His thumb hooked into the waistband of my silk trousers, dragging the fabric down just enough to expose the scar from my appendectomy.
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CELIA
NOW
The air in the gallery is thick with the smell of expensive gin and the kind of perfume that costs more than my first car. It’s that heavy, floral scent that clings to the back of your throat, making you crave a glass of ice-cold water or a cigarette you haven’t smoked in ten years. I’m standing in front of a piece that looks like someone bled out on a canvas and then tried to mop it up with a silk scarf.
I’m thirty-four now. Three years since the papers were signed. Three years since I stopped being a Sterling and went back to being just Celia Vance. I thought I’d scrubbed the scent of that family off me, but then I see him.
Arthur Sterling is standing by the bar, looking exactly like the man who once gave me away at a wedding he didn’t believe in. He’s fifty-eight, but age hasn't softened him; it’s just cured him, like a piece of fine leather. He’s wearing a charcoal suit that probably cost as much as my mortgage, and his hair is more silver than black now. He’s holding a tumbler of bourbon—neat, always neat—and he’s looking at me over the rim of the glass.
Not through me. At me.
My stomach does a slow, heavy roll, the kind you get when a plane hits a pocket of air over the Appalachians. It’s not fear. It’s the sudden, terrifying realization that I’ve been waiting for this moment since the day I realized his son was never going to be half the man his father was.
He doesn't wave. He doesn't smile. He just tilts his head, a silent command I feel in the very center of my chest, and starts walking toward the back hallway where the private viewing rooms are tucked away.
I follow. Of course I follow. I’ve always been a sucker for a well-paced plot, and Arthur Sterling was always the best character I never got to write.
***
ARTHUR
THEN - SEVEN YEARS AGO
The humidity in Savannah is enough to make a man want to peel off his own skin. It was Toby’s thirtieth birthday, a garden party that my ex-wife had insisted on, all white linens and string lights that looked like fireflies caught in a net.
Celia was wearing a yellow dress. It was the color of buttercups or the first light of a Georgia morning. She was laughing at something Toby said, but her eyes were wandering. She looked restless, like a bird trapped in a porch screened with chicken wire.
I was standing by the magnolia tree, nursing a drink, when she escaped the circle of Toby’s friends. She came over to me, smelling of citrus and sweat.
“It’s too much, isn’t it?” she asked, leaning against the rough bark of the tree.
“The party or the humidity?” I asked.
“The performance,” she whispered. She looked at me then, really looked at me, and I saw the cracks in the foundation. She was too young for him. Not in years—she was twenty-seven—but in weight. She had a gravity Toby would never possess. He was all surface tension; she was the deep water underneath.
“You should go inside, Celia. The gnats are getting bad,” I said, but I didn't move. My hand was inches from her shoulder. I could see the way her collarbone dipped, a perfect little hollow where a man could press his thumb and feel the pulse of her life.
“I don't want to go inside, Arthur,” she said. “I want to go somewhere where I don't have to pretend I’m having the best time of my life.”
I didn't touch her then. I was his father. I was the patriarch. I was the one who had taught Toby how to tie a tie and how to treat a lady, even if he’d failed the second lesson. I just nodded and walked away, my skin itching with the sudden, violent urge to pull that yellow dress off her and see if she was as warm as she looked.
***
CELIA
NOW
The private room is cool, the air conditioning humming a low, steady B-flat. It’s filled with crates and half-unpacked frames, the smell of sawdust and varnish replacing the heavy perfume of the lobby.
Arthur is standing by a window that looks out over a rainy Peachtree Street. The city lights are blurred by the droplets, turning the world into an impressionist painting I don't care to analyze.
“You look well, Celia,” he says. His voice is a low rumble, like a truck idling in a driveway. It’s the kind of voice that makes you want to lean in just to feel the vibration of it.
“I’m divorced, Arthur. That usually helps a woman’s complexion,” I say, closing the door behind me. The click of the latch feels like a gunshot in the small space.
He turns around. He’s ditched the bourbon glass on a crate. His hands are in his pockets, pulling the fabric of his trousers tight across his thighs. He’s always had these hands—broad, scarred from a youth spent working in his father’s lumber yard before he turned himself into a titan of industry. They aren't the soft hands of a man who only pushes papers.
“Toby is a fool,” he says. It’s the first time he’s ever admitted it out loud.
“Toby is your son.”
“He’s my greatest disappointment,” Arthur says, taking a step toward me. “Not because he couldn't keep you. But because he never understood what he had. He treated you like a trophy when you were the damn prize fight.”
I feel a flush creeping up my neck, hot and prickly. “And what are you doing, Arthur? Offering condolences three years too late?”
“I’m done with condolences,” he says. He’s close now. I can smell the bourbon on his breath, mixed with the sharp, clean scent of cedarwood. He reaches out, his fingers grazing the silk of my sleeve. “I’ve spent a decade being the better man. It’s an exhausting role, Celia. I think I’m ready for a career change.”
He doesn't wait for me to answer. He reaches out and cups my face, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. His skin is rough, slightly calloused, and it feels like a match being struck against my skin. I don't pull away. I lean into it, my eyes fluttering shut as I let out a breath I feel like I’ve been holding since that garden party in Savannah.
“You shouldn't be here,” I whisper, even as I slide my hands up his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath the expensive wool.
“I’ve been everywhere I shouldn't be for years,” he groans, and then his mouth is on mine.
***
ARTHUR
NOW
Kissing her is like finally getting a drink of water after a week in the desert. It’s desperate and messy and far too loud for a quiet room in a public gallery. She tastes like the gin she was sipping and something uniquely her—something sweet and fierce.
I back her up against a stack of wooden crates, my hands tangling in her hair. It’s shorter now than it was when she was married to my son, a blunt cut that hits her shoulders, and I like it. I like the way she feels under my hands—no longer the waif in the yellow dress, but a woman who knows exactly what she’s inviting in.
She’s wearing these silk trousers, wide-legged and elegant, and a matching camisole that’s barely held up by strings. I can feel the heat radiating off her skin. I pull back for a second, just enough to see her eyes. They’re dark, the pupils blown out, her lips swollen and wet from my mouth.
“Celia,” I growl. It’s a warning. A final chance for her to run, to keep some semblance of the 'Sterling' propriety she fought so hard to escape.
She responds by grabbing my tie and pulling me back down. “Shut up, Arthur. Just shut up and touch me.”
I don't need to be told twice. I drop to my knees in front of her, the movement sharp and decisive. I can hear her breath hitch, a jagged little sound that fuels the fire in my gut. I hook my fingers into the waistband of those silk pants. They’re expensive, the kind of fabric that slides over skin like oil.
I pull them down, taking her lace underwear with them in one smooth motion. She’s not wearing a lick of hair down there, just smooth, pale skin that looks like marble in the dim light of the storage room. I spread her legs, my shoulders pushing her knees apart, and I look at her.
She’s beautiful. She’s perfect. And she’s the one thing I’ve wanted more than any contract, any building, any legacy.
I press my face into the crook of her thigh, breathing her in. She smells like musk and anticipation. When I lick her, a long, slow stroke from the bottom of her opening up to the little hood of her clit, she lets out a cry that I’m sure they can hear in the main gallery. She grips my hair, her nails digging into my scalp, and I don't mind the pain one bit.
I use my tongue like a weapon, carving into her, tasting the salt and the sweetness of her. She’s so wet, the moisture slicking my chin, dripping onto the floorboards. I can feel her shaking, her thighs quivering against my ears.
“Arthur, please,” she gasps, her voice breaking.
I look up at her, my face wet with her. “Please what, Celia? Tell me exactly what you want from your ex-husband’s father.”
She looks down at me, her face a mask of pure, unadulterated need. “I want you to make me forget his name. I want you to fill me up until there’s nothing left of him in me.”
***
CELIA
THEN - FIVE YEARS AGO
We were at the lake house for Thanksgiving. Toby had passed out on the sofa, a victim of too much turkey and too much scotch. I was in the kitchen, washing dishes by the light of the stove.
Arthur came in to get a glass of water. He was wearing an old flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looked more like a man then than Toby ever did in his designer suits.
“Let me help you with those,” he said, stepping up to the sink.
Our hands brushed under the soapy water. It was a small thing, a nothing thing, but it felt like a jolt of electricity. I froze, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
“Celia?” he whispered.
I looked at him, and for a second, the world stopped spinning. I saw the hunger in his eyes, the same hunger I felt every time he walked into a room. It was a secret we were both keeping, a poison we were both drinking.
“I’m fine,” I said, pulling my hand away. But my skin was tingling, and that night, when I climbed into bed next to Toby, I closed my eyes and imagined it was Arthur’s rough hands on my waist, Arthur’s heavy body pressing me into the mattress. I made myself come while my husband snored, and the shame of it was the only thing that felt real in that whole hollow house.
***
ARTHUR
NOW
I stand up, my breath coming in short, hard bursts. I strip off my jacket and toss it onto a crate of bubble wrap. I don't bother with the shirt; I just fumble with my belt, my fingers clumsy with a desperation I haven't felt since I was twenty.
When I get my cock free, it’s heavy and aching, pulsing with every beat of my heart. I’m thick, thicker than my son, and I know it. I want her to know it. I want her to feel the difference in her bones.
I grab her hips and lift her. She’s light, but solid, and she wraps her legs around my waist, her heels digging into the small of my back. I walk her over to a sturdy workbench, clearing off a pile of catalogs with one sweep of my arm. I set her down on the edge, the cold wood a contrast to her hot skin.
“Look at me,” I command.
She looks. Her eyes are wide, tracking the movement of my hands as I guide myself to her opening. I’m right at the entrance, the tip of my head catching on the wet folds of her labia. She’s so open, so ready for me.
I push in, just an inch. She gasps, her head tossing back, her throat a long, elegant line. I stop, letting her adjust to the size of me. I’m stretching her, filling her in a way that makes her eyes go glassy.
“You’re so tight, Celia,” I groan, my forehead resting against hers. “God, you’re so small.”
“Don't stop,” she whimpers, her hands clutching my shoulders, her nails drawing blood through my shirt. “Don't you dare stop.”
I drive home then, a single, deep thrust that buries me to the hilt. She lets out a strangled scream, her body arching off the table. I don't give her time to recover. I start to move, a slow, punishing rhythm that grinds my pelvis against hers.
Every time I hit the bottom, I feel her clit rub against my pubic bone, and she lets out these little, broken whimpers that are driving me toward the edge. I can feel the heat of her, the way she’s clenching around me, her internal muscles pulsing in a frantic attempt to hold onto me.
I’m not a young man. I don't have the stamina of a boy, but I have the focus of a man who knows this might be the only time he gets to touch the sun. I watch her face—the way her eyebrows knit together, the way she bites her lip until it’s raw.
I reach down between us, my thumb finding her clit as I continue to fuck her. The combination is too much. She starts to come almost instantly, her body slamming into mine, her insides seizing around my cock like a fist.
“Arthur! Arthur!” she cries out, and hearing my name on her lips while she’s breaking apart is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.
I follow her a second later, my own climax hitting me like a physical blow. I bury my face in her neck, growling as I pour everything I’ve been holding back for seven years into her. I can feel the life of her, the rhythm of her heart against mine, and for a moment, the names and the titles and the history don't matter.
There’s just the salt of her skin and the weight of the silence after the storm.
***
CELIA
NOW
I’m sitting on the workbench, my legs dangling, feeling the cold air hit the dampness between my thighs. Arthur is standing between my knees, his head resting on my shoulder. We’re both breathing like we’ve just run a marathon through the Georgia red clay.
My silk pants are a ruined heap on the floor. My hair is a disaster. There’s a smudge of his thumbprint on my jaw where he held me too hard.
I feel more like myself than I have in years.
“What happens now?” I ask, my voice sounding thin and metallic in the quiet room.
Arthur pulls back, looking at me. He reaches out and tucks a stray hair behind my ear. His expression is unreadable—that old Sterling mask is back in place, but his eyes are different. They’re softer.
“Now,” he says, “I go back out there and I buy that hideous painting you were looking at. And then I take you to dinner. At a place where nobody knows our names.”
“People will talk, Arthur. If they see us. If they find out.”
He smiles then, a real smile that reaches his eyes. It makes him look younger and more dangerous all at once. “Celia, I’ve spent fifty-eight years caring what people in this town think. I find I’ve suddenly lost the inclination.”
He leans in and kisses my forehead, a gesture so tender it makes my chest ache. It’s not the kiss of a father-in-law, or a patriarch, or a ghost from my past. It’s the kiss of a man who has finally decided to claim what’s his.
I hop down from the table, my legs a little wobbly. I reach for my pants, shaking them out. I don't feel ashamed. I feel... settled. Like a story that finally found its ending, even if it wasn't the one anyone expected.
“That painting is awful, Arthur,” I say, zipping up the silk. “Truly. It looks like a crime scene.”
“Good,” he says, straightening his tie in the reflection of the window. “It’ll remind me of tonight.”
We walk out of the back room separately. He goes first, the titan of industry returning to his kingdom. I wait a few minutes, smoothing my hair and biting my lips to bring the color back.
When I step back into the gallery, the rain is still drumming against the glass, and the gin is still flowing. I see Arthur across the room, talking to the gallery owner, pointing at the red and white canvas. He doesn't look at me.
But I feel him. I feel the weight of him in my body, the lingering heat of him on my skin.
I pick up a fresh glass of water from a passing tray and take a long, slow sip. The November air outside might be cold, but for the first time in my life, I’m not shivering. I’m burning. And I think I’m going to let the whole damn house go up in flames.
