Between the Ink and Heart

Chapter 1

At noon, sunlight poured into The Verdant Salon, where Edward Harding stood before a long table, delivering his closing remarks. “That concludes our lecture on landscape painting. Thank you all for joining us.”

As the applause echoed through the room, he lifted a delicate porcelain cup and took a soothing sip of tea, feeling the warmth drench his throat after talking nonstop for an hour and a half.

The light streaming in from the window seemed to caress him, casting a glow on his long lashes and the elegant bridge of his nose. It fell onto the porcelain cup he held, highlighting his slender fingers—fingers that seemed almost too refined to be real. The light played against his slightly parted lips, which glistened with a hint of moisture, and traced the graceful curve of his long neck, almost ethereal in its delicacy.

He looked like a figure straight from an ancient painting, bathed in a layer of golden light alongside the bamboo decor that surrounded him.

Although the lecture had officially ended, none of the attendees seated on either side of the table made a move to leave. Instead, they all instinctively raised their phones, aiming them at the tall figure at the head of the table.

Edward, seemingly oblivious, continued to arrange the paintings he had brought for today’s talk, his expression calm and collected. A sudden flash from the front row caught his eye, and he instinctively frowned, glancing over. “Could you please turn off the flash? Thank you,” he said evenly.

“Sorry, sorry! Didn’t mean to,” came the hurried apology from a young man dressed in trendy streetwear, his sheepish grin barely veiling the amusement of his friends beside him. They snickered quietly, one of them adding, “Henry Fairchild’s trying a little too hard to get Edward’s attention with that lame tactic.”

“Shut up,” Henry shot back, eyes glued to his phone's camera lens, his defiance quick and heartfelt. “I wasn’t paying attention…”

Their voices were quiet, but sitting so close to Edward, their words were clearly audible to him. He remained unfazed, as if nothing had been said.

Eventually, the tide of people began to rise. A brave young woman was the first to gather her courage and asked Edward, “Could I get an autograph?” He nodded, and soon, an impromptu line formed along the length of the table, a mix of men and women waiting.

“Looks like we’ve turned this into a fan meet-up,” a warm voice chimed in from the back of The Verdant Salon, laced with humor.

The girl who had first asked for the autograph instinctively turned around and laughed, a radiant response bubbling up in her. “Clara Ellison’s here! Thanks to Clara, I’m getting a chance to see Edward in person at an event like this. Can you believe it?”

Chapter 2

The girl wasn’t exaggerating when she said it was uncommon for Edward Harding to show up at events like The Verdant Salon. Those who had even a passing acquaintance with the art scene knew he usually avoided the social mingling that came with them, so today was truly a rarity.

But that didn’t change the fact that Edward Harding was a renowned figure—his name commanded respect in its own right.

“Clara Ellison,” the owner of the Elliswood Gallery, was one of the few people who could claim a close friendship with him. As she approached Edward, her eyes crinkled into a smile that could light up the room. “No need to be shy! I’ll make sure you get to see him a couple more times in the future,” she said, addressing the giddy girl who had just gotten a signed sketch.

In response, a chorus of excited “wows” rose around them. The girl blushed as she took the signed sketchbook from Edward’s hands, mumbling a shy, “Thank you, sir,” before turning to Clara with a beaming smile. “I’ll leave it to you, Ms. Clara.” With that, she practically floated away, clutching the sketchbook to her chest.

Next in line was a young man who practically trembled as he handed his book over to Edward. “Professor, the Crane's Grace you painted on the gallery wall is phenomenal—it’s like a miracle!” he gushed, his voice filled with awe.

Clara jumped in before Edward could respond, her tone bursting with pride. “Absolutely! That wall is our Elmshire Treasure!”

Her words weren’t an exaggeration either; since the gallery had opened just a month ago, a steady stream of visitors came specifically to see Edward’s wall, each one leaving in amazement.

Edward signed the young man’s book and handed it back with a humble nod. “You’re too kind,” he replied, his voice calm and level.

As the young man left, the line continued. Most of the attendees at the lecture seemed content to stick around for a chance to chat with Edward, showering him with flowery praise in exchange for his autograph. They were polite, understanding the boundaries he had carefully set. No one dared to ask for photographs or his contact information. It was well-known that Edward’s aloof demeanor made him an untouchable in this setting.

Twenty minutes later, most of Edward’s admirers had their autographs and drifted away, leaving only five young men behind—Henry Fairchild and his rowdy crew.

“Alright, if you’re gonna get your autograph, make it quick,” Clara urged, glancing at the time. “Lunch is coming up, and we need to let the professor eat.”

One of the boys, a smirk on his face, chimed in, “We don’t want autographs. Henry Fairchild wants something else, ha-ha-ha!”

He whispered the last part, but the implication was clear.

“Can you not?” Henry shot back, playfully punching him on the shoulder before lowering his voice. “I want a P. You guys just said he’s off-limits.”

“Just saying what you said, man,” another friend added while egging him on. “Aren’t you the one who said you’re not afraid?”

“Yeah, not afraid at all!” the others echoed, reinforcing the bravado with a rhythm.

In the now-muted atmosphere of The Verdant Salon, every word was loud and clear to Edward. He lifted the fine china teacup to his lips, finishing off the remnants of his drink without flinching.

But just as he was about to place the cup down, Henry finally waded into territory Edward clearly preferred to keep pristine. With a determined expression, he strode over to Edward.

“I… I really learned a lot from your talk about landscape painting,” Henry stammered, urgency tinging his voice. “I’d love to grab lunch and chat more, if that’s alright with you?”

“Hey, he’s serious; I can vouch for him,” another friend quipped.

“I’ll back him—he was glued to every word!” another chimed in.

Edwards looked him straight in the eye, unbothered by the thinly veiled admiration streaming from Henry’s gaze. “I can’t. My husband is taking me to lunch,” he replied plainly, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.

A flash of surprise rippled through the room at that admission, the air suddenly thick with an unspoken truth.

“Uh… maybe another time, then?” Henry muttered quickly, trying to save face as realization kicked in. He awkwardly waved to Clara and made a beeline for the exit, his friends trailing behind him in silence.

With Henry’s retreat, the salon returned to its serene atmosphere, leaving only Edward and Clara.

Once the last figure had vanished, Clara rolled her eyes, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Right, because he’s so into landscape painting when he couldn’t even draw a turtle until graduation. Please.”

Clearly, Clara knew Henry and his friends well. In their social stratosphere, circles intertwined closely; they’d been in the same school from kindergarten through high school.

“He’s not really interested in the art,” Edward replied, unfazed.

Clara looked at him with a laugh. “I told you, you’re a total heartthrob—the kind that turns heads, regardless of gender.”

Despite Edward's reputation for being chilly and distant, there were always brave souls like Henry who, spurred by their friends, would inevitably test the waters, unfazed by the wedding band that glinted on Edward’s finger.

Chapter 3

Edward Harding chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair. “You’ve been saying that for ten years. Can’t you come up with anything new?"

Clara Ellison had been expressing her incredulity since they’d first shared a dorm room in college, but this time, she genuinely had something fresh to say.

“I’ve been dying to tell you,” Clara’s voice soared slightly, her eyes widening with disbelief, “about what you just said—‘my husband who doesn’t care about anyone else’s wellbeing.’ I honestly thought you’d be ‘miserable’ for years, and then, out of nowhere, you went and married someone like Thomas Blackwood.”

Clara could vividly recall the shock that coursed through her when she learned of Edward’s sudden wedding a month ago. The surprise had caused her to drop and shatter her grandfather’s prized antique pen holder, leaving her to hear about it for weeks.

The conversation shifted to Edward’s marriage, and he raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. “What’s wrong with him? You don’t think Thomas Blackwood’s a good guy?”

Clara hesitated, a funny look crossing her face. “He’s... fine.”

And that wasn’t a sarcastic comment.

Anyone who knew Thomas Blackwood—the dynamic force behind Blackwood Holdings—would struggle to say otherwise. He was the quintessential golden boy, excelling from childhood through to his current, lofty position.

With looks that could rival any A-list celebrity and a physique that could easily land him on the cover of a fitness magazine, Thomas possessed the kind of talent and skill that blew away his peers. While others his age were lost in a haze of partying, five years ago, at just twenty-three, he had taken over Blackwood Enterprises from his uncle. Since then, he’d proven himself time and again—transforming Blackwood into a force to be reckoned with and silencing any early doubters.

Despite his undeniable success at such a young age, Thomas remained humble, grounded, and disarmingly polite. He had no tabloid scandals to his name; his shirt buttons were always fastened to the top, and whispers suggested that even his hobbies revolved around the genteel—like tea tasting and practicing calligraphy.

“Don’t you think he’s a bit of a robot?” Clara teased, leaning forward with exaggerated drama. “I can almost picture every precise curve of his smile being measured. You already have the personality of a glacier. I can’t even imagine what quiet afternoons at home must be like between you two. Isn’t it just the most thrilling exchange of ‘Okay’ and ‘Thank you?’ So bland…”

Edward let out a soft laugh, twirling his long fingers around the handle of his porcelain cup, remaining noncommittal. “I’m almost twenty-eight. I’m not exactly looking for fireworks.”

Clara blinked, momentarily thrown off her teasing. “When you were eighteen, I didn’t see much passion from you, either…”

After knowing each other for a decade, Clara thought of Edward as eternally serene—a “man like his painting,” she’d often say.

Edward shrugged and stood up. “I don’t have anything pressing right now, so I’m going to head out.”

Clara paused, recalling how Edward had turned down a lunch with Henry Fairchild. “Wait, you really do have a lunch with Thomas Blackwood?”

“No,” Edward said definitively, shaking his head. Then he added, “But I do have things to handle back home.”

Clara respected his boundaries, knowing how fiercely he protected his personal life. As Edward turned to leave, she called after him.

“Wait! I almost forgot something important.” She hurried over, handing him a beautifully wrapped tote bag. “Here’s a little thank-you gift. That ink you liked? I got it from my grandfather specifically for you showing up today. And I threw in a tea cake for you and your husband since you both love tea. Did you figure out what kind of tea I made last time?”

Edward accepted the bag with a smile, his thoughts briefly drifting to the lingering taste from their previous tea session. “That was pu-erh, from the Man Song region,” he replied confidently.

Clara gave him a thumbs up but then grinned mischievously. “I can totally imagine you and Thomas at home, sipping tea, practicing calligraphy…sounds exciting."

Edward fell silent for a beat before retorting, “Thanks, but we aren’t exactly in the Tang Dynasty.”

With a chuckle escaping him, he continued toward the exit, ignoring Clara’s bright laughter behind him.

But just as he reached the door, Clara’s voice called out again, “Oh! I just realized you didn’t drive here, did you? Let me give you a ride.”

“No need,” he replied without turning. Instead, he raised the empty hand at his side and waved casually. “I’ll just call a car.”

Typically, Edward drove himself everywhere, but today was different. It was a rare Sunday morning outing, and Thomas had an early work commitment. The two had happened to leave home at the same time, and Thomas had sent his driver to take him first.

Before stepping out of the car earlier, Thomas had reminded him to send a message when he was done, but Edward had no intention of doing that.

Once outside Clara's gallery, he stood by the curb, unlocking his phone to call a ride. But just as he was about to type in the address, his phone vibrated—an incoming call from Thomas.

“Edward,” came the calm voice on the other end.

To anyone not in the know, that single word wouldn’t carry the weight of their legal bond.

But Thomas sounded unfazed, following up with, “Did you finish up your business yet?”

“Yeah, just left the gallery,” Edward replied succinctly.

Chapter 4

"Perfect, just have Edward Harding wait by the curb for two minutes," Thomas Blackwood said, his tone steady as always. "Ethan Bennett is nearby and can pick you up."

Ethan Bennett was Thomas Blackwood’s driver.

Edward couldn’t shake the feeling that this "perfect timing" was a carefully arranged setup from Thomas, but he didn’t dwell on it or protest. Instead, he replied with a simple, "Alright, I’ll wait by the road. Thanks."

He hung up, then caught himself mid-thought.

"Is it just me, or do we sound like we’re always saying ‘okay,’ ‘thank you,’ and ‘sorry for the trouble’?"

Clara Ellison's teasing voice echoed in his mind, and Edward couldn’t help but chuckle a little—his interactions with Thomas did feel less like those of a couple and more like two professionals in a business meeting.

Thomas’s voice crackled through the phone again, sounding almost robotic. “Not a trouble at all. What’s up?”

There was a hint of rare hesitation there.

Edward lightly tapped on the back of his phone case, suppressing his laugh. “Nothing much.”

Before Thomas could ask again, Edward added, “Just focus on your work. I’ll text you once I’m home.”

That was a clear cue to end the call.

Yet, after he finished speaking, the silence stretched longer than was comfortable.

After a couple of seconds, Edward called out, “Mr. Blackwood?”

A delayed "okay" came through, his voice noticeably heavier.

Assuming Thomas was lost in his workload, Edward glanced up just as the Blackhawk Coach that had dropped him off that morning rolled into view. He hung up and slipped his phone into his pocket.

The car came to a stop, and without waiting for Ethan to open the door, Edward pulled it open himself and slid into the backseat.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Harding,” Ethan greeted him, turning with a polite nod.

“Afternoon,” Edward responded, leaning back and letting out a sigh, a wave of relaxation washing over him.

It seemed the same type of boss led to the same type of subordinate; Ethan had the same stoic demeanor as Thomas. Since both of them were pretty quiet, their drive was filled with an easy silence, the kind that didn’t feel uncomfortable.

About thirty minutes later, Edward arrived home.

This place belonged to Thomas, a sprawling flat tucked in a quiet corner near downtown—a perfect mix of noise and serenity.

Edward quickly shot Thomas a text, keeping it simple: "I’m home."

Once sent, he set the phone aside and headed to change his clothes.

Dressed in a sleek gray loungewear set, he grabbed the tote Clara Ellison had given him and made his way to his Artisan’s Workshop—his personal workspace.

He opened the tote with care, pulling out a beautifully wrapped inkstone. He peeled back the packaging ever so slightly to inspect it, a look of satisfaction crossing his face. After rewrapping it carefully, he placed it on the bookshelf, right beside a collection of other ink bars.

Next, he picked up a small tea cake, holding it for a moment. His eyes brightened for a second, and he set it on the Scholar's Desk, planning to give it to Thomas when he returned.

Edward went back to the entrance hall and picked up his phone again.

A new message from Thomas flashed on the screen—"What do you want for lunch? I can order something for you."

Without a moment's pause, Edward replied, "No need, I’ll handle it myself."

It was just lunch; there was no need for pleasantries with Thomas. Edward wasn’t used to this kind of care, and, more importantly...

Thomas preferred light, healthy food, often ordering from restaurants that leaned towards bland or wellness fare.

That just wasn’t Edward’s jam.

Once he sent the message, Edward exited Messenger and, instead of calling some fancy catering service, opened up a food delivery app.

With that pristine, ethereal look of his—not that you’d guess he’d devour anything other than dew—Edward scrolled through options, finally picking a highly-rated Sichuan restaurant that flooded the reviews with praise for its "spicy, bold flavors."

Feeling accomplished, he finalized the order and opened the glass cabinet across from the bookshelf.

Ignoring the various tea cakes stacked on the top two shelves, he targeted the bottom shelf and pulled out a bottle of tequila—the infamous Mexican liquor, known for its potency.

Tequila has its myriad ways to be served, but Edward preferred his neat on the rocks.

He took a sip, letting it linger in his mouth until he could feel a mild burn escalating—spicy, robust, and warming, as it slid down his throat.

Most wouldn’t guess it, but beneath that tranquil façade, Edward actually enjoyed fiery Sichuan dishes and equally robust drinks.

With a glass of tequila in hand, he returned to his workspace, choosing not to sit at the easel but to lean back against a cozy beanbag chair—one leg extended, the other bent, settled in a relaxed manner.

He pulled his laptop onto his lap, powered it on, and logged into The Whisper Network.

A minute later, the cool glow from the screen intensified his already striking features, casting shadows that made him appear even more elusive—like the mountains and water he often painted.

But at this moment, the computer screen didn’t reflect tranquil landscapes. Instead, it displayed something much more provocative:

A comic featuring two men.

One of them, tall and imposing, donned a black leather jacket that boasted a wildness about it. The other, in stark contrast, wore a crisp white dress shirt and tailored pants.

In the illustration, the leather-clad man had the shirt-wearer pinned against a window ledge, one muscular leg bent at the knee, pressing firmly against the white shirt’s back.

The other man had his head bowed, tousled hair hiding his eyes, an expression of uncertainty etched on his face. The collar of his dress shirt gaped open, unbuttoned just enough to reveal a hint of pale skin below.

Chapter 5

The most telling detail was the new purpose of his tie—it now wrapped tightly around his wrists, which were bound behind his back.

“Is this really the only way I can get you to notice me, great artist?” the leather jacket seemed to whisper.

Edward Harding raised his glass, letting the deep red liquid dance before his lips. He took a sip, his gaze locked on that line, a mix of contemplation and intrigue swirling within him.

Moments passed, his throat bobbed softly as he swallowed, the warmth spreading within him, revealing a fire not meant for the outside world. He shifted his focus, drawn to the detailed image on the screen—particularly the stark contrast of the pale skin of the wrist against the vibrant red mark left by the tie.

For a few lingering seconds, he stared at that spot, and before he even realized it, his own hand instinctively wrapped around his wrist, as if to mimic the sensation, rubbing the skin.

After nearly five minutes of contemplation, Edward finally flicked his fingers, moving away from the intense imagery displayed on his computer—a tableau pulsating with an intensity both overwhelming and forbidden.

He returned to the creator’s profile page: "Dominion," the prolific webcomic artist owning a million followers.

Edward stared at that name for a brief moment, allowing a smirk to escape—an elusive smile that hinted at a wry understanding of a truth known only to him.

No one knew that "Dominion" was Edward Harding himself. He had penned story after story over nearly a decade under this alias.

His work was as varied as it was intense, but two elements remained constant: graphic romance and the thrill of dubious consent.

This shocking secret, if ever disclosed, would surely be dismissed as gossip—who could believe that the aloof, reclusive Edward Harding could create such passionate and wildly provocative tales, packed with the very dangers that society often shunned?

The sharp contrast painted an almost absurd picture.

Edward took another sip of wine, imagination waking as he entertained the idea of revealing this to Clara Ellison, wondering what her reaction would be. Would she feign disbelief? Call a lawyer to defend his reputation? Or worse, insist he see a therapist for some hidden trauma?

The thought alone made him chuckle — a deep, rich sound that filled the room. Clara would surely be bewildered.

Deciding to spare her the absurdity for now, Edward brushed aside the strange thoughts. He returned to the trackpad, scrolling through comments on the latest update of his comic, humor bubbling to the surface at the flurry of enthusiastic responses:

“AHHHH, I’m feasting right now!”

“I live for moments like these. Thank you, madam, you’re my savior!”

“That leather jacket and white shirt combo? Stop it, you're killing me!”

“Did our boy finally take the plunge? So who’s been holding the reins on his poor wife?”

“Seriously, how does one even tie a tie like that? It’s practically a language at this point!”

“Today’s pants? Going nowhere soon! Not in this household, haha!”

“Honestly, that tie on the wrist? Is that even a thing? I need it… just a bit more aggressive.”

“Bonding here and now, let’s not pretend this is a ghost town! Speak up, everyone!”

“I can say no more. If I don’t see these two together again, I just might lose a vital part of my soul!”

Edward couldn’t help but smile wider with each comment, the collective energy of his readers filling him with joy.

Scrolling down, he came across endless pleas for the next chapter—a maneuver long familiar to him. Deciding he’d had enough of the distraction, he put his phone aside and picked up his graphics tablet.

He had long abandoned a fixed update schedule for his webcomic; after all, art was not his primary gig. Yet, over the years, he adhered to a rhythm of releasing something each week. Today marked the week’s end, and with the last episode uploaded the previous Saturday, he committed to finishing the next installment today.

Chapter forty was due.

—

"Thomas." At Blackwood Enterprises headquarters, William Griffin, the assistants with a hint of concern, watched the strikingly handsome man in the office chair with worry. “I’m just saying, you look worn out. The issues are pretty much resolved now; you could take a break.”

Two beats passed before Thomas Blackwood seemed to shake off a haze of thoughts. He slightly shook his head, curling his long fingers, tapping lightly on the desk. “I’m fine, but I’ll leave the cleanup to you. Afterward, please call the head of Ironhold Technologies and let him know that Blackwood has once again had to mop up their mess.”

“Understood, don’t worry.” William nodded, eager to handle things as ordered.

Thomas was embroiled in a partnership with Ironhold Technologies, engaged in developing cutting-edge energy conversion and storage technologies. In simple terms, Thomas funded the project, while Ironhold provided technological services for the duration of the contract.

Originally, the deal was set to expire next March, but three issues had presented themselves in the last two months—not catastrophic, but enough to disrupt operations, forcing Thomas’s team into overtime, leading up to today’s meeting.

William could only shake his head at the situation. “Honestly, Thomas, you’ve been way too kind to them. This is their third chance; we could cut ties right now under the contract.”

A mere smirk crossed Thomas's lips in acknowledgment of William’s comment, but he merely stated, “If I can solve the problem, then it’s not a problem at all. Besides, the tech department hasn't hit their deadlines yet.”

William blinked once, recognizing the implication behind Thomas’s words—an understanding of the nature of their business and the importance of keeping such relationships intact.

There are limited chapters to put here, click the button below to continue reading "Between the Ink and Heart"

(It will automatically jump to the book when you open the app).

❤️Click to read more exciting content❤️