Chapter 5

The pain was incandescent, a white-hot wave that stole Arvin' s breath. His skin screamed, blistering on impact. He couldn't even make a sound, only a choked gasp as his body seized in shock.

"Arvin!"

Jorja' s voice cut through the haze of agony. She had untangled herself from Cale and was now beside him, her eyes wide with a genuine panic he hadn't seen since the day she thought she'd lost the Sea God's Heart.

"Are you okay? Does it hurt?" she asked, her hand hovering over his arm, afraid to touch the rapidly reddening skin. "We need to get you to a hospital."

For a single, foolish moment, Arvin felt a flicker of something. Maybe she did care.

Then Kallie shrieked. "Cale! Oh my god, you're hurt!"

Jorja' s head snapped toward Cale. The fleeting concern for Arvin vanished, replaced by a frantic, all-consuming terror.

"What? Where?" she cried, rushing back to Cale's side.

A few drops of the soup had splashed onto Cale's expensive suit jacket. A tiny red mark, no bigger than a dime, was visible on the back of his hand.

"Oh, it's nothing," Cale said, wincing dramatically and cradling his hand as if it were broken. "I'm fine, really. Arvin is the one who's badly hurt."

"Don't be a hero, Cale!" Kallie wailed. "Your skin is so sensitive! Look, it's already swelling! We need to go to the emergency room right now!"

Cale let out a small, pained groan, his face a mask of noble suffering. "But Arvin..."

Jorja' s heart clenched. Seeing Cale in pain, however minor, was unbearable to her. All rational thought fled.

She grabbed Cale's arm gently. "We're going. Now." She pulled him toward the exit, then paused, looking back at Arvin over her shoulder. Her face was a mess of guilt and torn loyalties.

"Arvin, I'm so sorry," she said, her voice rushed. "Cale's hand... it looks bad. You... you can take a taxi to the hospital, right? I'll meet you there."

And then she was gone, half-carrying a limping, moaning Cale out of the restaurant with Kallie fluttering anxiously behind them.

Arvin was left alone at the table, the chaos of the restaurant fading into a distant buzz. The pain was a roaring fire in his arm and chest. He watched them go, a final, chilling clarity settling over him.

Abandoned. Again.

He gritted his teeth, cold sweat beading on his forehead. A kind waitress rushed over with a bowl of ice water and clean cloths, her face etched with pity.

"Here, sir. This might help."

He managed a weak nod of thanks. After a few minutes and two painkillers from the restaurant's first aid kit, the roaring fire subsided to a manageable burn. The waitress lent him a clean staff shirt. He staggered out of the restaurant and hailed a cab, directing it to the nearest hospital.

The emergency room doctor was grim as he cleaned and dressed the burns. "These are second-degree, some spots are bordering on third. You're lucky. A few inches higher and it could have been your face. You'll have some significant scarring."

Arvin just closed his eyes, the antiseptic sting a dull counterpoint to the throb in his soul. As the doctor worked, he heard two nurses chatting quietly at the station nearby.

"...can you believe that woman in room 3? Her boyfriend got a tiny splash of soup on his hand, and she demanded the head of dermatology be called in."

"I know! The guy with the actual burns had to take a taxi here by himself. She just left him at the restaurant."

"Some people. That Cale Oneill is a famous artist or something, right? She must be crazy about him. You don't see love like that every day."

Arvin couldn't help a dry, silent laugh that sent a fresh wave of pain through his chest. Love. They thought it was love.

When his wounds were bandaged, he thanked the doctor and walked out into the night. His phone buzzed. It was an email. He opened it under the stark hospital lights.

KELLERMAN ARTS FOUNDATION - OFFICIAL ACCEPTANCE

The words swam before his eyes. It was real. His ticket out.

He didn't go back to the villa. He took a cab to a 24-hour art supply store, the fluorescent lights a harsh glare on his pale face. Then he drove his own car, parked at a nearby garage, to a remote cabin his friend Franklin owned in the mountains.

For three days, he didn't look at his phone. He didn't think about Jorja or Cale or the life he was leaving behind. He just sat by the lake, surrounded by the quiet majesty of the mountains, and he painted. The pain in his arm was a dull throb, a physical reminder of the wound in his heart, but as he worked, it began to fade. He painted the sunrise, the deep green of the pines, the reflection of the clouds on the water. He painted with a freedom he hadn't felt in five years. He painted himself back into existence.

On the third day, his masterpiece complete, he drove down the mountain to ship the canvas to the gallery Franklin had arranged. As he waited at the shipping office, he finally turned on his phone.

It exploded.

Dozens of missed calls. A flood of text messages.

Jorja.

Jorja.

Jorja.

Arvin, where are you?

Pick up the phone!

Are you trying to make me worry? Is this some kind of game?

ARVIN, CALL ME BACK NOW!

He stared at the screen, a strange sense of detachment washing over him. For five years, he had craved her attention. Now that he had it, it felt like nothing.

His phone rang again. This time, it was Kallie. He answered on a whim.

"Where the hell are you?!" she screeched, without any greeting. "Do you have any idea how frantic Jorja has been? You disappear for three days without a word! Are you trying to get her attention by playing hard to get? It's pathetic! It won't work!"

She hung up before he could reply.

Arvin frowned. Get her attention? He had just been... gone. The idea that Jorja, who had left him burned and in pain, was now "frantic" was so absurd it was almost funny. Her concern wasn't for him. It was for the disruption of her routine. The well-oiled machine of her life had a broken part, and she was annoyed. That's all it was.

But the sheer volume of calls and texts confirmed it. For the first time in five years, Jorja Romero was looking for him.