The Art of Sinning

The wrought-iron gates of Kingsworth University looked a bit weary from the salt and crisp October air, it made the building look less of a school and more like an asylum for entitled students. Ophelia Kensington’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel, a clear sign of the twenty-four-hour drive north she’d endured to escape the stifling predictability of her Connecticut life. Back home, her parents lived by the typical Aristocratic standard, making their children’s life seem merely like a role-play, While Ophelia’s own life had been meticulously planned out, all she’d ever really wanted was to lose herself in art history books and her studio, a path her father casually dismissed as a childish hobby. He hadn’t forced her to study business administration because running the family’s corporate affairs wasn’t a woman’s business; she was merely expected to dutifully get married and be a housewife like her mother. She steered the car into an empty spot under some maple trees. The engine sputtered to a halt, leaving only the steady drumming of rain against the windows. Catching her reflection, Ophelia saw her neat chestnut hair and emerald eyes, she still looked presentable. On the surface, she was the quintessential Kensington; polished, composed, and flawless. Yet, her fingers tapped a nervously against the wheel. Her heart was hammering with an urgency she tried not to show. She wasn't just here for a job; she was here because she’d watched her sister, Cordelia, unravel. Cordelia had been the first to try and break free from the family’s tyranny, only to get tangled up in obligations and a marriage of convenience. Before Ophelia left, Cordelia had ensured to tell her to thrive so she wouldn’t end up like her. Ophelia had taken that to heart, she had applied for the assistant lecturer position at the university which was miles from home. She wanted this on her own terms, she wanted to live quietly while doing what she loved without the fear of being forced into an arranged marriage like Cordelia. Then there was the man she was supposed to report to: Dr. Benedict Sinclair. Within academic circles, he was the brilliant, unconventional mind who had revolutionized the study of modern erotic art. In the broader art world, his private collection was legendary; raw, dark, and brimming with an unrestrained sensuality. Ophelia had spent countless nights poring over digital images of his work with a blush often creeping up her neck. There was a fearless honesty in his art that both intimidated and completely captivated her. He was a skilled artist, and she was excited to work with him. She stepped out of her car holding a black umbrella over her head to protect her from the drizzle, and made her way across the cobblestone courtyard towards the east wing. Inside, the building had soaring ceilings, dark wood paneling, and the rich aroma of turpentine and old paper. It screamed art, and she loved it already. Her heels clicked confidently as she made her way down the hallway until she finally reached the oak door with his name etched on a brass plate: ‘Dr. Benedict Sinclair’. She smoothed her skirt, took a deep, steadying breath, and knocked. “Enter.” The voice was deep, it held an accent which was a blend of old-world British aristocracy and something she couldn’t quite place. Ophelia pushed the door open gently. The office was breathtaking; bathed in the light streaming from a large, cathedral-like window, Benedict Sinclair sat behind a dark-stained desk, and tucked away in a shadowed corner was a small secretary’s desk which she assumed would be her assigned spot. Benedict didn't look up from the screen of his MacBook. He was only thirty-one, but carried himself with the gravitas of a man twice his age. He was handsome, much more handsome than the pictures online, Ophelia immediately realized he wasn’t a photogenic person. He had dark hair swept, thick brows, and a perfect nose. He wore a navy blue shirt which was open at the collar, the contrast was beautiful against his skin. “You're late, Miss Kensington.” Ophelia glanced at her wristwatch quickly, she was never late. “By two minutes, Dr. Sinclair. The weather on the pass was a bit unpredictable.” He finally raised his head. His eyes were a piercing, stormy grey, and they were quite cold. He took her in with a single, sweeping glance: the neat hair, the expensive coat, the posture, the portfolio clutched in her hand. And she was surprised a flicker of distaste crossed his features. He leaned back and steepled long fingers. “Sit.” Ophelia held her ground for a beat longer as a small act of defiance, before sinking into the leather chair. She placed her portfolio on his desk. She’d just gotten her master’s degree and she’d graduated top of her class as always. She took ethics very seriously and she was slightly offended he’d point out the fact that she was late with just two minutes. Wasn’t it obvious that it was raining outside? He pulled the portfolio closer, unzipping it with those fingers which had neat and perfectly clipped nails. Ophelia watched him. Something about his presence was intimidating, he was lean but well built, she could tell from his shoulders. Why was she looking at his shoulders? Benedict flipped through the first page; A landscape, a painstaking depiction of the Connecticut shoreline at dawn, the result of three weeks' work. Technically flawless, the perspective was immaculate. He moved on without comment to the next; A still life. Then a classical portrait. Each piece was a testament to her long hours in the studio, and her strict adherence to traditional techniques. Benedict's face remained impassive, he gave nothing away. The silence stretched between them, making Ophelia uncomfortable. He was supposed to be impressed by now, he was supposed to be marveling at her skill. He reached the end, closed the cover, and rested his hands on top. “Technically, you’re highly skilled,” he stated, his grey eyes locking into hers. 'Your lines are precise. Your grasp of light is accurate. You’ve absorbed every lesson drilled into you.' Was that meant as a compliment? Ophelia wasn’t sure, but she decided to thank him, just in case it was. "Thank you." He shook his head. “Don’t thank me.” He said. “It wasn't a compliment. Your work is quite sterile, Miss Kensington. It’s bland. It’s the art of someone terrified of making a mistake.' Ophelia felt a hot flush of humiliation surge through her. “I adhere to classical foundations….” She began saying but he interrupted. “You hide behind them.” Benedict said. “Your painting are superficial. This portfolio lacks spirit; it has no soul. It tells me nothing about who you are.’ Ophelia’s breath caught. The sheer audacity stunned her, no one had ever said such things to her. She’d always been that flawless student who’s work always stood out, yet he seemed entirely unimpressed. “My personal life is irrelevant to my ability to assist your lectures, Dr. Sinclair,” she managed. Her throat felt too tight now, like a lump had settled there. A slow smile touched his lips, though his eyes remained as cold as ice. He picked up a thick stack of syllabi and dropped them in front of her. “Indeed. Your desk is in the corner.” His gaze returned to the screen. “Start alphabetizing the student rosters. Let’s see if your administrative skills have more life than your canvas.” Ophelia clutched the papers till her knuckles turned white. She felt humiliated and dismissed. She stood up and began making her way to her desk, but as she walked towards the solitary corner, a raw determination began to burn within her.