Secrets of Us A Forbidden Love Romance (Alina)

Chapter 228

Chapter 231

A Year 1 Week Later

I crinkly my nose at the dried paint under my fingernails, then scratch the skin

of my palm where I have a streak of blue paint. I swipe at my face and sigh when I realize I just

dirtied my cheek.

The air in my room smells faintly of paint and canvas. The tip of my brush moves slowly, carefully, as I blend the shades of shadow around my grandfather's eyes.

Elena gave me enough pictures of him and my grandmother that I've finally convinced myself to attempt to paint them. At this point, I've memorized the slope of his cheekbone

like it's my own.

She actually gave me a stack of old family photographs and some of my dad's paintings earlier this week. I cried the first night I looked through them.

Now I paint them the photographs. It feels like a small way to keep them here when I know they've all left this life.

My therapist says painting is a healthy outlet. That it's good for me to have something to do with my hands, something that helps me process the sadness and the heat that still lingers under my skin from time to time.

The ache of a breakup, the frustration of a body that still wants instead of processing.

So I paint. And I forget, for a little while, that the world is bigger than this canvas. It feels good to create, to have something that's just mine.

A soft knock breaks the silence, and I smile.

"Come in," I say, turning from the canvas.

The door creaks open and Zaid leans against the frame, arms crossed, head tilted slightly

as he watches me.

"You've got paint, everywhere," he says, the corner of his mouth lifting in amusement.

"Occupational hazard," I tease, smiling.

1/4

A Year

into the room and closes the door behind him, his

His fingers reach out, gently, as he brushes the

my cheek.

stomach twists, and I lean into his touch. It ignites me, calms

at the

have no idea what time it is,

my seat and blink

he traces the curves of my

familiar now it feels

turns heavy, and I swallow the lump in my throat. "What time is

again,

feet, nearly knocking over my water jar in the process. "We have to

to shower, I need to, ugh, my

start peeling off my paint splattered shirt and hopping out of the room, already halfway to

bathroom.

for the reminder," he calls after

my chest do something

playing low as we drive through the evening light. I keep sneaking glances at him, and he keeps pretending not

Dinner's already set. She waves us in, kissing both our cheeks before settling

leaning into each other

2/4

3:25 pm L

A Year

I talk to her

with than acrylic. Slower to dry, the texture is different,

she says, looking over her wineglass. "You're

process."

around my plate. "But I'm

things are," she says

There's something in her face that shifts. It softens with sadness, and yet

eyes.

some

stomach dips. I don't know why I have

been offered a curatorial fellowship in Florence," she

fork pauses halfway to

Uffizi," she continues. "They're building a new private exhibition focused on lost Renaissance works, pieces that were either

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