in college too. I might have some advice for you.‘
I glanced at his sharp, defined profile, my heart a tangle of emotions.
In my
y old life, my world revolved around Declan Price.
I saw him as my everything, blind to the fact that someone else, in the shadows, remembered my dreams.
“Okay.” I nodded firmly.
From here on out, I wouldn’t let myself down
Julian dropped me off at my building. As I stepped out of the car, he rolled down the window.
“For the studio, my assistant I will reach out tomorrow.”
“You don’t have to go through the trouble.”
“It’s no trouble.” His gaze locked onto mine, carnest and unwavering. “Evie Hart, you deserve better.”
With that, he drove off.
I stood there, watching his taillights fade into the night, rooted to the spot for what felt like forever.
The next day, Julian’s assistant, Daniel Miller, contacted me and took me to see a studio in the south suburban arts district
It was a renovated old factory, quiet and brimming with creative energy.
The studio, owned by a friend of Julian’s, was on the second floor–spacious, with excellent light and a view of a red brick wall draped In ivy.
I fell in love with it instantly.
The rent was far lower than I’d expected. With the savings I’d scraped together over years of work, I signed the lease without hesitation.
With my own studio, 1 threw myself into polishing my portfolio for the grad school application.
I moved all my art supplies in and spent nearly every waking moment there, only going home to eat or sleep.
Picking up a paintbrush again felt like reclaiming a piece of my soul I’d lost years ago.
During this time, Declan Price and Sierra Sanchez left me alone.
Over dinner, my mom gossiped about how Declan had, out of nowhere, started dating Sierra.
Mrs. Anderson, the matchmaker, was furious. She thought Sierra, with just a high school diploma and an average background, was
beneath him.
But my mom saw it d
it differently.
“Sierra may not have a fancy degree, but she seems sweet and obedient,” she said. “For a family like the Prices, someone like her might
make life easier.”
I listened quietly, offering no opinion.
Sweet and obedient? In my old life, Sierra used that facade to wrap Declan around her finger, turning his life into chaos.
As for Declan, when I became out of reach, he probably settled for Sierra’s fawning loyalty to prop up his fragile ego.
They were perfect for each other–stuck in their own mess. Good riddance.
Julian visited my studio from time to time.
He didn’t say much, just sat quietly, watching me paint or working on his own tasks.
Sometimes he brought rare art books or design case studies–things you couldn’t find in stores.
He never meddled in my work, but when I hit a creative wall, his feedback was always sharp and spot–on. “Your composition here is too crowded. Leave some negative space–it gives room for imagination.”
“This color could be bolder. Your fundamentals are strong, but you’re holding back.”
With his guidance, my skills sharpened, and my confidence in my grad school application grew.
One day, while I was sketching a portrait, my phone rang–an unfamiliar number.
I answered casually, but the voice on the other end stopped me cold.
“Evie, it’s me.” Declan’s voice sounded weary, heavy with something unspoken,
