A Kiss For Three

chapter 18

A week slipped through my fingers like smoke. I told myself I was fine. I told myself to focus on work, on reports, on people’s dirty secrets that paid my bills. But every day felt like it was closing in—too many faces, too many ghosts. And one of them kept showing up.

Steve.

An “accidental” run-in downtown. Another coincidence at the same bar I used to detox from other people’s marriages. His face printed in some newspaper left perfectly folded in front of my office door, like a taunt wrapped in ink. It wasn’t paranoia if he really was everywhere. By the third time, I started wondering if the city was playing some cruel joke—testing how many times I’d flinch before I broke.

I knew Adrian knew about him by then. Nico probably did too. They never said a word, but they didn’t need to. The way Adrian’s eyes lingered a second too long on me during our last night together said enough. They must have talked. And yet, they didn’t bring it up once. Not once. Instead, they filled my nights with noise—the good kind, the kind that erased thought.

We played Monopoly again, until Adrian cheated and Nico swore he’d sue. We played baseball in Adrian’s penthouse hallway with a rolled-up magazine and an empty champagne bottle—Adrian insisted on teaching me proper form; Nico called him a pretentious idiot with “a thing for balls.” We went out drinking until the bartender cut us off, and I taught them how to break into someone’s encrypted account for fun.

Adrian’s laugh when I hacked a fake profile faster than he could pour another drink was something I wanted to bottle. Nico’s smirk when he called me “dangerous” felt like a dare. Sometimes, when I was too tired or too drunk to care, I caught myself thinking there were no lines anymore—that maybe lines were a myth people invented to feel safe. And maybe I didn’t want to feel safe.

Then the day of the gallery arrived.

I dressed like I was going to war: a dark red dress with a high slit, an open back, black gloves, and a hat wide enough to shield my face from recognition—or judgment. I told myself it was strategy, not insecurity. The truth was I didn’t want to see Serena or Camille. Not that night. Not when I’d barely rebuilt what they tried to burn.

By the time I arrived, the street outside the venue was chaos—flashes, microphones, shouted questions—a wave of perfume and ambition. Through the crowd, I spotted them: Nico, magnetic and relaxed, camera-ready in his black suit; Adrian beside him, the perfect contrast—sharp, controlled, the edge that made people lean in closer.

They stood by the main entrance, smiling through an interview.

“Mr. Cole,” one reporter called out, “what do you think of Mr. Moreau’s work?” Adrian’s smile flickered into something real.

“Don’t know yet,” he said smoothly. “Believe me, I haven’t seen the pieces either. Nico’s good at keeping intrigue.”

That drew laughter. Nico’s, too. God, even his laugh was art.

I slipped inside while the cameras were busy. The main hall swallowed me—huge, luminous, alive. Paintings hung from every wall like living secrets. The air smelled of varnish, champagne, and envy. I wove through the crowd, studying each canvas.

Nico’s work was—there’s no other word for it—intimate. The kind of beauty that left you raw. He painted emotion like anatomy.

And then I saw it. A massive canvas at the end of the row. My breath froze. That was me—my hair wild in the wind, my face turned toward the skyline, that rare smile I hadn’t even known I’d made that night. The rooftop, the moment I thought no one was watching. Except he was. He had painted me. Captured me. Immortalized me without asking.

I stepped closer, drawn like gravity had chosen sides. The city behind me in the painting looked softer than reality, the stars brighter, my posture unguarded. It wasn’t Iris Lowell who played detective or liar or lover. It was me—bare, real, unarmed.

“Beautiful,” I murmured before I could stop myself.

“You think so?” I knew that voice before I even turned. He was behind me, close enough that the air changed temperature.

“Why would you do this?” I asked quietly, eyes still fixed on the canvas.

“Paint you?” His tone was calm. “Because you’re a walking muse, Iris. You were when I met you, and you still are.”

The words landed like warm oil, slow and deliberate.

“You had no right,” I said, but it came out more breath than protest.

“I had every right,” he countered, stepping beside me.

“It was my moment too.”

I looked at him then. The arrogance should have ruined it—but it didn’t. His eyes were steady, his lips curved in something too soft to be smug.

“I wanted to capture you like that,” he added, quieter now. “Free. Honest. Not pretending to be untouchable for once.”

My heart was a drum in a locked room. “You could have warned me.” “If I’d warned you,” he said, “you wouldn’t have been real.”

I didn’t even notice that my hand was moving until it hovered just shy of his chest. My fingers twitched with the need to touch, to confirm he was real too. His breath hitched.

“Careful, Iris,” he murmured, eyes flicking to my lips. “I might start thinking this is mutual.”

“It isn’t?”

“I don’t know anymore.” Neither did I.

The moment stretched, electric and trembling—and then shattered. A familiar perfume sliced through the air before I even saw Camille.

“Darling!” she called, her voice bright as glass. Nico stiffened.

The warmth in his expression vanished. Before I could move, Camille swept in, kissed him square on the mouth, her hand sliding to his chest like she was stamping her ownership.

My body reacted before my brain did. I pulled the brim of my hat lower, turned on my heel, and slipped back into the crowd. My pulse roared in my ears.

Jealousy was supposed to be beneath me—an emotion for amateurs, for women who didn’t know better. But it burned like it had been waiting years for a reason to exist.

By the time I reached the exit, I could still taste the bitterness in my mouth. Behind me, the sound of champagne glasses and polite applause echoed like mockery. Somewhere, Nico was probably pretending nothing had happened. Adrian was probably defusing the press outside.

And me? I was already halfway down the street, my heart trying to outrun the truth: that I wanted him. And that I wanted them.