All Chapters of Addicted to My Stepbrother : Chapter 71 - Chapter 80

The sun went completely down outside, leaving the studio in deep, dark shadows. My shoulders hurt down to the bone from holding the paintbrush steady for so many hours without stopping.​Priya dropped her painting tool onto the wooden table with a loud clack that echoed through the room. She stretched her arms over her head, her back popping softly before she let out a long sigh.​"I am officially done for today," Priya said, dropping her arms and wiping a spot of gold paint off her wrist with a dirty cloth. "If I look at another canvas tonight, I'm going to set it on fire."​I lowered my brush and stepped back to look at the painting in the dim light. The red paint looked dark and strong against the white background. "We still have thirty-eight paintings to finish, Priya."​"Which is why we are leaving right now." Priya grabbed her jacket off the hook by the door and put it on, giving me a firm look. "You've been locked in this building for days, drinking cold coffee and refusing to

​The cool night air hit my face as I stepped out the back exit. The metal door clicked shut behind me.​Standing under the streetlight was Adrian.​He wasn't wearing his gallery suit. He leaned against the brick wall in a black t-shirt and coat, holding a small wooden box.​"You aren't a delivery driver," I said, stopping a few feet away.​"The man at the desk took twenty dollars to let me up," Adrian said, his voice low and smooth. He held out the box. "You dropped your sketchbook under the table at the bar the other night when your friend dragged you away."​Heat flushed across my face as I recognized the leather cover.​"Adrian," I said, taking it. "The man from the Met."​"And the woman who poked me in the chest," he said, a slow smile spreading across his face. "I bought your red painting tonight, but I wanted to make sure you got this back too."​He didn't step into my space or wait for an invitation to come closer. He just stood there, completely comfortable letting me make the

The late afternoon light filtered through the high windows of my art studio, casting long shadows across the floor. The room smelled of fresh paint, linseed oil, and the faint citrus cologne Adrian had worn since the day we met.​He sat on the edge of my worktable with his sleeves rolled up, watching me. I held my palette knife tight, scraping dried white paint off the glass.​"You're scraping so hard you're going to break the blade," Adrian said, his voice quiet.​I didn't stop. "The paint is dry. It takes work."​"You only clean your palette like that when you're stressed." He reached out and caught my wrist. His hand was warm against my skin, making my heart race.​I froze, staring down at his thumb over my wrist. I set the knife down with a sharp clack.​"I'm fine," I said, stepping back toward an easel to gain some space. "Just focusing."​Adrian smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You've been 'focusing' for three days, Tamara. Every time I touch you lately, you look like you

The glass conference room on the top floor of the museum looked out over the city skyline, but I kept my eyes on the table in front of me. Two black folders rested under my hands, my fingers tracing the sharp edges of the paper inside. Across from me sat Director Dupont and his chief curator, Eleanor Vance. A simple nod from either of them could make or break an artist's career."Your recent show caught our attention, Tamara," Director Dupont said, leaning back in his chair and resting his chin on his hands. "The emotion in your brushwork shows a lot of skill for an artist your age.""Thank you, Director Dupont," I said, keeping my back straight and my voice steady, even though my heart was pounding. "I appreciate you taking the time to look at my work."Eleanor flipped through the photos on the table, her fingernail tapping against a picture of my main painting. "It’s rare to find an artist who handles light with such raw energy. It pulls you in." She stopped and looked up at me. "Of

​My feet stayed glued to the floor. My whole body went stiff. The silence in the room felt heavy and scary.​I swallowed hard, trying to clear my dry throat, and stepped slowly into the room. A floorboard creaked under my boot. I froze and listened, looking toward the small kitchen, the bathroom door, and the dark hallway near my storage closet.​"Is anyone here?" my voice came out as a quiet whisper.​No answer. Only the hum of the fridge and the sound of rain hitting the windows.​I dropped my bag onto the couch and picked up a candle holder from the side table. Holding it tight in my right hand, I walked toward the back of the studio. I checked behind the drying racks. Empty. I threw open the bathroom door and flipped on the light. Empty. I opened the storage closet and swung the candle holder in front of me. There were only blank canvases and cans of paint.​Whoever had been here was gone.​I walked back to the middle of the room and stopped in front of the easel. The painting sat