Reject My Alpha President (Iris and Arthur) novel Chapter 177

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1 stand back, wiping my hands on my already paint–stained overalls, and tilt my head to examine the finished piece.

It’s vibrant. Alive. The central image depicts a framed dent in a kitchen wall, cracks spider–webbing outward. Yellow sunshine

spills across the scene, dust motes floating in the air, and a baseball bat leans against the wall beneath the frame.

When did I start painting happiness again? Usually my work leans toward the melancholic side of things, all muted blues and

grays with occasional bursts of controlled color and light.

But this this is practically on fire. I’ve already used up one whole tube of yellow paint getting the sunbeams just right.

I check the time on my phone and realize I’ve been painting for over four hours straight, completely lost in the creative flow.

If I were analyzing someone else’s work, I’d say the artist was experiencing a significant emotional upswing. Or perhaps a manic

episode.

Which, I suppose, I sort of am. For the first time in years, I’m… happy. Genuinely, unexpectedly, blissfully happy.

“Mommy?” Miles‘ voice from the doorway pulls me from my thoughts. He’s standing there with a coloring book dangling from

one hand. “The kitchen smells funny.”

“Funny how?” I ask, setting down my brush.

“Like that time you fell asleep during movie night and the popcorn got all black.”

My eyes widen. “The roast!”

1 rush past Miles into the kitchen, where a thin haze of smoke hangs in the air. The oven is still on, and when I yank open the

door, a plume of thicker smoke billows out. Coughing, I grab an oven mitt and pull out what was supposed to be tonight’s dinner.

“Shit,” I mutter, dropping the blackened roast onto the stovetop. I was so absorbed in my painting that I completely forgot about

dinner. And not just any dinner–the special family dinner with Arthur’s parents that I suggested.

The dinner that’s supposed to happen in less than two hours.

“Is that what we’re eating?” Miles asks, peering around me.

“Definitely not,” I say, turning on the vent and opening a window. “Thank you for telling me about the smell, buddy. You did

really good thing. Now go pick up your toys before Grandma and Grandpa arrive, okay?”

Miles scampers off, and I stare at the burnt roast, trying not to panic. The apartment still reeks of smoke, 1 dinner, and

I grab my phone and start scrolling through food delivery apps. There’s no time to start another roast, and I don’t have the

ingredients anyway. Take–out is our only option, but it can’t be just any take–out. Not for Leonard and Wendy.

pricier than I’d usually spend on delivery, but this is an emergency.