It took me two full days to digest the bomb Sally dropped in my life. During the day, like a tireless worker ant, he completely renovated my dilapidated little yard—not just the fence, but he even reinforced the creaky porch steps and sealed my drafty window frame with new caulk. Through his silent labor, he forcefully imposed a sense of order and stability in my chaotic world. At night, he would sleep on the narrow couch in the living room, separated from me by a thin door and by unspoken awkwardness and guilt. Neither of us brought up that chaotic night again, as if it were just a nightmare scattered by the damp sea breeze.

But my body remembers. My body remembers his clumsy tenderness, the warmth of his embrace, and because of that, it remembers even more vividly Damian's cold, transactional possession. This contrast makes my guilt for Sally almost consume me.


On Wednesday afternoon, when Professor Finch's elegant dark gray Jaguar stopped outside my newly renovated courtyard gate, I was sitting on the porch with Sally, sharing a piece of lemon tart baked by Martha. When Sally saw the luxury car that was out of place in this shabby neighborhood and the impeccably dressed man stepping out of it, his guileless smile instantly froze.

"Professor Finch," I stood up, my heart clenched by an invisible hand.

Alistair Finch, my mentor, was even more impressive in person than the elegant signature in his emails. Today, he wore a light gray wool cardigan over a crisp white Oxford shirt, with the top two buttons casually undone, revealing a small patch of pale, taut skin. He was taller than I had imagined, with neatly styled golden-brown hair that gleamed softly in the afternoon sunlight. His steel-blue eyes, hidden behind gold-rimmed spectacles, were sharp yet gentle, as if capable of seeing through everything. He exuded a complex scent—a blend of old books, faint tobacco, and high-end cologne—that seemed to belong to another world.


"My dear Bella," he walked towards me, his steps unhurried, with a warm and composed smile on his face. His gaze first landed on me, the scrutinizing look making me instinctively want to adjust the loose T-shirt I was wearing. Then, his eyes shifted to Sally behind me, the smile fading slightly, replaced with a touch of polite distance.

Sally stood up, his tall frame appearing somewhat clumsy and awkward in front of Professor Finch. He patted his sawdust-covered overalls and extended his hand, introducing himself in a protective manner, "Liam Sullivan, I’m Bella’s friend."


Professor Finch's gaze lingered for a second on his own large hand, roughened by years of labor, before he extended it and gave a gentle shake. "Alistair Finch. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Sullivan." His voice was deep and resonant, each syllable like a finely crafted instrument.

A subtle, silent tension filled the air. The scent of sunlight and sweat on Sally contrasted sharply with the aura of knowledge and authority emanating from Professor Finch. I felt caught in the middle, like a prisoner about to be put on public trial.

"Professor, how did you find this place?" I quickly interjected, trying to break the suffocating awkwardness.

"Oh, it's not difficult. I just asked the locals where a young and talented female painter lives." Professor Finch's gaze returned to me with a teasing warmth that instantly eased my tension. "However, it seems my student is doing quite well here. At least, the fence in the yard is sturdy."

As he spoke, his eyes were on me, yet his words were like a needle, gently pricking Sally. Sally's face flushed slightly, and he withdrew his hand, silently stepping aside like a bear whose territory had been invaded.

"I brought you some small gifts." Professor Finch no longer paid attention to Sally. He turned and fetched a heavy cloth bag from the back seat, handing it to me. "Some old friends. I think you'll be glad to see them."

I took the cloth bag, its weighty heft and familiar hard-shell texture quickening my pulse. Eagerly, I opened it to find several exquisitely printed art books inside. At the very top was a hardcover collection of Caravaggio's works. With utmost care, I lifted it, my fingertips tracing over the cover image of "David with the Head of Goliath." The face of the youth in the painting, blending melancholy with cruelty, appeared so vividly in the play of light and shadow. Since leaving New York, I hadn't touched these costly yet precious spiritual nourishments.

"Thank you, Professor… this is… too precious." My voice trembled with emotion. These were not merely books; they were fragile threads reconnecting me to the world of art I so loved, yet had been forced to betray.

"For a true artist, nothing is more precious than inspiration." Professor Finch smiled, his gaze passing over my shoulder to the door leading to my studio. "Won't you invite me to visit your new battlefield, Bella?"

I hesitated and glanced at Sally, who just kept his head down, fists clenched, expressing his resistance with silence. But I couldn't refuse Professor Finch. The humble art apprentice deep within me, craving recognition, was screaming wildly.

My studio was small, just a glass extension added behind the cottage, filled with easels, canvases, and various paints. The air was filled with the unique scent of turpentine and linseed oil. This was my sanctuary, and also my tribunal. A few of my secretly painted new works leaned against the wall, covered with white cloth, like my hidden secrets.

As soon as Professor Finch walked in, it was as if he had entered his own kingdom. He ignored the room's simplicity and went straight to the covered canvases. Without asking me, he used his long, elegant hands to lift one of the white cloths directly.

It was a self-portrait I had painted. In the painting, I stood sideways by the seaside in the morning, the sea breeze lifting my long hair. My eyes stared emptily at the distant gray horizon. I deliberately used a near-cruel realism to depict the weariness on my face, the dark circles under my eyes, and the stubbornness at the corner of my lips. The entire composition had a gloomy, oppressive tone, with only a faint sliver of morning light casting a pale halo on the side of my face.

Professor Finch gazed at the painting for a long time without saying a word. The studio was eerily quiet, and I could even hear my own heart pounding like a drum. I was afraid of his judgment, yet I yearned for it.

"This light..." He finally spoke, his voice low and filled with awe. "You've captured the light. Not the physical light, Bella, but the light of emotion. This light, it is both hope and despair. It doesn’t illuminate you; it simply leaves you nowhere to hide in the darkness."

He turned around, and in those gray-blue eyes, there was a flicker of a fervor I had never seen before. "You did it. You’ve merged Rembrandt’s light with Munch’s despair. These brushstrokes... look here," he extended his finger, tracing the contour of the cheek in my painting in the air. His fingertip didn’t touch the canvas, yet it felt as though it carried an electric current, sending a shiver across my skin. "Look at this stroke—bold, rough, yet precisely rendering the structure of the bones beneath the skin. It’s... so daring, Bella. It’s magnificent."

He used several "too's" in a row—that heartfelt, unreserved admiration struck my heart like a surging warm current in an instant. Damian purchased my body with money, Sally guarded my life with labor, and only Finch, only Alistair Finch, saw my soul.

He unveiled another painting—a still life sketch depicting the glass vase on my dining table with a single withered wildflower. Using heavy brushstrokes, I captured the distorted light and shadow refracted by the glass in the dim light, as well as the petals that had long lost their moisture, curled and withered.

"Death and rebirth," Professor Finch's voice was almost chanting, "Do you see it, Bella? Even in this decay, you instinctively seek beauty, structure, the direction of light. Your talent, it’s like a beast within you—it cannot be caged, nor killed. It’s howling, struggling, it needs to be set free."

My eyes brimmed with tears. Every word he spoke pierced directly into the softest, most painful part of my heart. All my struggles, self-doubts, and pain were met with profound understanding and interpretation in his presence.

He turned and walked toward me, step by step. I felt as if I were under a spell, unable to move, completely enveloped by his powerful, scholarly aura. The sunlight from outside the studio filtered through the glass roof, casting mottled shadows on him, making him look like a classical sculpture from the Renaissance era.

"Your hands," he stopped in front of me, his gaze falling on my nervously intertwined hands, "let me see."

I obediently extended my hands. My fingers still bore traces of paint that wouldn't wash off, and there was some dirt lodged under my nails. These were the rough hands of a laborer.

Yet, Professor Finch held my hands as if they were a rare treasure, cradling them gently in his warm, dry palms. His thumb, with its thin callus, slowly and meticulously caressed each of my knuckles, from the fingertips to the center of my palm. The gesture was filled with scrutiny, yet carried an indescribable intimacy and tenderness.

"These hands..." he murmured, his voice filled with an almost reverent admiration, "they are rough, they are weary, yet they are brimming with strength. They were born for art, Bella. They should not be carrying plates, nor kneading flour. They should be holding a brush, creating beauty that can leave the entire world in awe."

His words, like the most intoxicating poison, instantly numbed all my nerves. My reason screamed, telling me this was wrong, this was dangerous. Yet my emotions, my long-parched heart craving to be nourished, utterly succumbed to this understanding and praise.

The light in the studio gradually dimmed, shifting from the golden hues of the afternoon to the dusky tones of the evening. We had been talking for a long time without realizing it, from Caravaggio's play of light and shadow, to Floyd's brushstrokes, and then to Bacon's despair. He opened the bottle of red wine he had brought, and we drank from the only two glasses available in that narrow space crowded with paints and canvases. Slightly tipsy, the air was filled with a mixture of turpentine, red wine, and an ambiguous warmth.

He kept holding my hand, never letting go. The distance between us grew closer and closer, so close that I could see the reflection of a small, blushing me in his gray-blue eyes behind the lenses. His gaze was deep, like a sea at dusk, with turbulent undercurrents hidden beneath its calm surface.

"You are like a painting I've been searching for, Bella." He gazed at me, his voice low and husky, filled with a mesmerizing allure, "Full of contradictions, full of pain, yet heartbreakingly beautiful. I want... to paint you."

"I..." I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.

"No," he shook his head, his thumb gently brushing over my lips, the soft touch sending a shiver through me, "I want... to possess you. To possess this unique piece of art."

His face slowly moved closer to mine. I didn't flinch, nor could I. I was lost in the illusion he had woven for me, where I was not a fraud harboring filthy secrets, but a muse, a masterpiece waiting to be discovered by a master.

His lips finally met mine.

It was a kiss entirely distinct from Sally's clumsiness and Damian's掠夺. It carried a hint of red wine's richness and a trace of forbidden authority belonging to a mentor. His kissing technique was so masterful, starting with gentle,试探性的辗转厮磨, as if appreciating a precious piece of porcelain. But the moment he pried open my lips and his tongue探入, the kiss instantly became filled with an artist's偏执 and passion.

He didn't掠夺 roughly but guided and explored instead. His舌, like a deft paintbrush,涂抹 and 渲染 in every corner of my mouth,勾勒 out sensations I had never experienced before. My body went limp, and I could only weakly cling to his shoulders, letting him take me into a眩晕 world where only senses remained.

My body was pressed against the easel by him, the hard wood behind me digging into my flesh with a slight pain, which, however, made the pleasure at this moment even more intense. One of his hands still tightly gripped mine, our fingers intertwined, while the other hand slipped beneath the hem of my loose T-shirt, caressing the skin of my waist. His palm was so warm, and the calluses on his fingertips glided over my sensitive skin, igniting tiny sparks wherever they touched.

My breathing grew rapid and scorching, and fragmented moans escaped my throat. Like a devout believer, I tilted my head back, surrendering to his kisses and caresses. When his hand moved upward and without hesitation covered my chest, which had become especially sensitive due to pregnancy, my mind went completely blank.

Through the thin camisole, he skillfully kneaded and squeezed, his fingertips precisely finding the already erect bud, gently yet firmly twisting it. An intense, electrifying pleasure exploded from my chest like a current, instantly spreading through every limb. My legs went weak, barely able to stand, and I could only tighten my arms around his neck, entrusting the full weight of my body to him.

He seemed very pleased with my body's reaction, a deep, satisfied chuckle escaping his lips. He ended the lingering kiss and began to use his scorching lips to kiss my jaw, my neck, my sensitive earlobe. As he kissed, he whispered in a husky voice by my ear, "Your body… is more honest than your paintings, Bella."

His words were like a spell, completely shattering the last shred of my rationality. Shame and the thrill of being exposed intertwined, forming a more depraved kind of stimulation. Trembling, I unfastened my bodice myself, letting the two full, snow-white mounds bloom fully before him.

Professor Finch’s eyes flashed with admiration and deeper desire. He lowered his head and, as if treating a piece of art, devoutly took one of the tender buds into his mouth. His warm mouth enveloped that sensitive peak, his tongue skillfully licking, twirling, and sucking.

"Ah..." I couldn't hold back any longer, a high-pitched and sweet moan escaped from the depths of my throat. This direct and intense stimulation made my body feel as though it was melting into a pool of water. My fingers tangled in his meticulously groomed hair, pulling him closer to my chest. My waist writhed uncontrollably, craving more touch, more fulfillment.

He didn't keep me waiting long. He swiftly removed our clothes, and when his scorching and rigid desire pressed against the most sensitive part of my inner thighs, I knew clearly that there was no turning back.

He picked me up and let me straddle his sturdy thighs. We came together face to face in an extremely intimate posture. The moment he entered me, I felt a perfect sense of fullness. Unlike Sally, who was inexperienced, or Damian, who was only concerned with himself, he knew how to please a woman, how to use rhythm and force to bring her to the heights of ecstasy.

He was in complete control, sometimes grinding slowly, letting me feel the deep, bone-melting pleasure, and other times thrusting fiercely, making me experience the soul-shattering ecstasy. I was like a small boat in a storm, tossed by the waves of desire he stirred, powerless to resist. My moans and his breaths intertwined, becoming the most licentious symphony in the art studio.

"Look at me, Bella," he commanded, just before the climax arrived.

I opened my blurred, tear-filled eyes, meeting his ash-blue eyes that had become bottomless in desire. I saw my own reflection in them—a self that was fallen, indulgent, with a twisted expression of pain intertwined with extreme ecstasy.

At this very moment, he gave me one last, deepest thrust with all his strength.

Ultimate pleasure exploded in my mind like fireworks. My body convulsed and trembled violently, my vision flooded with white light. I heard my own broken cries and felt the scalding warmth he released deep within me.

……

Alistair Finch left before I fell into a deep sleep. He departed as silently as he had arrived, with the same grace and composure. He left no promises, only planting a cold kiss on my forehead and whispering, “Keep painting, Bella. Don’t stop.”

When I woke up on the cold floor of the studio, it was already late at night. His cashmere cardigan, carrying the scent of cologne, was draped over me. The room was in disarray, and the air still lingered with the remnants of desire. The Caravaggio art book lay open on the floor, the image facing me—"Boy Bitten by a Lizard," the boy’s expression twisted in fear and shock from the sudden sting.

As I gazed at the painting, a wave of intense nausea suddenly washed over me. This time, it wasn’t because of the pregnancy.

I rushed to the sink in the corner of the studio, retching violently until my stomach was empty, leaving only bitter bile. I splashed cold water over my face again and again, as if it could wash away the filth on my body, the scent Professor Finch had left on me, and that memory of being filled—a memory of堕落堕落 depravity.

What have I done?

I had just been intimate with Sally, who was willing to protect me with his life, and in the blink of an eye, under the same roof, with another man—a man who could be my father, my mentor—we performed such a scandalous act.

A faint sound came from outside the window. I turned my head stiffly and saw Sally's figure still illuminated by the yard light. He had fixed everything and was now holding a rag, carefully cleaning the tools he had used, placing them one by one neatly back into the toolbox. After finishing, he checked the lock on my yard gate once more before dragging his tired footsteps toward his old pickup truck parked by the roadside.

He was leaving.

This thought felt like an icy knife, piercing my heart.

I am caught between two men. One is Sally, who represents my pure, stable, yet irretrievably lost past. The other is Finch, who embodies the lofty, ideal world I yearn for, yet one that is filled with forbidden temptations.

And the life growing silently within me, its father, Damian Black, is the darkest nightmare I have spent my entire life trying to forget.

I slumped on the cold floor, overwhelmed by an unprecedented, profound self-loathing. I am no muse, nor a work of art. I am merely a cheap, filthy prostitute who has sold her body and soul. My life is like a failed painting, smeared repeatedly with different colors, its original form long lost.