Page 170 of Undisputed Chaos
They weren't wrong. The girl who'd dated Noah, who'd worried about staying between the lines, who'd painted safe flowers and mountain scenes—she was gone.
In her place stood someone who wasn't afraid to bleed onto the canvas, to let her darkness and light tangle together in ways that created something entirely new.
But it wasn't just my art that had captured their attention.
Last week, I made the mistake, or perhaps the best decision of my career, filming Adrian as he moved through my studio space.
He'd been setting up a new easel for me, muscles rippling under his fitted tank top, tattoos shifting with every movement.
The afternoon light had caught him perfectly, highlighting the sharp angles of his face, the predatory grace in his movements, the way his jade-green eyes focused with laser intensity on making sure everything was perfect for me.
I'd meant to capture just a quick behind-the-scenes moment, maybe a sweet caption about him supporting my art.
What I got instead was two minutes of pure, unfiltered Adrian—the way he moved like violence wrapped in silk, the display of strength as he lifted the heavy wooden easel like it weighed nothing, that grin when he caught me filming and winked at the camera.
The video had exploded overnight.
My notifications became a constant stream of fire emojis, heart-eyes, and increasingly thirsty comments:
"WHO IS THIS GODLIKE CREATURE???"
"Ma'am, I need his entire government name and social security number.”
"The way heMOVES... like an ANIMAL.”
"Is he single? Asking for myself.”
"That grin could start wars and I'd gladly enlist.”
"The TATTOOS. The MUSCLES. The way he looks at you like you're his whole world. I'm DECEASED.”
"HOLY SHIT ISLA.”
Comments poured in from verified accounts, art critics who'd never engaged before, even fitness influencers, somehow.
The thirst was so intense that it became its own phenomenon; fan accounts started popping up dedicated entirely to our relationship.
It was a little weird, but I'd started being more careful about what I filmed.
The last thing I needed was my followers staging an intervention to steal my boyfriend based on two minutes of him being casually perfect outside of the ring.
I refocused on my canvas, brush hovering over the textured surface.
The first stroke was always the hardest, a slash of deep blue that looked like spilled blueberries against the white.
Or alien blood. Adrian put all kinds of weird comparisons into my head.
I mixed deep purple with pink on my palette, the colors swirling together into something beautiful.
The brush moved across the canvas in sweeps, creating the foundation of color that would anchor everything else.
The studio smelled like turpentine and vanilla candles, with undertones of coffee that had gone cold hours ago.
Every surface bore evidence of my creative explosion over the past months—canvases lined the walls, paint tubes scattered across tables, brushes stood in mason jars filled with murky water.
But my attention was momentarily captured by the soft ping of my phone.
The girls and I had created our own group chat a few months ago, and it had quickly become my favorite distraction:
