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Shouldn't

  • Feb 20, 2025
  • 22 min read

Updated: Jan 9

A short story by Sierra Simone

This story contains: her and him, contemporary romance, strangers, enemies to lovers, extramarital, public place, forbidden






Greta


In the smallest room of the gallery, far from the cocktails and conversation, I’m staring at a canvas.


From a distance, the painting appears to be of an anatomical heart rendered in shades of ruby and violet. Closer, you can see the heart is made up of bodies: twisting limbs, vulvas, cocks. From the pearly pools underneath it, it’s apparent that the dripping slickness of the heart tissue is cum. 


I’m alone—although I don’t feel alone, not with the sharp handwriting on the paper tacked to the wall next to the painting. I have no idea how a silent auction can feel so loud, but that handwriting is like marcato notes on a violin, breaking through the hushed quiet of the room.


I’ve been outbid again. By the same set of initials, and by the same amount every time: a single pound. 


It’s insulting. I’m insulted.


I take a fortifying drink of champagne, set the glass on a nearby bench, and use the pen I’ve been carrying around for the last hour to make my final bid. The silent auction will end in ten minutes, and I have no intention of losing. The painting is perverse and perfect, and I’m not leaving here without it.


Footsteps echo off the wood floor and art-hung walls, and I turn to see a man in a tux approaching. Late thirties, pale and dark-eyed. I had seen him earlier, in the main room, and the sight of him had sent a thrill of awareness straight down my spine.


I’ve been avoiding him since.


His eyes drop to my hand, where the pen is still set to the paper. “A fellow admirer, I see,” he says in a smooth American accent, his eyes flicking back to my face. 


There’s amusement in the words, and a kind of victory too. Suddenly, I know.


“One pound at a time? Really?” I step back from the wall, turning so that he can’t get to the bid sheet. I’m not above playing dirty now. This piece is meant for me. When I look at it, it’s like someone has cracked open my chest and hung a light bulb inside. Like someone has solved me for y, and now I make sense.

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