90 Days With the Man I Can't Have

The air in the gallery was thin, recycled, and suffocating. It smelled of expensive perfume, damp wool, and the bitter, metallic tang of artificial prestige. I adjusted my dress, a simple black slip that felt like a costume and gripped the stem of my champagne flute until my knuckles turned white.

​Around me, the elite of Newark moved like sharks in a feeding frenzy. They didn't see the art; they saw investment portfolios and social capital. And then, there was me. The token "struggling artist" allowed to display a single, small piece in the corner of the room, as if to prove the gallery had a soul.

​My eyes kept darting to the entrance. I knew he was coming. I could feel the atmosphere shift before I even saw him.

​The crowd parted. It wasn't just a entrance; it was a coronation. Josh walked through the double doors with the effortless, devastating grace of a man who owned the very ground he walked on. He was wearing a charcoal tuxedo that fit him like a second skin, his dark hair perfectly styled, his jawline carved from granite. And hanging on his arm, draped in enough diamonds to fund my studio for a decade, was Vanessa.

​She looked like a winter morning beautiful, cold, and entirely devoid of warmth.

​They were the picture of a corporate dynasty, the perfect merger of bloodlines and bank accounts.

As they glided through the room, people bowed their heads like worshippers at a shrine. I felt the familiar, crushing weight of the silver key against my sternum. It burned. It was a secret brand, a silent claim that felt impossibly heavy under the weight of a thousand eyes.

​"Vivian," Vanessa's voice cut through the hum of conversation, sharp as a glass shard.

​I turned, forcing a smile that didn't reach my eyes. "Vanessa. Josh."

When Josh's gaze finally locked onto mine, the air in my lungs turned to lead. The professional mask he wore was absolute, a fortress of granite, but his eyes, those dark, predatory eyes didn't lie.

They stripped away the gallery, the cameras, and the woman clinging to his arm. They pinned me to the spot with a raw, savage intensity that felt like a physical strike.

​He didn't greet me. He didn't smile. He just stared, and in that silence, he reminded me exactly whose mouth had been on mine three nights ago.

​

​"Viv," Josh said, his voice a low, steady rumble. He didn't offer his hand. He didn't pull me into a hug. He kept his hands at his sides, as if he were afraid that if he touched me, the secrets in his blood would leak out for everyone to see.

​"Your little display is.... quaint" Vanessa said, casting a dismissive glance at my painting a raw, frantic piece of abstract heartbreak I'd titled The Midnight Bargain. "It's so cute that you treat your little hobby with such seriousness. It's like watching a child play with finger paints."

​The condescension rolled off her like a wave, thick and suffocating. I felt the heat rise in my cheeks, a sharp, stinging shame. Josh's jaw tightened, the muscles in his neck cording, but he didn't say a word. He let her insult me. He let her treat me like a footnote in his life.

​"It pays the rent," I said, my voice steady despite the way my heart was hammering against my ribs

.

​"Barely, I imagine," Vanessa laughed, a brittle, hollow sound.

​Suddenly, Julian, a rival painter, charming and infuriatingly persistent stepped into my orbit, his hand finding the small of my back. "Vivian, darling, that piece is breathtaking. The way you captured the, uh, agony in the brushwork is truly profound."

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a teasing, flirtatious register. "You look radiant tonight. Far too interesting for a place like this."

​I felt Josh's attention snap to us. He wasn't looking at the art anymore. His gaze was fixed on Julian's hand resting on my waist, and the look in his eyes was lethal. It was a dark, possessive hunger that had nothing to do with the "best friend" dynamic he was forced to play.

​Under the cover of a high-top mahogany table, away from the prying eyes of the press and the wandering gaze of his fiancée, Josh's hand shot out. He grabbed my wrist, his fingers curling around it with a force that bordered on painful. He pulled my hand beneath the table, his skin burning against mine. He didn't just hold it; he pressed it into his thigh, his fingers interlacing with mine in a silent, violent warning. Back off. She's mine.

​"Vivian," Josh said, his voice dropping an octave, smooth and dangerous. "I've been speaking with Vanessa about the wedding. We've been discussing the aesthetic. We've decided we need something... specific."

​I tried to pull my hand back, but he held on tighter, his thumb tracing the delicate bones of my wrist in a way that felt like a caress. "Oh?" I managed, my breath hitching as he squeezed my hand, a silent, possessive command.

​"We want you to paint our wedding portrait," Josh continued, his eyes locked on mine, defying the distance between us. "Eight hours a day, in the studio. I want you to capture us perfectly."

​My stomach turned. Stare at them for eight hours a day? Watch them plan their life, their future, their everything, while I was relegated to the canvas? It was torture. It was a slow, agonizing death.

​"I... I'm not sure if I have the time," I stammered, my heart breaking all over again.

​Josh didn't let go. He leaned in, his shadow falling over me, his scent expensive bourbon and cold winter air invading my senses. "You'll make the time, won't you, Viv?"

​The request hung in the air, weighted with the unspoken rules of our bargain. He wasn't asking; he was demanding. He wanted me to witness his surrender. He wanted me to be the silent observer of his betrayal, a spectator to the life I couldn't have.

​Vanessa, oblivious to the war being fought beneath the table, beamed at me, her eyes bright with a patronizing, glittering joy. She took a step closer, her hand clutching Josh's arm, claiming him in front of everyone.

​"We'd love to have you, truly," she said, her smile wide and artificial. Then, her eyes narrowed with a sudden, devastating thought. "And actually, Viv, since you're Josh's oldest friend... you simply must be my Maid of Honor."

​The room went silent. The music faded into a dull, rhythmic thrumming in my ears. I looked at Josh, but he was staring at me, his eyes dark and unreadable, his hand still gripping mine with the strength of a drowning man.