Reject My Alpha President (Iris and Arthur) novel Chapter 256

Chapter 256

Iris

“Mommy? Mommy, wake up!”

I jolt awake to find Miles shaking my shoulder. The studio floor is hard beneath me, and my neck aches from the awkward angle I must have slept in. Scattered around ine are paint tubes, brushes soaking in water, and a half- empty coffee mug with a film on top that makes me almost gag.

“What time is it?” I groan, pushing myself up.

“It’s morning time,” Miles informs me. “I’m hungry.”

Of course he is. I rub my eyes, trying to orient myself. The last thing I remember is adding the final touches to the sky in my painting, determined to get the exact shade of blue I wanted.

My gaze drifts to the massive canvas propped against the far wall, and despite my exhaustion, I feel a rush of excitement course through me. It’s done. Finally, after weeks of work, my final piece is complete.

The painting shows us on horseback, exactly as we were that day at the ranch. Arthur sits tall on Thunder, one arm around Miles, who points excitedly toward a ridge in the distance.

I’m on Buttercup, slightly behind them, my hair caught in the wind. And there, in the foreground, is the pine

branch obstructing the view of what exactly Miles is pointing at.

The she–wolf.

I meant for the wolf to be our little secret, something only Arthur and I would recognize. But looking at it now in the morning light, I wonder if others might sense her presence too, might feel the quiet power emanating from that hidden corner of the canvas.

“Mommy, I’m hungry,” Miles repeats, tugging at my paint–splattered shirt.

“Right, sorry.” I scramble to my feet, my joints protesting the movement after hours on the hard floor. “Let’s get you some breakfast.”

As Miles eats his breakfast, I mentally organize my day. The exhibition is in two days, which means I still have time to finalize my presentation. I’ve decided to focus on the lack of arts funding for schools in Ordan–an issue that’s close to my heart and perfectly aligned with the conversation I had with my mother at the estate.

But I need more than just statistics and my own experience. I need firsthand accounts from the people dealing with these cuts every day.

After getting Miles ready for the day, I make some calls. By noon, I’ve arranged interviews with three art teachers from different schools across the city–one from an affluent district, one from a middle–class area, and one from a school in a neighborhood similar to where I grew up.

I drop Miles off with Alice, who’s more than happy to watch him for a few hours. “So the mysterious painting is finally done?” she asks as Miles runs off to play with her cat.

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“Yep,” I confirm with a nod. “I’ll give you a sneak peek before the exhibition if you want.‘

“Obviously I want,” she says with mock offense. “I’m your best friend. I deserve exclusive previews.”

laugh and promise to text her later, then head off to my first interview.

My first interview is at Westside Elementary, one of the better–funded schools in Ordan–and where I’ve actually signed Miles up to start kindergarten in a month. Even so, the art room shows signs of budget constraints–dried-

up markers, brushes with splayed bristles, paper that’s too thin for proper watercolors.

“It gets worse every year,” the teacher tells me as we sit at the tiny desks that are meant for the children. “Five yeafs ago, I had a budget of five thousand dollars per semester. Last year, it was down to fifteen hundred. This year, they gave me eight hundred and told me to be grateful”

“Where is the money going?” I ask.