Secrets of Us A Forbidden Love Romance (Alina)

Chapter 231

A Year 1 Week Later

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

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

dirtied my cheek.

The air in my room smells faintly of paint and canvas. The tip of my brush moves slowly, carefully, as | blend the

shades of shadow around my grandfather's eyes.

Elena gaveenough 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 gavea stack of old family photographs and sof my dad's paintings earlier this week. | cried

the first night I looked through them.

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

life.

My therapist says painting is a healthy outlet. That it's good forto have something to do with my hands,

something that helpsprocess the sadness and the heat that still lingers under my skin from tto time.

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

So | paint. And | 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 | smile.

"Cin," | 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," | tease, smiling.

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A Year

He steps into the room and closes the door behind him, his footsteps soft as he

approaches me. His fingers reach out, gently, as he brushes the pad of his thumb across

my cheek.

My stomach twists, and | lean into his touch. It ignites me, calms me, and setson fire

all at the stime.

"You have no idea what tit is, do you?"

| straighten in my seat and blink at him.

He smiles softly, his eyes shining as he traces the curves of my eyes. He cups my face,

fingers curling lightly around my jaw, his touch so familiar now it feels like the only thing keepinghere.

My breath turns heavy, and | swallow the lump in my throat. "What tis it?" "Six," he says.

| blink again, startled. "Shit."

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

need to shower, | need to, ugh, my hair."

Zaid laughs, warm and completely unbothered. He doesn't rush me, just watches as | start peeling off my paint

splattered shirt and hopping out of the room, already halfway to the

bathroom.

"You're welcfor the reminder," he calls after me.

| glance back just once, catching him leaning in my doorway. He's still smiling, and the look on his face makes

my chest do something light and unfamiliar. Like he could stay like that forever, watchingrun around like a

maniac, and be perfectly happy.

It's forty-five minutes before we're in his car, music playing low as we drive through the evening light. | keep

sneaking glances at him, and he keeps pretending not to notice.

Elena's house smells like rosemary and something buttery when we walk in. Dinner's already set. She waves us

in, kissing both our cheeks before settling into her chair.

We eat slow. Zaid and | leaning into each other as we tell Elena about our week. The

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3:25 pm L

A Year

conversation is easy and comfortable. | talk to her about this new oil paint I've been

trying. It's harder to work with than acrylic. Slower to dry, the texture is different, and I'm struggling to get the

lines I want.

"I'm proud of you," she says, looking over her wineglass. "You're being patient with the

process."

"I'm trying," | say, pushing a piece of roasted potato around my plate. "But I'm not sure oil and | are compatible.

It's hard."

"Most worthwhile things are," she says gently.

There's a pause, then she sighs. Her eyes flick to Zaid, then back to me. There's something in her face that

shifts. It softens with sadness, and yet | see the determination behind her

eyes.

"lI have snews," she says.

My stomach dips. | don't know why | have the feeling that it's bad news. "Okay."

"I've been offered a curatorial fellowship in Florence," she says.

My fork pauses halfway to my mouth.

"It's through the Uffizi," she continues. "They're building a new private exhibition focused on lost Renaissance

works, pieces that were either destroyed, stolen, or simply never seen by the public. They've invited a handful of

curators from around the world to

consult and help rebuild it."

"Wait, the Uffizi?" I ask, blinking.

Zaid tilts his head slightly. He looks between the two of us like we grew second heads. "What's the Uffizi?"

| let out a breathless laugh as | turn to face him. "They're one of the most famous art museums in the world. It's

in Florence." | look back at Elena. "That's insane."

Zaid raises his eyebrows. "Damn. That sounds serious."

"It is," | say, still trying to wrap my head around it.

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3:25 pm f

A Year

She nods, smiling, though there's something fragile behind her eyes. "It's a once-in-a- lifetopportunity. A full

year in Italy, working with pieces most people will never even get close to. Research, restoration partnerships,

archival access, everything I've spent the last twenty years preparing for." "That's huge," | say, staring at her.

"Elena, oh my god. That's incredible." "Thank you," she says softly. "It feels like the right next step." There's a

beat of silence. Zaid is watchingcarefully. I'm overcby a sudden wave of sadness. She'll be gone for a

year. A whole year, and | feel like we just started to build our

relationship.

Then Elena reaches across the table, her fingers brushing mine. "I was

hoping you'd want

to cwith me."

My heart stutters.

"You could paint. Study. Take classes if you wanted. The program director

already said they'd sponsor a residency for an emerging artist. This could be

a chance for you to really step into who you are, Alina."

| glance at Zaid. He's already looking at me, unreadable, but quiet.

A year. In Florence. Painting. Starting fresh.

| don't know what to say. Not yet. | feel like I'm standing at the edge of two

very different paths, and | don't know which one to follow.