That domineering declaration, paired with his devastatingly handsome face, sent the girl into a flutter of pink cheeks and racing heartbeats.
She bit her lip and stomped her foot, refusing to look at him, though her pout betrayed her: "So bossy."
"Only with you."
He laughed. She pouted. They looked like a painting themselves—a perfect couple.
For a moment, I felt like I was watching my own ghost.
He'd been exactly the same with me, back then.
Whenever he caught me sketching someone else, he'd sulk. He'd wheedle. He'd go full tyrant just to get my attention.
"You can't draw other people. Only me."
"Yeah, I'm that possessive. What can I say? I've set my sights on you."
"Can't you just look at me? Only me? Please?"
He'd begged and pleaded, worn me down day after day, all for a single glance.
But he was a young master—heir to a fortune, surrounded by women who would have done anything for his attention.
I warned myself, over and over: Don't soften. Don't fall.
Then one night in Seabrook Island City, my appendix ruptured during a storm. The rain came down in sheets. I couldn't find a car.
I collapsed on the road home.