Page 51 of Mad for Madison

The studio felt smallerthan ever, the walls closing in like they had decided to suffocate me along with everything else. I’d packed up the paintings the day after I left Bradley’s place, shoving them into the closet where I couldn’t see them. I thought it might help not to have his face staring at me from the canvas. But it didn’t matter. The image of him was burned into my mind, sharper and more vivid than any paint I could have mixed.

Bradley’s laugh, his warm eyes, the way his hand lingered just a second too long on mine—all of it haunted me. The way he’d looked at me that night, standing in the rain, his face twisted in pain and disbelief, was the worst of it. I’d done that to him.

I sat in the middle of the studio floor, the air heavy with the scent of old paint and turpentine. My phone buzzed on the table across the room, but I didn’t move to check it. I already knew who it would be. Oakley, Tristan, Roman—they’d been calling nonstop since I disappeared. I hadn’t answered a single one. I couldn’t. What would I even say?

I hadn’t left the apartment in ten days. Food delivery bags piled up in the corner, and I barely had the energy to clear them away. The silence pressed in like a second skin. I didn’t want distractions. I didn’t want noise.

I wanted Bradley.

The thought hit me like a slap. I clenched my fists, trying to hold on to the anger that had carried me through the first few days. I’d told myself it was his fault, that he wanted too much from me, that he couldn’t understand what it cost to stay. But the truth was hard to face and harder to ignore.

I wanted too much from him.

I wanted his forgiveness without earning it, his love without deserving it. I wanted him to be the one to break down the walls I’d spent years building. And when he couldn’t, I’d blamed him for it.

My chest ached as the memory of Lily’s voice surfaced, bright and innocent. “Madison loves me, too!” she’d said, like it was the most obvious truth in the world.

I buried my face in my hands, the weight of everything crushing me. I didn’t deserve her trust, her love, or her father’s. I didn’t deserve the life they’d offered me, messy and beautiful as it was.

And yet, I couldn’t stop wanting it.

The painting of Bradley, the one hidden behind the closet door, came to me again. I saw it every time I closed my eyes—him lying on the bedsheet, his gaze soft and wandering, his hand resting over his beautiful body. He was mine. Or he had been.

I groaned, pushing myself to my feet. My legs were stiff from sitting too long, but I didn’t care. I crossed the room to the closet, pulling the door open with more force than necessary.

The painting wasn’t on top, but I knew where it was, buried beneath layers of canvas. My hands trembled as I pulled it out,setting it upright against the wall. And there he was, staring back at me with all the warmth and hope I’d walked away from.

My throat tightened, and I sank to my knees in front of it, my fingers brushing the edge of the frame. I’d painted him too perfectly. Every detail was a dagger.

“Damn it,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “Damn it, Bradley.”

The tears came then, hot and blinding, and for the first time in days, I let them fall. I let myself feel the weight of what I’d thrown away. And what I could never get back.

The tears didn’t stop, even as I tried to pull myself together. My hands clenched into fists on my thighs, the cold edge of the floor pressing into my knees as I knelt before the painting like it held some kind of answer. It didn’t, of course. Bradley wouldn’t appear like magic just because I wanted him to.

But the thoughts started anyway, unbidden and relentless.

Maybe if I went back. If I showed up on his doorstep, admitted I’d been a coward, that I’d let my fear ruin everything. Maybe he’d listen. Maybe he’d forgive me.

I could see it so clearly—Lily running to the door, her bright eyes lighting up when she saw me. Bradley standing behind her, his arms crossed, guarded but not unkind. If I told him I wanted to stay, that I didn’t care about the mess or the fear anymore, maybe he’d give me one more chance.

But even as I imagined it, I knew it was a lie.

The reality wasn’t some heartwarming scene out of a movie. The reality was that I’d hurt him and that I had been the same old self-interested me all along. I’d left, knowing exactly how much it would break him. I’d walked away from the only people who had ever seen the real me and loved me anyway.

I sat back on my heels, my breath shuddering. I was tainted, too broken to be fixed. Bradley deserved better, and no matter how much I wanted to believe otherwise, I wasn’t it.

“I can’t fix this,” I whispered, my voice hoarse. “I’ll just make it worse.”

The painting stared back at me, silent and damning.

When the doorbell rang, I realized I had been kneeling there for far longer than I had noticed. The tears had dried up a time ago. My knees burned as I stood up, stumbling toward the door. I caught a reflection of myself in the window, wondering who that haggard person was. My hair had curled messily, and an uneven beard had begun covering my face.

I walked to the door quietly and looked through the peephole. I wasn’t sure if I was disappointed or relieved to see it wasn’t Bradley. I opened the door, and Austin James strolled in.

I barely had the energy to shut the door behind Austin, but I did. He stood there, looking entirely too polished for the wreck of a studio he’d just stepped into. His coat alone probably cost more than my last paycheck—and the paychecks in my industry were eye-watering at my level—and his sharp eyes scanned the mess like he was already calculating how to fix it.

“What happened?” he asked.

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