The Art of Wanting You

Chapter Three:

I lied again.

“I’m studying,” I told Dad, holding a textbook I hadn’t opened in days.

He smiled at me, proud. “That’s my girl. Keep your head down and avoid distractions.”

“Of course,” I said.

But Liam Sinclair was the only distraction I couldn’t avoid.

The art gallery was quiet and classy. It was hidden between an old bookstore and a fancy wine shop downtown. Harper had gotten us in through her cousin who worked with the gallery team.

> Sinclair is hosting a private art show tonight. Want to crash it with me?

> You already know the answer.

When we got there, everything felt expensive. The walls were dark blue and green, and the lights above glowed gold like soft stars. People in long dresses and suits sipped drinks and whispered to each other.

Harper looked excited. “This place is so chic. Maybe I’ll marry rich too.”

I laughed but barely heard her. My eyes were scanning the room.

And then I saw him.

Liam stood near a large painting, dressed in a black suit, his face unreadable. He didn’t smile. He didn’t move much. But something about him pulled me in like gravity.

He didn’t see me at first.

But I saw him.

And when our eyes finally met, it was like time paused. My breath caught in my throat.

He walked toward us slowly. Calm. Confident. Like nothing in the world could shake him.

“Harper,” he said with a short nod.

Then his eyes landed on me.

“Isla.”

“Hi,” I replied, my voice small

“You look…” He paused, his gaze lowering to take in my dress. “…older.”

I raised my chin. “Black makes me look serious.”

He smirked slightly. “Is your father here?”

“No,” I said. “Does he need to be?”

“You think this is a joke?” he asked, his tone changing.

I shrugged. “I think I’m allowed to be here.”

He stared for a moment, then said, “Walk with me.”

I followed him through a hallway filled with paintings. The deeper we went, the quieter it got. The lights were softer, and everything felt more private.

He stopped in front of one painting. It was full of reds and blacks—wild and messy, like strong feelings.

“This one’s called Temptation’s Line,” he said.

“What’s the story behind it?”

“The artist fell in love with someone he couldn’t have. So instead of acting on it, he painted her again and again.”

I stared at the painting, feeling something stir inside me. “That’s sad.”

“It’s real,” he said.

“Is it your story?” I asked, voice low.

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he stepped closer. So close I could smell his cologne—warm and spicy.

“I shouldn’t have let you come here.”

“You didn’t,” I replied. “I chose to.”

He gave me a long look. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Maybe I do.”

“This is not a fair game,” he said. “You’re young. Curious. And I’m

“Scared?” I asked, cutting in.

“No,” he said, his voice cold now. “Smart.”

We stood there in silence. The space between us felt heavy.

“You keep looking at me like you want me to say something,” I whispered.

He stared at me for a long time. “I want to say a lot of things.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“Because your father is the only man I’ve ever respected like a brother.”

I stepped back, heart sinking. “So that’s it?”

He nodded once. “That’s it.”

And he walked away.

I stayed in the hallway for a few minutes after he left. Everything felt too loud. Too bright. Too real.

Harper came up behind me. “What happened?”

“He left.”

“Did you say something?”

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “But I don’t think it mattered.”

Later that night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. My heart still beat too fast. My phone buzzed.

Unknown Number: You shouldn’t have come tonight.

Me: But you didn’t stop me.

A pause.

Unknown: I’ll stop you next time.

Me: Will you?

No reply.

Then:

Unknown: I don’t make promises I can’t keep

I read the message three times.

And smiled.

Because even if he tried to push me away…

I could feel it in my bones.

He wanted me too.

I didn’t expect the black car.

It pulled up in front of campus just as I stepped out of my last class. The driver got out and opened the door without saying a word.

A message popped up on my phone at the same time.

Unknown: Get in.

I didn’t need to ask who it was from.

I got in.

The inside smelled like leather and something sharp—like Liam’s cologne. The windows were tinted, the air silent. I sat there, heart pounding the whole ride.

We drove for about thirty minutes, out of the city and into the hills. Trees lined the road, and tall gates opened as we passed.

Then I saw it—his mansion.

It looked like something from a movie: wide, modern, clean lines with tall glass windows and sharp edges. It was quiet. Almost too quiet.

The car stopped.

The driver opened the door again and nodded. “He’s waiting inside.”

I stepped out and looked around. The place was huge. Not warm, but powerful. Like Liam.

Inside, the floors were polished marble. A large painting hung in the entryway—a woman in shadows. Everything smelled fresh, like pine and expensive wood.

And then, I saw him.

Standing at the top of the stairs.

Liam Sinclair.

He wore a white shirt, sleeves rolled up, and dark pants. No tie. No jacket. Just him—looking calm but unreadable.

“You came,” he said.

“You sent a car,” I replied.

“You could’ve said no.”

I stepped closer. “But I didn’t.”

He stared at me for a moment, then turned. “Come on.”

I followed him through the wide hallway, past rooms with high ceilings and huge windows. The mansion was beautiful, but it felt… lonely.

No photos. No noise. Just cold elegance.

“Nice place,” I said, trying to break the silence.

He glanced at me. “Thanks.”

“Do you live here alone?”

He nodded once. “Always have.”

No surprise there.

He stopped by a room that looked like a library. Books lined the walls from floor to ceiling, and a soft fire crackled in the corner.

He poured a glass of something dark—whiskey, probably—and handed it to me.

I raised an eyebrow. “Trying to get me drunk?”

“No. Just trying to make you stop shaking.”

I looked down. He was right. My hands were trembling.

I took the glass.

“I’m not nervous,” I said, sipping slowly.

He didn’t argue.

“Why did you bring me here?” I asked, finally.

He looked at me. Really looked.

“Because I needed to see you. Alone. Away from the world.”

“That’s not a full answer.”

He sighed and walked toward the fire. “This house… is the only place I can control everything. The only place I don’t have to play a part.”

I walked to the shelves and touched a few books. “And you brought me into that world?”

He turned. “Yes.”

“Why?”

A beat of silence.

Then he said, “Because I’m tired of pretending I don’t think about you.”

My heart stopped.

“I told myself to stay away,” he continued. “That I wouldn’t cross the line.”

“Too late for that,” I whispered.

His jaw tightened. “You have no idea how dangerous this is.”

“Then show me.”

He stepped closer, slow and steady.

“I’m not a good man, Isla.”

“Maybe I don’t want a good man.”

His hand brushed my cheek, just once, and it felt like fire.

“I want you,” he said quietly. “But wanting you means losing control. And I don’t lose control.”

“Maybe you need to.”

We stood there, firelight dancing between us.

And for the first time… he didn’t walk away.

He leaned in, so close I could feel his breath.

“I shouldn’t do this.”

“But you will,” I said.

His lips brushed mine—soft, barely a kiss.

Then he pulled back.

“I need to show you something,” he said, voice rough.

I blinked. “What?”

He led me down another hallway, toward a locked door. He opened it with a small key from his pocket.

Inside was a private studio. Sketches. Paints. Canvases. All unfinished.

In the middle, a painting of a girl.

Me.

Sitting in the campus garden, reading a book. It was from weeks ago.

My mouth dropped open. “You—painted me?”

“I saw you there. You looked peaceful. Free.”

I stepped closer. “You’ve been watching me?”

He didn’t answer.

“You said you were dangerous,” I whispered. “But this… this is gentle.”

“I’m not gentle.”

“But you could be.”

He looked at me, something soft breaking through his hard shell.

And then his phone buzzed.

He checked the screen. His face turned cold again.

“I have to deal with something,” he said. “Stay here. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

He walked out, leaving me standing alone in a room filled with his secrets.

And my painting.

I stared at it.

At me.

At the man who claimed not to want me but painted me like I was his whole world.

And I knew something for sure now.

Liam Sinclair was hiding more than just feelings.

He was hiding a life I didn’t fully understand.

But I was already part of it.

Even if I wasn’t supposed to be.

---