Chapter 8 - Face to Face
The studio smelled of turpentine, linseed oil, and fresh canvas. Canvases of various sizes were leaned against the walls, covered in vibrant splashes of color.
At the far end of the room, standing before a massive canvas, was a young man.
He was tall, with broad shoulders and dark, curly hair. He wore a paint-splattered apron over a simple black t-shirt. He was holding a palette knife, applying thick, deliberate strokes of golden paint to a canvas.
I couldn't speak. My throat felt completely dry. I just stood there, watching him. He had my nose, my jawline... but he had Amara's gentle, focused eyes.
Hearing the chime of the door, he didn't look up immediately. "We're closed to the public today," he said, his voice deep and resonant. "But if you're looking for the curator, she’ll be back in an—"
He stopped mid-sentence as he turned and saw me.
The palette knife slipped from his fingers, clattering loudly against the wooden floor. The color drained from his face.
"Daniel," he breathed, the word a mix of disbelief and instant, defensive tension.
"Ethan," I said, my voice cracking. I took a step forward, but stopped when I saw him tense up, his hands balling into fists.
"What are you doing here?" Ethan asked, his voice suddenly cold and sharp as ice. "Maya was supposed to show you the gallery. She wasn't supposed to give you my address."
"She didn't want to," I said softly, keeping my distance. "I begged her. I... I saw the paintings, Ethan. I saw the DNA test."
Ethan let out a harsh, dry laugh. It was a sound devoid of joy. "Ah. So that's what it took. A piece of paper. Ten years of thinking I was another man's mistake, and all it took to bring you to your knees was a scientific confirmation that I share your blood."
The words cut through me like a knife, but I knew I deserved every single one of them.
"You're right," I wept openly, not caring about my pride anymore. "I was a coward, Ethan. I was blinded by my own jealousy, my own insecurity, and my utter stupidity. I projected my anger at the world onto an innocent child. Your mother loved me, and she loved you. And I ruined everything."
I opened my briefcase and pulled out the worn leather diary, placing it gently on a nearby stool, followed by the certified DNA document.
May you like
"I don't expect you to forgive me," I said, my voice trembling. "I don't deserve your forgiveness. But I wanted you to know... I am so, so sorry. I would give everything I have to go back to that night and pull you back inside. To hold you. To tell you that I love you."
Ethan stared at the diary, his eyes shining with sudden, unshed tears. The cold facade he had built over ten years began to crack.
