The Painter’s Daughter Read Online Margot Scott

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Dark, Insta-Love, Virgin Tags Authors:
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Total pages in book: 44
Estimated words: 41577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 166(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
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“By the way,” he said. “You may be pleased to hear that I convinced a judge to unseal my son’s adoption records.”

That caught my attention. “What, how?”

“Judges make good friends, too.” He pulled a business card from his coat pocket and offered it to me. I took it with trembling fingers. Printed on the front was Maddox’s own information. On the back, written in black ink, was a name, phone number, and email address.

“Have you contacted him?” I asked.

“Not yet. To be honest, I think I’m a little scared to. But it’s nice to know the option exists.”

I reread the stranger’s information, engraving the words onto my memory. I went to hand the card back, but Maddox wouldn’t take it.

“That’s for you, sweetheart. You don’t have to open that door if you’d rather it stayed shut, but I thought you should have it just in case.”

I wrapped my fingers around the piece of cardboard.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” He smirked. I began to wonder if Maddox was even capable of wearing a smile that didn’t double as a threat. “I suppose I’ll take my leave before your daddy decides to break my nose and ruin some more of my Armani.”

Maddox raised his glass to someone behind me and then stepped away. I turned to find my father making his way over to me. My preferred style for him would always be scruffy and paint-splattered, but damn, the man could rock a three-piece suit. He pulled me into a hug that prompted someone close to us to whisper about how precious we looked.

“Sorry, I was upstairs when you got here. I really wanted to be there when you saw the exhibit.”

“That’s okay.” I hugged him tighter. “It’s incredible.”

“Was Maddox bothering you?” He drew back to look at me, his gaze narrow.

“No more than usual. But this time he came bearing gifts.”

I showed him the business card.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“My half-brother’s contact information.”

He turned the card over and swiped his thumb across the man’s name. A sweet sadness watered his eyes enough to make them glint as he handed the card back to me. “What do you think you’ll do with it?”

“I don’t know. Probably just hold on to it for now.” I tucked the card into the front of my dress, next to my heart. That felt like the right place for it.

My father pulled me into a side hug and kept his arm around me as we circled the room. We lingered beside the three-dimensional rendering of me as a very young child. I leaned my head on his shoulder.

“I can’t believe Mom thought these were anything less than beautiful,” I said.

“She saw what she was hardened to see.” He kissed my temple. “You know, I invited your mother to tonight’s show.”

I balked. “You’re kidding.”

“She told me to go fuck myself. I’d say that’s progress, considering she wasn’t even speaking to me a month ago.”

I hadn’t seen or spoken to my mother since the night she’d shown up at his apartment. “Why would you want her here? She’d hate all of this almost as much as you hate each other.”

“I could never hate your mother.”

“Why not? She gave you plenty of reasons to.”

He stroked my arm. “Because she also gave me the greatest gift I could ever ask for. No matter how angry I get when I think about all the years of your life I missed, I’ll always be thankful for that.”

I gazed down at the miniature me on the floor. Round and sleepy and oblivious to all the pain and confusion that would inevitably follow. If my father could forgive my mother for driving him away from this child, maybe I could find it in me to forgive her, too. Because none of this, what we had now, would’ve been possible without my mother’s intervention.

She would never understand us. Most people wouldn’t. Our love wasn’t clear and crisp like a photograph. It was messy and abstract. It belonged on a canvas.

“Henry!” Michelle weaved her way through the throng, trailed by a short, bald man whom she introduced as a writer for ARTnews magazine. My father shook the man’s hand and presented me as his daughter, the inspiration for tonight’s exhibit, and a talented artist in her own right.

“I’d love to see some of your pieces,” the journalist said to me. “I’ve been following your father’s career for some time. I have to say, Henry, I think this might be your best work yet.”

My father thanked him and graciously answered all his questions. The journalist smiled like a little boy gazing up at his hero. As soon as he’d wandered off, my dad leaned in conspiratorially and said, “Don’t tell that guy, but he’s wrong.”

“About what?” I asked.

He kissed the shell of my ear and whispered, “The greatest thing I ever made was you.”


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