His Golden Girl Her Empty Canvas

Summary

The rule held firm for three years—the length of our marriage and the length of our divorce: Rhys, the acclaimed painter, would not paint me. Not once.

Now we were back together.

I no longer raised a fuss about entering Rhys’s studio, nor did I care what time he stumbled in at night.

When Dahlia—The Muse—showed up at our loft for a modeling session, I even helped Rhys craft a plausible excuse. “I get it,” I said, shrugging. “It’s art.”

Rhys froze. He gripped my wrist, his eyes searching my face with an intensity that used to make my stomach clench.