Reject My Alpha President (Iris and Arthur) novel Chapter 248

Chapter 248

Iris

The evening breeze drifts through the open windows of the ranch house, carrying the scent of pine and distant rain. Miles is

already fast asleep in bed, worn out from a day of playing with the ranch hand’s children and helping feed the baby goats.

Apparently, he had a blast and got along exceptionally well with the other kids.

Now, after a talkative dinner and a bedtime involving a few tears because Miles had a minor exhaustion–induced meltdown, the

house is blissfully quiet except for the occasional creak of the old wooden beams and the sound of paper rustling as Arthur reads a

book on the couch across from me.

I sit cross–legged in an armchair with my sketchbook balanced on my knees. My pencil moves almost of its own accord, tracing

lines that gradually form the outline of three figures on horseback.

I smile as I sketch Miles’s expression of wonder, his little hand pointing toward the ridge where the she–wolf stood watching us

yesterday. Arthur’s gaze follows, and I stand beside them, the wind blowing my hair.

This will be the centerpiece of my final exhibition for the artist residency, which is coming up in just a few short weeks. I’ve been mulling over what to create for months now, but haven’t been able to settle on anything. I just knew that I wanted it to be

something meaningful.

But as the months ticked on and the end of my residency crept closer, I just couldn’t seem to come up with anything. I sketched more than a few ideas, but nothing felt… right. I must have wasted at least half a sketchbook’s worth of paper in an attempt to

come up with a viable idea.

And then we saw the wolf yesterday, in all her glory, and everything clicked into place.

My pencil hovers over the page as I consider how to depict her. The wolf was magnificent–wild and free and utterly beautiful, and the artist in me wants nothing more than to paint her and show her to the world. But each time I try to convince myself to

draw her, I just… can’t.

It feels wrong somehow, like a disservice to her. Once again, I feel as if painting her, especially on a canvas that hundreds of eyes will see–likely even more now that people know who I am–might strip her of her freedom in some way.

And in a strange way, that moment when I locked eyes with her felt so… private. Intimate. Like a moment that was only meant for

us and no one else.

Instead, I sketch in a gnarled tree branch extending from the foreground, partially obscuring the ridge where she stood. To anyone else, it will look like a simple compositional choice. But I’ll know–and Arthur will know, once he sees the finished piece

“What are you working on?” Arthur’s voice suddenly asks. I jump, not having realized that he got up from his seat and is now

behind me, trying to peer over my shoulder.

“Liar,” he says fondly, reaching over my shoulder for the sketchbook. “Let me see.”