Kellen Carver is a free-spirited painter living for the moment. Fueled by caffeine and Manhattan’s frenetic energy, she soon realizes she can’t outrun her painful past.

Ray Hamilton is a physicist embroiled in the relentless pursuit of a comprehensive cosmological model. He is teetering on the verge of a major breakthrough, but beneath his work lies a desperate desire to explain his mother’s disappearance.

When a troubled writer publishes an article about Kellen’s paintings, their worlds are changed forever.

As their lives intersect and divide, Kellen must reevaluate her assumptions, dig into her own loss and grief, and find a way forward. The Gilded Edge of Oblivion is a personal journey, a love story, a tragedy, and a redemption, all in an effort to define what it means to be human in an inhumane world.

 

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Release Date: September 14, 2026
Genre: Contemporary Romance

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Excerpt

Chapter One

Kellen Carver’s paint-stained fingers had been numb since November. The graduate painting studio was colder than it should have been for an early May afternoon and uncomfortably reminiscent of the harsh, particularly Arctic winter she had recently endured. Kellen rubbed her hands together in a futile gesture as she looked out the window. From her fifth-floor studio, the atmosphere in the city was a dreary continuation of the deep grey storm clouds slung low against the sky. A persistent wind whistled through the gaps in the steel-framed windows. Kellen shivered and looked away.

Despite the frigid conditions, she wasn’t ready to give up for the day. All she’d done recently was give up. Day after day, night after night. The work was driving her to distraction.

From beneath a pile of discarded papers and rags, Kellen unearthed a pair of pink fingerless mittens she’d knitted in December. She put them on and faced her painting once more. It was a monster, hell bent on torturing her with its gargantuan size and voracity for her resources. Every brush stroke was a reminder of the astronomical cost of paint.

Some of the lines were promising, with their bold, gestural qualities, but that was where the positives ended. Kellen’s brain was as numb as her fingers, but even so, it was obvious. Something essential was missing in the piece. It was unfocused: an unintentional self-portrait. Her mood mirrored the stormy sky outside.

Non-objective painting had been all the rage for a while now in the art world, but Kellen hated it. What did fields of color playing with each other say about her experiences with the world? It was rare for an abstract painting to move her, and when one did, it was not always obvious why. The other grad students spoke the language of abstract expressionism perfectly, but all Kellen heard was white noise. The professors had urged her to explore, to let loose, to talk with her inner child. Kellen’s inner child, however, was alive and well and on the verge of an epic meltdown.

Kellen kicked the leg of the thrifted dresser upon which her supplies rested. The palette knife clattered alarmingly as it skittered upon the glass palette. Exasperated, Kellen grabbed the knife and gashed through layers of paint, straight at the heart of the work. It was not an improvement. It looked like a wolf had attacked it.

Groaning loudly, she tossed the knife back onto the dresser. Acknowledging her inner toddler’s tantrum with a cookie and a pat on the head, Kellen sank dramatically into the ratty plaid chair she’d inherited when she replaced the former occupant of the studio space. Engulfed by the depression in the well-used cushion, Kellen found comfort in the much-needed embrace.

“Hey, girl,” she heard from her doorway.

It was Tyler, her only real friend in the graduate painting department. Everyone else was younger and obsessed with their phones. Tyler was around her age and married, but he was easy to talk to because he still knew how to have a conversation.

“What’s up, man?” Kellen said, feigning nonchalance.

Tyler surveyed the gashed-up painting with a bemused smile. His sandy hair was tousled, his icy blue eyes and long lashes lent him a permanently flirtatious look. “Productive evening?” he said, not even trying to hide his sassy edge.

“Incredibly productive. As you can see, I’m on the edge of a breakthrough.”

“Literally,” he said.

Kellen snorted. If it had been canvas instead of a board, she would have cut straight through the fabric with her aggressive use of the palette knife.

“You having more luck?” she asked him as he walked around her messy space.

“You might try cleaning up a little sometimes. It might help your process.”

“Dick. There’s nothing wrong with my process,” Kellen snapped.

“Gotcha. I’m out. See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Kellen said. Tyler patted her shoulder on his way past.

“Don’t worry, Kell. It will all come together soon and then you’ll be unstoppable. You’re your own worst enemy right now.”

With those parting words of wisdom, Tyler left, closing her door behind him. Kellen threw a book at it and groaned again.

Leaning her head against the back of the chair, Kellen stared up at the pressed tin ceilings twelve feet above her head. The designs in the tin were obscured by layers of paint, each color peeling to reveal something of its many predecessors. There was history everywhere she looked. It was one of the many reasons she loved NYU. While intimidating and humbling, it was also a comfort to know she was not alone in her struggle to create something meaningful.

Kellen’s studio was big, but she felt like a caged tiger. She longed to paint outside, to feel the warm air bathe her freckled skin, to smell the sunshine ensnared in her hair. Unbearable sadness threatened to overtake her as she glimpsed a memory of a summer past, but she beat it back, as always. She had to. It was a matter of survival. It did her no good to look backwards.

Regaining control, Kellen forced her gaze back to the painting. It challenged her with its emptiness, with its abstracted nothingness. Other students in her program regularly became so frustrated they gessoed over old work to start anew, but Kellen had never been one of them until recently. Where had her muse gone? Images had always flickered like scenes from old films over the wavy glass of her subconscious, an endless flow of ideas and inspiration. How had she gotten so lost?

At eleven p.m., Kellen left the studio feeling more miserable than she had in weeks. She took a deep breath of terpenoid-free air and gazed up. The post-storm clouds sped past with surreal velocity, heavy pewter swells billowing against the ebonized sky. Moonlight highlighted their upper edges and city light gently cradled them from beneath. It was like a Steichen painting come to life, her very own nocturne.

Heat was slinking back into the city with the embarrassed reticence of an unfaithful lover. Kellen welcomed the returning warmth with abandon and spun around with her arms open wide. She flung away the melancholy of the studio and tasted the warming evening air. It was full of the rain’s sweetness and spring and humanity and promise. The sounds of the street filtered back into her consciousness as she reacclimated to her surroundings. Reality was a lovely change from being trapped in her own head.

Friday night in Manhattan was all about food and Kellen ravenously assessed her options. She decided on Kenka for Japanese because it was close, frenetic, and delicious. Of course, it was also packed with hipsters. Scanning the quirky space, she hoped to find a recognizable face at one of the tables. Not finding anyone familiar, she settled on the last free stool at the sushi bar, sandwiched between two men.

Kellen ordered far too much food. Plate after bowl was laid before her deferentially, offerings she received with a solemn nod of thanks to the impassive chef. Contentedly, she worked her way through each savory dish. Salmon roll and spicy tuna, dumplings and inari, even her udon was now a distant memory. With a final bite of toro sashimi, Kellen leaned back in her stool with a satisfied smile and folded her hands over her bulging stomach.

The chef asked her, with a straight face, if she wanted anything else. Laughing, Kellen replied, “I would if I could. Thanks, I think I’m all set.”

“How about some tea?” asked a deep, male voice to her left.

Startled, Kellen said, “What?” There was a hard edge to her voice, which she had perfected for situations like this. Turning, she faced the guy sitting next to her and penetrated him with her steely, intense gaze. Instead of the insouciant expression her rebuffs were usually met with, Kellen watched in horror as the man’s shy, golden eyes widened, before a worry line formed between them. He looked back down at his empty plate.

Though small, Kellen was formidable when her hackles were up. When her city-girl instincts kicked in, most people backed down. It was a defense mechanism, for she’d lost count of how many times random men had come on to her in random places. But this guy seemed a little different.

“Sorry,” he stammered. “I wondered if you might have some tea with me, but I shouldn’t have bothered you.” The guy’s voice was soft and gentle, but not in a creepy way.

“Thanks,” Kellen said, softening her tone slightly, “but I’m all set.” As she paid her bill, however, she turned to examine the man once more. Graced with an adorable mop of unruly tight brown curls and wide, almond eyes the color of sunlit amber, he was gorgeous. The tones of his skin ranged from a luminous soft, warm bronze to deep sepia in shadow. Kellen analyzed what combination of colors she might use to paint his portrait and found the exercise a pleasant challenge. Broad-shouldered and on the tall side, he possessed the kind of rare beauty men can’t usually pull off without looking arrogant.

This guy, however, was not arrogant. In fact, he seemed quite the opposite. After she had rebuffed him, he had visibly withdrawn, as though he wished he could disappear. She had probably embarrassed him and his discomfort was palpable. His manor was so unassuming, so shy, so genuine, that Kellen felt the need to explain herself.

“I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s kind of a reflex action at this point.”

He snuck a peek at her and said, “I bet people hit on you all the time. That’s not how I meant it, though. I’m really sorry.”

“Thanks for understanding.”

Walking home alone, Kellen wondered why she hadn’t taken the risk of being friendlier. It wasn’t like she shied away from men, even from brief encounters with men. And it wasn’t like she wasn’t in the mood for some company, because she was. Maybe it was because of the guy. He seemed sweet and he shouldn’t get tangled up with the wild likes of her. That didn’t mean she didn’t regret leaving him, though, because when she really considered it, she did.

The studio called to her the next morning, somewhat earlier than Kellen would have liked. She got out of bed and did some sit-ups and push-ups. It was a habit she retained from high school, and it was probably the only reason she still had any semblance of a waistline. Grabbing a huge mug of coffee and her keys, Kellen headed back to examine her work in the light of day. It was as hideous as she remembered. Amusingly so. Kellen scraped the majority of the paint she’d added the day before onto an empty palette.

The guy she’d met the night before would have been a perfect model. Before Kellen had succumbed to the pressure of her peers, she had largely focused on landscapes and portraits. She was a realist. Why deny it?

Maybe it was time to return to her old sources of material. “To hell with abstract expressionism,” she shouted.

A stack of string-bound, antique photos lay at the back of her worktable, buried beneath a scattering of second-hand books on modern art. Maybe she’d have a bonfire with those later. She tossed the books on the floor and took up the photos. Reverently, she untied the twine and leafed through the images.

They greeted her like old friends. Near the bottom of the stack, Kellen found the image she loved most. Silvery tones set against fragile yellowed paper revealed a World War I soldier crouched on a bleak, expansive battlefield. Death was in his eyes, as though he knew exactly what would happen in his next moments or days. A wooden, crank-operated phone box stood next to him, and he held the receiver to his ear as though he had called for extraction or for back up or for God’s divine intervention. The utter lack of hope in his expression, however, had always haunted Kellen. She knew that look intimately, although she wished she didn’t. Its familiarity had forged a sense of solidarity with this man she’d never known, for they both personally understood the frailty of human life and the consequences of that fragility. The soldier’s eyes bored into her through time, war, and death, through the lens of an ancient camera. The dated inscription scrawled carelessly on the back of the photo sealed the soldier’s fate. He would indeed die soon after the photo was taken.

Turning back to her painting, Kellen considered how to respectfully appropriate his image. He spoke to her, ready to reveal himself. Lovingly holding her soldier in one hand, she took up the knife once again. Carving into the surface of the board, through what was left of the paint, she sketched the outline of the man.

Using Vandyke brown, Kellen plotted her new course with a stiff, round, brush. Outlining the gesture of his body, she captured his shape along with his potential energy. Then, adding some Payne’s grey mixed with Hooker’s green to the brush, she blocked in the soldier’s eyes, creating a contrast of shadows and lights, allowing the remaining phthalo blue and white haze left on the board to create a gauzy pallor beneath. She laid in the straight edge of his nose, the hollowness of his cheeks, the thin stoic line of his mouth. He came to life beneath her hands, a ghost hovering in paint above a turbulent background.

Steadfastly, Kellen painted for hours. The smell of linseed oil and terpenoid permeated the studio, clinging to Kellen’s hair and clothes, prickling her nose and throat. The clear azure sky glittered beyond her window, with no remnant of yesterday’s storm.

Painting layer after layer of variations on her soldier, Kellen intermittently paused to examine her work. It had finally started to feel right. Vibrating lines energetically traced the soldier’s body; his expression was direct and confrontational. As she layered the paint, a thick surface arose, with the soldier’s features disappearing beneath each embalming. The result was disconcerting and beautiful, and Kellen didn’t care that it wasn’t how or what the rest of the people in her program painted. This was hers alone and what was the point of making art if it wasn’t hers?

Mid-afternoon hit Kellen hard. Since her bloodstream was caffeine-based, she felt a crash coming on. She’d worked solid for hours and felt she deserved an extravagant coffee drink. In a fog, she abandoned her studio space in lieu of the coffee shop. On her way to the elevator, Kellen spotted Tyler, busy in his studio a few doors down.

“Coffee. Must have coffee,” Kellen moaned dramatically, draping herself against his doorway.

“Sure, I’m at a good stopping point. Let’s go,” he said, putting his brush down and grabbing his wallet from the table. Tyler’s space was always neat and clean and it hardly looked possible that someone could make the kinds of paintings he made without making at least some kind of mess. Kellen was awed, as usual.

Pointing her finger sternly, Kellen quipped, “You left that brush out, Tyler. It’s not like you to leave things in such a state of disarray.”

Tyler shrugged. “Yeah, I’m taking notes from you.”

Kellen rolled her eyes at him and asked, “How’s the wife?”

“Pissed at me. She thinks I’m here finger painting all day like a preschooler while she works. I don’t think she’s going to believe I’m a real artist until I’m raking in millions.”

“Ha,” Kellen laughed, mirthlessly. “Fat chance these days. You know all the value comes after you’ve sold your work for pennies, developed a heroin addiction, and died bloated and alone in a flophouse somewhere. Then, after your tragic and untimely death, the collectors can make the real money.”

Tyler leaned towards her, conspiratorially. “I’ve got a plan for that. I’m going to squirrel away six large panels from my ‘early years’ so when I’m famous, I’ll get to release these old works and make a mint. Besides, heroin is for losers.”

“Right. Well, it’s actually a good plan. I’m going to steal it.”

“You’re going to be famous within a year, Kell. Your work’s gorgeous and your personality is so off the charts, it’s hard not to notice you.”

“Thanks, Tyler. I’m aiming for the stars.”

Tyler put his hand to his forehead dramatically. “Jesus, you’re also a cornball. Don’t ever tell anyone that again. It’s so cliché.”

“No wonder the wife is annoyed with you all the time. You’re kind of an asshole.” Kellen laughed, but she wasn’t kidding.

They got coffee and bagels and returned to the studio to work. Tyler’s style was a sparse white-on-white, textural approach. Why it worked she couldn’t have guessed, but it did. It was subtle and modern, but it didn’t do anything for her personally. Tyler might be popular if his work got picked up by the right gallery. Kellen’s attempts to paint in that kind of style had been disastrous.

Tyler’s work was pretty, but it wasn’t for her. Maybe it would look good adorning hotel rooms, pleasant to look at but lacking substance. Maybe they were all painting self-portraits, after all. Kellen felt a little guilty for even thinking that.

Her work would never appeal to the hotel-art type of buyers because they didn’t want to see recognizable forms in a painting. When you walked into a hotel or office or public space, the art was supposed to blend in. Nothing about Kellen blended in, from her vivid auburn hair to her outrageous behavior. When she found her audience, though, she knew it would be comprised of people who saw something meaningful in her subject matter and who appreciated her unique style. The quality was there and her work ethic was sound, for she applied herself to the craft thoroughly.

Kellen was almost proud of her new work when the group met for a critique later that week. Critiques were anxiety-inducing in the extreme. Kellen obsessed for days about all the awful things her classmates would have to say and she was not disappointed.

Farrah said, “I think the axis is off a little on his posture, but it’s hard to tell. And what’s going on in the background?”

Kellen looked at the painting and said, “I wanted it to look like the figure was being consumed by the chaos.”

“Oh, I see it now,” said Farrah dismissively.

“The blue is a bit much,” said Tyreke. He tilted his head. “It’s too saturated. Did you think of toning it down?”

“I guess,” Kellen said, suddenly agreeing with Tyreke’s assessment.

Tyler said, “It’s derivative.”

“Of what?” Kellen demanded.

“I can’t put my finger on it,” Tyler said, leaning backwards and crossing his arms, “but it reminds me of something.”

Kellen narrowed her eyes at him and secretly promised to knock something over next time she was in his studio. When she looked away, she caught Gill Perkins, their professor, looking at her, reading her. She looked down embarrassed.

Gill was a critic of startling honesty. His pointed assessment of student work usually led to anger or tears, often both, and had sparked some deep resentment among the student body. Still, he had never fazed Kellen in the slightest. In fact, she generally agreed with and appreciated his critiques of her work and the work of her fellow students.

This time, he was on the money. “Kellen,” he began, his black framed glasses glinting in the neon light, “you’re headed home.”

“Excuse me?” Kellen asked, startled by Gill’s implication.

“What I mean is your metaphorical home. You want to paint what you see and what you feel. The conflict resides in those lines radiating around the man. He’s trapped and trying to escape. You’re trying to free him while holding on to all of the critiques around you. You’ve been trying and failing to be something else for the past few months, and this painting is the bridge home.”

Kellen was stunned and stared back at the work. She could see it—all the many glimmers of her desire to paint things she loved. “I did have a mini-rant against abstract expressionism before I added the figure,” she confessed. Tyler laughed and she shot him a look. “I had been feeling pressured to do something I don’t love. I’m over it.”

“I can see that. There’s a reason you’re here in this program. Your objective paintings have power. Run with it, Kellen.” Gill nodded to her subtly. Kellen smiled and nodded back.

 

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