by Bella Andre
But would Sebastian be able to love that woman, without all the glitter and all the fame to go along with her?
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The workshop was too damned quiet. Too big. All wrong without Charlie.
Sebastian hadn’t moved since she’d left him. He’d barely been able to think, to process a damned thing when he already missed her so badly his whole body felt cleaved in two.
The four horses—closer to looking like real, living creatures now, and brilliantly, beautifully executed beyond anything his imagination had conjured—stared at him mercilessly from across the space. And they judged him harshly.
She really loved you. And you screwed it up, hurt her in the worst way possible. The woman who always created from her soul and heart actually stopped enjoying her work. She stopped loving us.
The last word seemed to hiss in the air, condemning him.
All these years, Sebastian had been so sure, so certain, that he’d eradicated his old demons. But he’d been lying to himself. His father’s voice still shouted inside him every single day. He wanted to climb onto that chariot and let the wild horses drag him through the streets until all of it was gone. His father’s cruel laughter. The pain of his childhood. And worst of all, the hole in his heart where Charlie should have been.
If something else has to go, then it will.
Charlie’s words played over and over in Sebastian’s head. And he knew. His worst fears had just come true.
Because that something was him.
He couldn’t blame her for leaving. Everything she said was true. The first night at the Regent might have been fun for her—new, different, exciting. But after that, he’d forced his vision on her, believing it would solve all her problems. All his problems. It would make her a star. She’d have the fame, all the work she could possibly want, and all the money to take care of her mom. That was his vision. Just as she’d said, he’d tried to make her into a glittering celebrity. But no matter what she thought, she hadn’t just fit, she’d conquered. She wasn’t the ugly duckling—or a Zanti Misfit—she was the gorgeous swan. She was bright, intelligent, and talented, and she fit his world perfectly in every way.
Except that she didn’t want it, didn’t love it. And that was the most important thing of all—that she loved what she did with her life.
Charlie wanted a normal life, wanted to build animals out of junk in her workshop just for fun. He’d been pressuring her in directions she didn’t want to go. He should have seen it when she didn’t want the dress, when she wouldn’t accept his money. The signs had all been there.
He’d wanted to make her happy, but she’d been so much happier before he’d pushed her, before he’d run her ragged. He’d brought her to this, had pushed her to the point where she’d said, I can’t even create anymore.
Charlie’s lifeblood, her truest joy, came from her art. If she lost her art, her joy would be gone too. He’d never forgive himself for taking that away from her. Never.
He wanted Charlie happy. He wanted her laughing. Instead, all he’d done was cause her pain.
Susan had tried to tell him he pushed too hard, but he just wouldn’t listen. Not when he thought he knew best. Not when he was so busy keeping all the lines straight.
Except that Charlie wasn’t a straight line. She was elephants and dragons and dinosaurs and Zanti Misfits. She was magic, his unexpected.
And he was her toxic other half.
Everything inside of Sebastian went still and freezing cold.
He hadn’t wanted to imagine a world in which he and Charlie could ever be toxic to each other—or worse, where he was toxic to her. But that was exactly what he was—the worst thing for Charlie. Just like his dad had been toxic for his mom. Like Whitney was for Evan.
You could love someone to death—and that was what he was doing to Charlie, crushing her spirit and her independence. Crushing her joy.
Just like his mom and dad. On her own, Mom might have gotten clean, but his dad was always the one who said, “Come on, honey, let’s have some fun tonight. We can stay home tomorrow if you want.”
His father had been drawn like a moth to the party flame...and though Sebastian’s parties were shinier and prettier, they were still noise and distraction and the buzz of always being surrounded by people, their voices and laughter drowning out everything else.
Like his father, Sebastian thrived on his events. That’s where he made his contacts, did his business, lived his life, all in the public eye. And that had been fine until he’d become driven by the relentless need to sell Charlie’s magnificence, to sell her art.
The stark realization that he might be more like his father than he’d ever thought possible made everything painfully clear for Sebastian. He’d vowed he would stop screwing up, and yet he kept on doing it, kept on driving Charlie, deciding what was best for her. And he couldn’t stop, despite all his promises, because he didn’t know how.
Charlie deserved all the happiness and all the joy in the world. Sebastian couldn’t stand the thought of seeing her destroyed by his choices or his desires. And yet that was exactly what he was doing, dragging her into his world and tearing her apart. But it was his world, it was how he lived. He didn’t know any other way. For her sake, for the sake of her art—because Charlie lived and breathed her art—he had to walk away. He couldn’t get down on his knees and beg her to come back to him. He couldn’t let her see his heart break open and his guts bleed for her.
He’d thought it had been hard to leave his parents, but this would be light years worse. No wonder his father had never cut his mother loose, though he had to know he was destroying her. Just as Sebastian had come close to destroying Charlie, forcing her from party to party, one after the other, sometimes even on the same day, and supplanting her art in the process.
Cutting Charlie loose was the very last thing he ever wanted to do, and the hardest. But he would not be like his parents, damn it. He would not be like Whitney and Evan. He would own up to the painful truth that he was the worst thing for Charlie, the toxic component of their relationship that drained all her inspiration and her creativity.
She had all the new commissions. She’d do great on her own. When the chariot was unveiled, she would become the talk of the art world. The critics would love her, and art patrons would wallow at her feet. He would die a little more every day without her. But she would thrive, would pick and choose her commissions, take only what she wanted. And she would never again have to worry about Francine.
Don’t be sorry. Not for one single thing. Not for one single moment. I know I’m not.
Lord...he was so damned sorry. He’d never wished so badly that he could rewind time and get it right, that he could have torn off the blinders before it was too late, before he’d pushed Charlie so far in directions she’d never wanted to go.
Even if he could do those impossible things, there was only one way he could be absolutely sure to keep Charlie safe and happy, full of her vision and creativity. Though it would kill everything inside him, he would do it.
He would set her free.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“Honey, what’s wrong?” Her mom’s face creased with worry, and she held out her hands.
Charlie had barely set foot inside the room, but her mother knew her so well. It had been at least twenty years since Charlie had run into her mom’s arms, but she went down on her knees in what felt like the only safe place left in the world.
“Everything’s gone terribly wrong.” Charlie’s words were muffled by the fabric at her mother’s chest. She lifted her tearstained face. “I should have told him I didn’t want to go to all those parties or take all the commissions, but I didn’t mind it at first. All this time I’ve said I’d never change myself for anyone, but wearing the pretty dresses and making the dumb cherubs for society patrons were all tied into helping y—” She clapped her hand over her mouth. She’d been on a rant, not thinking about what she was saying or how it would make her moth
er feel.
“Oh, honey.” Her mom stroked her hair so gently that tears clouded Charlie’s eyes once more. “I know you’ve been turning yourself inside out for me. A thousand times I’ve wanted to tell you that you’ve already done more than enough.”
“That...that’s what I’m always telling Sebastian.”
Her mother smiled. “Does he listen any better than you do?”
“No.” Charlie took a shaky breath and let it go. “Neither of us listened.” Then she’d woken up this morning and found she simply couldn’t breathe anymore. “I didn’t even give him a chance to listen today.” She’d blasted him with all her frustration, then told him it would be best if she processed everything alone. As though she would be a better, smarter version of herself without him. Only, that could never be true.
Her mother held her gaze, her eyes serious and full of deep love. “Then go back. Make sure he hears you. And while you’re at it...” Her mother squeezed her fingers with the little strength she had, and yet it seemed so mighty. “Make sure you’re always listening to what’s in your heart too. Even if it scares you. Even if it doesn’t feel like it makes sense. Trust yourself, honey. I always have.”
The tears spilled down Charlie’s cheeks. Her mother’s words seemed to echo what Charlie had tried to make Sebastian understand about his art. Trust your heart. Because Sebastian’s art came straight from his heart. He just hadn’t learned how to trust it yet.
Her mother had asked Charlie what her mile was, the one she needed to walk every day. Now she knew. It was this—committing to Sebastian with no more reservations, no more holding back, no more running away or keeping secrets, no matter what.
Charlie wasn’t a quitter.
And Sebastian was worth fighting for.
* * *
Sebastian had been sitting at his computer for the past hour trying to write the damned email that would set Charlie free. An email that would let her know he loved her with every beat of his heart and every breath he took. That was why he had to let her go. Because he was toxic for her. Because he knew she’d be happier without him pushing her into a scene she didn’t want to be a part of. Because he knew the art world was her oyster, even if he wasn’t there with her. And that he would always be her biggest fan, would always appreciate every single masterpiece she created.
But just like his drawings, the words wouldn’t come out right. Dear Charlie was as far as he’d gotten. Hell, it felt like he barely had a grasp on the English language, for all the success he’d had stringing together sentences that made sense.
Maybe because his chest was so tight he couldn’t get enough oxygen to his brain.
Maybe because nothing made sense without Charlie in his life, without holding her in his arms or waking up to see her beautiful face lit by the first rays of the sun.
Or maybe it was because he’d been lying to himself all these years about knowing the right words, about believing in yourself. Just believe and all your dreams will come true. Charlie was his dream, so much more than any dream he’d ever dared to have.
And now...
He shoved his chair away from the desk so hard the whole thing toppled over, crashing to the floor. He didn’t care. Didn’t care if every piece of priceless art sitting on his shelves fell and shattered into slivers.
He’d never let himself get truly drunk before, not even when he was a teenager. He’d always been so careful not to turn into his father.
It had happened anyway, hadn’t it? He’d become toxic to the woman he loved.
His hands shaking, he poured himself a full glass of whiskey. With his gut a coiled mass and his chest so tight he was choking, he raised his glass to the memory of his father, then tossed back the liquid in one harsh gulp. The whiskey seared his throat going down, burned all the way into his heart, setting fire to the image of his father laughing at him.
His grip on the glass tightened until his knuckles turned as white as the ghost of his father. Then, with all his anger, all his fear, all his grief, he threw it against the brick fireplace.
“Sebastian?”
He spun. Charlie, lips parted, eyes wide, stared at the mess in his office, the remaining whiskey in the bottom of the glass still dripping down the brick. He’d never needed to let her go more than he did in this moment. Right now, when she saw it all, saw him at his worst.
But he couldn’t get the words out. Couldn’t find the strength to tear off the shackles he’d bound her with. Not even when she strode to him through the glass, her steel-toed boots crushing the shards. She was so beautiful, everything he’d ever wanted, everything he could ever want. She owned his heart and soul.
“I’m not running again.” Her words were quiet but firm. Utterly determined. “No matter what.”
“Charlie.” It was the only word he could push out of his burning throat. Her name was both a prayer and a desperate plea not to give up on him, even after he’d given up on himself.
“I have so many things I want to ask you. So many things I want to tell you. But first—” She held out the clipboard of sketches he’d worked on this morning, forcing him to look. “I’m going to tell you what I see when I look at this drawing.” She traced the lines of the sketch with one fingertip. “I see me. The real me.”
He had to say, “You’re far more beautiful than that.” His hands could never bring out her true beauty.
“Maybe I am, but this is my essence,” she insisted. “This is when I’m at my best. When I’m working. You show that with every look you give me, with every kiss, and with this too.” Another step closer, glass crunching beneath her boots. “Now it’s your turn. Tell me what you see, Sebastian,” she whispered. “What you really see, not just what you’re afraid you see.”
He was afraid. Not only of being an artistic failure, but also of somehow diminishing her in the drawing, as his father had accused him of doing so long ago.
“He threw my sketches into the fire.” The words were out before he even realized he’d opened his mouth. Tonight his control had fled, gone after all these years of locking his secrets deep inside, hiding them from the Mavericks, from Bob, even from Susan. “My father found my drawings. When I was twelve. Of him and my mother. He hated the way I’d sketched him. Said I made him look like a weak drunk.” Only Charlie’s hands over his kept Sebastian from falling back into that night in the filthy living room. “All I wanted was to help him, help my mom. But he and his friends tossed my drawings into the fire, and they all burned while they laughed.” Angry, bitter laughter that had echoed inside him with every chink in his walls. So he’d built those barriers higher, thicker, hiding that secret part of himself. Until Charlie. Until he fell so deep, so recklessly in love, that all the walls had shattered like the whiskey glass against the fireplace.
Charlie gently cupped his cheek. “What did your mom do?”
“Passed out,” he said as softly as the feel of her skin against him. “She never saw a thing. Never mentioned it. She was almost like a shadow around the house.”
“That’s why you stopped drawing, isn’t it? Why you’ve been hiding all your sketchbooks ever since. Because your father—” She spat out the word in disgust. “—sent your dreams up in flames.” She wrapped her arms around him, holding so tightly it felt as if she could weld the pieces of his shattered heart back together by the sheer force of her will to heal him. “Yet you still tried to do everything you could for them.”
“I spent my teenage years trying to fix them. I believed that if I poured enough liquor down the drain or got them into rehab or AA, I could change them. I believed I could find something to replace whatever they were missing.” He stared at the whiskey glistening on the bricks. “But maybe there’s a part of me that’s just like my father,” he whispered. “Maybe that’s what all the parties and galas are about. He needed his parties too, craved them as much as he craved his next drink.”
She drew back, gripping his shoulders to force him to meet her gaze. “Don’t you ever say that. Y
ou’re nothing like him. And those parties were all about helping me. There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“Then why couldn’t I fix my parents?” He needed to find a reason.
“It was never your job to find their solution for them.” She ran her strong, yet gentle, hands down his arms. “They had to find it for themselves, and they never could. They might never have been capable of it.”
He’d never wanted to admit the painful truth that some people simply didn’t have the strength to change. People like Bob and Susan had just as many trials in their lives, but they’d never given up. But his parents hadn’t even tried.
“They did one thing right, Sebastian. They helped make you who you are. Between them, they raised a man who has the strength, the passion, and the heart of ten men.”
“That was Susan and Bob and the rest of the Mavericks.” He wanted nothing more than to wrap her tightly in his arms, but he had so much to confess before he could do that. “I tried to do the same with your mother. New doctors, new treatments, as if I had the power to change everything for her.”
“I love that you wanted to try. But after we’ve done everything we can, we have to accept things the way they are and make the most of what we have. I love you for your empathy.” As if she’d had a sudden painful thought, she stiffened slightly against him. “I’m so sorry I made it sound like everything was your fault. It isn’t. Not even close. I was wrong for fighting you about contributing to Magnolia Gardens.”
He ran his fingers through her hair. “I understand your need to take care of that yourself. I pushed all the parties and the commissions because it seemed like the only thing I could do for you.”
She rested her hand on his chest, her fingers stroking lightly. “I know. And I was afraid of letting you take over, as if I’d lose my independence.” She shrugged. “I’ve always taken care of my own responsibilities, so it was hard to accept anything from you. But I was wrong. I told you I loved you, but I never turned my whole heart over to you. I was always holding something back, because—” This time she was the one swallowing hard. “It’s the same reason I thought I should drop teaching when my art career started to take off—because it’s the reasonable, streamlined thing to do. I mean, why would anyone keep a lower-paying job when every hour she spends making sculptures can earn so much more? But I’ve realized that’s who I am. Someone who does things that don’t make sense to everyone else, who tosses together those jumbled pieces of life in weird ways no one else could imagine. But it works for me. If I ever tried to change who I am, I’d only be destroying an important part of myself.” She trembled in his arms. “Can all those jumbled-up, junkyard pieces of me be good enough for you?”