Closer by Aria Hawthorne Read Free Book Online

settled his unpatched eye on his favorite painting in the penthouse— Water Lilies by the nineteenth century impressionist painter, Claude Monet.  It was a priceless painting, smuggled out of his grandmother’s estate in Amsterdam when she fled the country during the Nazi invasion and occupation.
    He sank lower in his black Bugatti sofa and counted.  Eleven, twelve, thirteen … He strained his eyesight onto the canvas.  Where was fourteen ?  There , yes, there …a nd fifteen?   He squinted again to make out the individual water lilies within the cluster of soft green, white, turquoise and pink feathered strokes.  Such a cruel irony , he thought, giving up for a moment and dropping his head back against the sofa’s sleek leather.  Monet had painted his Water Lilies series at the end of his life while almost completely blind.  It was a fleeting attempt to console himself and press on.  Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen ...Yesterday, there had been at least twenty.  He had to find at least twenty. 
    He scanned the lily pad cluster again before succumbing to the demoralizing sensation of defeat. Just last week, he easily had found thirty—thirty distinct water lilies.  Now, dread overwhelmed the inner core of his being.  Someday soon—sooner than he was prepared to accept—he would attempt to count the water lilies and fail to find even one.
    How would he continue to design buildings without his vision? The question terrified him, then filled him with bitter injustice.  He was only a man of thirty-eight who had made his first billion by the time he was thirty, and yet nothing could restore the one thing he desired most—his ability to perfectly see the world.  Yes, he was a designer and an architect and a businessman.  But at the core of his soul, he was an artist who loved seeing the world—all its beauty and all its imperfections.  He loved noticing every detail of every event that passed by him and he loved absorbing all the nuances of life through his own keen observation of it. 
    Not long ago he had been a man determined to leave his mark on the world through the designs of his buildings—buildings that almost defied the laws of gravity and challenged the social standards of decency.  But now, as he sloshed his Holland gin around in his tumbler, he felt nothing except the oppressive shadow of despair darkening his soul.  He had become a man trapped in a tunnel, reaching out for the flickering light at its end, knowing that if he did not escape, he would be rendered useless and irrelevant to the world once everything fell completely black.
    His phone rang. Slightly drunk and despondent, he sat up straighter, glancing around as if he had forgotten where he was.  He fumbled to remove his phone from his pocket.
    “Yes?”
    “Miss Sanchez to see you, sir?”
    “Yes,” he confirmed to the doorman.  “From this point forward, always send her up.”
    Sven rose from the sofa and called into his phone. “Time?”
    The robotic voice answered back. “Five fifteen. P. M.”
    Five fifteen , he considered with a frown.  She was late .  Sven paced unevenly around the spacious living room.  Tonight’s dinner commenced at eight, and Ebony hadn’t yet sent over their wardrobe.  There would barely be enough time for them to dress—much less familiarize themselves more with each other—before he thrust her in front of the most important people in his life.
    It all suddenly felt like a grave mistake, a gross miscalculation of judgment by a man who was accustomed to the flawless precision of his own strategic decisions influencing the successful achievements within his life.  Despite his attempts to appear otherwise, he knew he was no longer the same Sven van der Meer he had been—ruthless, fearless, uncompromising.  Instead, he felt like a thin shadow who was desperate to keep up the facade of being the indomitable version of him.
    The front door buzzed.
    “Door—open,” he said aloud, his stern