Fifty Shades of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde Page A

half-bucket of red paint on it—the bloodiest shade in her collection. The only painting she’d ever connected with, she was now tragically convinced, was the painting of Dorian. He was her love, her life. Now that Helen had taken him away from her, she could no longer hide from the truth. So she set to framing the painting, using her favorite silver frame that had been a gift from her father. She would then wrap it up and deliver it to Dorian and be done with it and, oh, possibly him, forever.
    But she needed her father to see the gorgeous work she created. She needed just another moment in its fantasy, and a final approval.
    When she unveiled it for her father, he was visibly moved, his eyes wide with wonder.
    â€œRosemary, my dear!” he cried. “This is magnificent!”
    â€œYes, yes, I know. Isn’t he? He’s so wonderful, father. But I won’t see him again. No, I can’t. Do you like the way the light is caught in his eyes? Have you ever seen eyes so mysterious? They’re gray, but so many shades of gray. Like stone. The way the light does that—it took hours for me to make it right, but that’s just how he looks. Oh, father! I’m getting rid of it forever, and I just wanted you to see it before it is gone.”
    Her father nodded as she spoke, trying to follow her, his furry white eyebrows knitted in confusion. She went on and on until she was breathless, then collapsed into the nearest chair.
    â€œDarling,” said her father. He came over to her and put a hand on her shoulder. “You’re very fatigued. Why don’t you take a nap?”
    â€œI can’t sleep,” she said, clutching his hand. She peered up at him, her cried-out eyes brimming once again.
    â€œAnd I hear Georges Petit wants to feature you in a show this fall,” said her father. Oh, yes , thought Rosemary. George Petit . Once that meant something to her.
    â€œThis painting of yours will be the crowning glory of the collection!” said her father. He patted her shoulder, then, sensing her pain, tilted her chin up in his palm, his expression radiating the fatherly love she so trusted.
    â€œSuch blue eyes,” he said, his tone pensive and somewhat forlorn. “Such an angelic face. So much like your mother’s when I met her, when she held you in her arms. Oh! I am sorry you couldn’t have known her the way I did—though, well, one can’t really say I knew her that well.”
    â€œOh, father, it is not at all your fault,” said Rosemary, beginning to tear up. She felt deeply for her father. How did one go on after losing their soul mate? Ah, to experience a love like theirs! Even if it must end too soon.
    Her father took a deep, restorative breath and blinked away his tears. It was an overwhelming joy to see her father behave so humanly, and Rosemary’s suffering seemed to lose all importance. She found renewed purpose in comforting him.
    â€œGod took her and made her an angel, father,” she said. “He took her when she was too young, yes, but now she will always be young. Who wants to grow old and decay? We do it because we must. But no matter what, her love for you will go on, just as it goes on for me. It is a great tragedy that she had to leave us, but she didn’t want to. I feel her presence always. You must feel it, too.” She waved a hand toward the garden. “Especially now with the poppies in bloom! Just like her favorite flower, she was beautiful, but short-lived.”
    Her father drew a strand of chestnut hair from her cheek. The long night’s tossing and turning had left her disheveled. Hairpins stuck out of her bun at random, and the bun itself was a mess. She’d been too manic that morning to be bothered with adjusting it.
    â€œRosemary, my sweet child,” said her father, petting her cheek and looking into her eyes. Tears swelled to the brink of his eyelids but did not cross over. “I have