Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
“Art is the lie that enables us to realize the truth.”
― Pablo Picasso
Jade
25 years old
Five years ago
“I’ll give you five million, take it or leave it, Miss Whitenhouse.”
I tilted my head, a smile tugging at my lips as I crossed my legs, letting my new Louboutins catch the light.
His gaze flicked down, lingering for a moment on my legs before returning to my face.
“Simons,” I began, “my offer is already generous. Two million dollars for Frida Kahlo’s portraits to be displayed in our exhibition next Friday, staying in the museum for just one week. Two million, for seven days. If you ask me, that’s a bargain you’d be crazy to refuse.”
I raised my caramel macchiato to my lips, savoring the warmth and sweetness as he studied me with those calculating brown eyes of his.
Nathan Simons was New York’s golden boy.
At twenty-seven, thanks to his daddy’s shrewd investments in art, he was already a millionaire and a darling of the city’s elite.
Tall, blond, with freckles dusting his high cheekbones, Simons was an infuriating mix of charming and maddeningly entitled.
Women fawned over him, seduced by his gentlemanly facade and that disarming, practiced smile.
But I knew better.
That smile had probably landed on ten other women before me today, each convinced she was the only one.
We’d worked together before—three months ago, on an exhibition celebrating Latin culture. It had been a massive success. But today he was unusually resistant, more persistent than I’d ever seen him.
And I didn’t like the glint in his eye.
“I don’t know. I’m not sure I’m feeling this one.”
I narrowed my eyes. “What do you mean?”
He shrugged, his gaze darting to my lips before returning to meet mine. “Is it really a bargain? Handing over my paintings just for strangers to ogle? I don’t know, it feels… cold. Transactional.”
I raised a brow, setting my coffee down. “So what do you want, Simons?”
He leaned back, his smirk widening. “A date.”
I coughed, the coffee catching in my throat.
Clearing it quickly, I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear—a nervous tic I hated.
“Simons,” I began, carefully.
“Jade,” he interrupted smoothly. “We’ve known each other for months now. Don’t you think we’re past last names?”
I gave him a tight smile. “Nathan?—”
“I’ll lend you the paintings for free,” he cut in and leaned forward, his voice dropping lower. “If you say yes to just one date. Dinner at a nice restaurant. Red wine. Nothing outrageous. And if you liked it…”
“Tell me.”
“Then I’ll take you back to my place and give you the greatest night of your life.”
I tilted my head, letting the silence hang between us.
My fingers brushed the rim of my cup, tracing lazy circles as I considered Nathan Simons and his audacious little proposition.
A date.
A greatest night of my life kind of date at that.
I’d been working for Lazzio for a year now, and as promised, I wasted no time proving my worth. My ideas weren’t just good—they were ingenious , the kind that turned his fledgling museum into a place of glory.
Of course that meant working my ass off, hustling to build a network of contacts who didn’t just see Lazzio as a billionaire shark out to snatch their precious art, but as someone determined to showcase it to the world.
And let’s be honest, it was my beautiful smile and devilish soul that made them believe it.
Most of my negotiations were with men.
And let me tell you, when you’re a young woman batting your lashes and gushing about how lucky you are to work with them, contracts practically sign themselves.
It’s a strategy that’s equal parts infuriating and effective.
Flirting works—sadly, it always does.
But as our success snowballed and Lazzio’s museum gained real credibility, I’d started noticing something. On the rare occasions I saw him—and believe me, he didn’t bother with pleasantries—he made it crystal clear where he drew the line.
Flirting to close a deal? Fine.
Sleeping with clients? Absolutely not.
But hell, it’s been way too long since I’ve had sex, and lately, the cravings have been relentless.
The last time? Two years ago.
Some drug dealer who looked passable after a few drinks, but the morning after? I’d woken up in the backseat of his car wearing nothing but my T-shirt. Let’s just say he didn’t age well overnight.
That was my rock bottom—sex-wise, at least.
I had decided then and there: no more drunken mistakes, no more letting my life spiral just because I couldn’t handle my own loneliness.
Two years later, I’ve clawed my way back to something resembling a normal human being. Steady job, no drugs for 18 months, and even a borderline respectable workout routine. Mondays are for yoga; Fridays are for Pilates. Throw in a cute Soho apartment—thanks to Lazzio’s fat paychecks—and I’m practically thriving.
Which means it’s time to let myself live a little.
Just a tiny bit.
And who better to dust off the cobwebs than a golden boy who clearly gets around enough to know exactly where the clitoris is—and maybe even what to do once he finds it?
I swept my hair over one shoulder, exposing my neck, and let my fingers graze my skin slowly. His gaze followed, dark and hungry, and when his tongue darted out to wet his lip, I pretended not to notice.
“Sleeping with clients,” I said softly, letting the words linger like the taste of forbidden fruit, “isn’t exactly part of my job description, Nathan.” My fingers slid to toy with the delicate gold chain at my throat. “I’m not sure my boss would appreciate it.”
“I’ll deliver the paintings myself, Jade. Free of charge. Lazzio never has to know. It’ll stay just between us. You like keeping secrets, don’t you?”
My eyes roamed over his face, lingering on the curve of his jaw, the slight shadow of stubble there that hinted at a man who knew how to look effortlessly perfect.
I bit my lip, just enough for him to notice, tilting my head as though I were genuinely considering his offer.
“I have a taste for keeping secrets, Nathan,” I murmured, my fingers now toying with a loose strand of hair. “But some of them? They don’t come cheap.”
I let the words hang in the air, letting them sink in, watching him squirm just a bit.
Then I straightened up, grabbed my bag, and got to my feet.
“I’m not here to make deals for free, Nathan,” I said, setting my glass down. “You want my time? My attention? You’ll have to show me more than a wink and a promise of making me come .”
I moved closer, dragging my nail along his jaw, then cupping his chin and tilting his face up to meet mine.
His eyes were full of admiration, and I almost laughed at how easily he fell into line.
I pouted. “But thanks for the offer. I’ll think about it... maybe.”
I stepped out of the overpriced coffee shop and walked back to work, the sweet taste of my caramel lingering on my tongue.
The thrill of the chase, though—it was far sweeter.
Nathan Simons would deliver the two portraits by Friday, no question—probably with flowers and a handwritten note dripping with charm. Typical. And when I didn’t respond, when I left his little gestures hanging in the void, he’d try again at the exhibition, angling for my attention with the same predictable persistence.
I’d feign innocence, offer a distracted smile, and murmur, “Oh, I must’ve forgotten about those.”
It’d gut him just enough to make him want me more.
That was the fun part—the waiting game, the quiet torment of a man who couldn’t stand not being in control.
The playbook was so familiar that I almost felt bad for him. Almost.
I could either string him along for kicks or tell him I wasn’t interested, which—let’s be honest—I’ve done dozens of times with clients over the last year.
Or I could finally cave and fuck him.
Honestly … why not?
It’s been way too long, he’s stupidly attractive, and God knows a one-night stand might actually do me some good.
Something hot, dirty, and with absolutely no strings .
Lost in my thoughts, my body moved on autopilot, carrying me through the glass doors of the building. It wasn’t until I tapped the elevator button that I even registered where I was.
The smooth hum of the elevator arriving snapped me back to reality.
As I stepped inside, a sly smile tugged at my lips.
Maybe tonight I’d finally decide… after putting one of my toys to good use.
Nothing like clearing your head the proper way instead of letting it obsess over sex and orgasms I wasn’t getting.
I glanced at my watch.
3:35 p.m.
I hummed along to the soft jazz playing in the elevator, my mind blissfully blank for once.
But then reality hit me like a bucket of ice water.
The meeting.
Oh, shit.
I snapped upright, my finger jamming the button for the 18th floor as if that would somehow make the elevator move faster. It paused at the 23rd, of course , dragging out my misery before finally starting its descent.
I had a staff meeting that technically started—well— ten minutes ago .
It was Wednesday, but because Lazzio was jetting off to Australia tomorrow to charm their Minister of Culture, he insisted we push the exhibition briefing up a week.
Requirements, complaints, demands—it was all going to be in there.
And I was already ten minutes late.
Angelo Lazzio—the reigning king of perfection, punctuality, and micromanaging the air we breathe—was going to murder me. Not figuratively. No, the man had a way of looking at you that could melt steel and make you rethink all your life choices.
I’d seen it happen to others; now it was my turn on the chopping block.
By the time the elevator dinged on the 18th floor my heart was racing, though not entirely from the panic.
Lazzio was intimidating, sure.
His sharp suits, his piercing eyes, the way he could strip you bare with a single look—he was the kind of man who radiated power. But there was something else about him, something that made my pulse stutter for an entirely different reason.
I smoothed my skirt and walked briskly down the hall, heels clicking against the polished floor as I rehearsed my excuse.
When I pushed open the glass door to the conference room, everyone’s heads turned. My colleagues were seated around the oval table, their expressions a mix of curiosity and amusement.
And then there was Lazzio, standing at the head of the table with his arms crossed, his dark eyes locking on mine the moment I stepped inside.
“Miss Whitenhouse,” Lazzio said, his voice like ice. “How nice of you to join us.”
I swallowed hard, quickly sliding into the only empty chair—directly across from him.
“Sorry, traffic,” I said lightly, my lips curling into a half-smile.
Lazzio didn’t respond immediately.
Instead, he leaned forward, his hands resting on the sleek glass table as he studied me. His suit jacket stretched just enough to reveal the crisp white dress shirt beneath, tailored so perfectly it looked like it belonged in an art exhibit itself.
The corner of his mouth quirked, just enough to make me wonder if he was amused or irritated—or worse, both .
“Traffic? You don’t even drive, Miss Whitenhouse.”
“Pedestrian traffic,” I said smoothly, crossing one leg over the other under the table. “You know how the streets get this time of day.”
“Well,” he said finally, straightening to his full height, “now that you’re here, perhaps we can continue.”
I nodded, ignoring the heat creeping up my neck as he gestured for the team to proceed.
If I thought the hard part was over, I was dead wrong.
The meeting had barely started, and already, I could feel his eyes on me. It wasn’t just his gaze; it was the kind of stare that could pin you in place, take the air from your lungs if you let it.
But then again, this was Lazzio.
His eyes always had a way of lingering on me whenever we were in the same room.
They weren’t filled with anything interesting, though. No desire, no warmth—just boredom. That cold, detached look, like I was some piece of furniture that happened to catch his attention for a second.
The first four months after I signed my contract, he was gone. Off to LA, building some film domain for his entertainment empire. I barely saw him.
Undeterred, I spent my time working with the other colleagues who had no choice but to teach me everything they knew.
Unfortunately for them, I learned quickly.
So quickly, in fact, that I ended up excelling past them all.
When he finally came back, it wasn’t the museum or the exhibitions he seemed to care about.
No, it was me.
Always me.
My opinion, my advice, everything.
He always requested me .
But something told me that this time, he was paying attention in ways I wasn’t sure I wanted him to.
The meeting dragged to its conclusion, the room buzzing as people packed their laptops and papers, eager to escape.
Just as I got up and tucked my tablet into my bag, Lazzio’s voice sliced through the air, stopping me cold.
“Sit.”
My heart thudded. “Last time I checked, I’m not your pet, boss.”
He pushed off from the table and walked toward me with that same smug confidence I hated.
“I never said you were. Sit, Miss Whitenhouse.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Or what? You’re gonna drag me there by my hair like a caveman?”
His eyes sparkled with amusement, but he didn’t answer.
He just took another step forward, closing the distance between us.
“Sit.”
I rolled my eyes and did so, but not without showing my annoyance with a sigh. “I was only ten minutes late. I don’t think I need a spanking because of it.”
“Keep talking like that, and you just might get one.”
“Ugh, you’re so inappropriate.”
Crossing my arms, I tilted my head to the side, waiting for whatever urgent thing he needed to tell me. He studied me for a second, his eyes narrowing just slightly.
He was simmering now.
He hated when I pushed him like this, but I loved it.
Annoying him was too easy.
“How’s Simons?”
I looked down at my nails. “Good. Saved you two million, by the way. You’re welcome.”
He didn’t look impressed. “Guess your flirting’s more effective than I thought.”
“Yes. So effective that he’s taking me on a date Saturday night.”
He ran a hand down his tie. “A date?”
Honey and dark wood draped in silk sheets.
A rush of something sweet and dangerous stirred in my chest. I hated how good he looked, how he could make even the simplest move seem like a carefully calculated play.
I could almost feel the heat rolling off of him, and it made me want to tear my own eyes out.
“Yep, and then he’s taking me to his place for, and I quote, ‘the greatest night of my life.’” I scoffed. “Bold of him to think I’m that easy to impress.”
“Bold of you to assume anyone’s still desperate enough to try.”
“Wow, insecure and cruel. Must be exhausting being you, Lazzio.”
He turned and walked to the table, slipping his phone back into his perfectly tailored black pants before leaning against it.
His expression was cold and unreadable, like always, but the way he ran his tongue across his teeth told me he was more pissed than he let on.
Interesting.
“Tell me more, Miss Whitenhouse. Even though you know it’s off-limits to screw my clients. Unless you’re eager to lose your precious position.”
Ah, my favorite part of the day—seeing which one of us could push the other closer to losing their patience.
I crossed my legs, letting my heel dangle lazily from my foot. “You know, maybe we should revisit that policy. Some of our clients are very much my type. Think about it—a little extracurricular activity could be great for my mental health. I rake in millions for you, you share the profits, and I get to screw the ones who catch my eye. Sounds fair to me, don’t you think?”
Jade: one.
Lazzio: zero.
“Fair? Only if I wanted to start running a brothel. Though, judging by the way you think , you’d fit right in.”
I tilted my head. “I bet you’d be my most loyal customer.”
His jaw tightened, just slightly, but it was enough to tell me I’d struck a nerve.
“Trust me, Miss Whitenhouse, I would never be desperate enough to pay for what you’d be selling.”
Ouch. That one had claws.
Jade: one.
Lazzio: one.
A wicked smile spread across my cheeks. “Oh, I wouldn’t charge you, boss. I’m not cruel enough to make you admit what you want.”
“Ah, and what do I want?”
I remained silent as I stood, moving slowly around the table, my heels clicking against the floor as I made my way toward him.
I stopped just inches away, watching him carefully.
His hands gripped the edge of the table, his eyes narrowing, the tension between us thickening.
I ran a finger along his tie, my touch lingering just long enough to make him flinch before I yanked it—just a little—messing it up, watching his gaze darken.
I could feel it—the urge to snap, to lose control.
Deep down, I knew he wanted to strangle me for it. His obsessively neat, perfectly tailored clothes, his immaculate office, his rigid little world… and here I was, enjoying every second of destroying it.
I yanked him toward me by his tie, my face inches from his. “Anyway, what is it you need from me, Lazzio?”
When he’s requested me alone, it was usually because there was something only I could handle—some negotiation that needed to be taken to the absolute edge.
So I knew exactly why he had asked me to stay after the meeting.
And I was over our little game now.
My heels were killing me, and all I wanted was to take them off, slip into something comfortable, and soak in a hot bath.
I wanted to go home.
He leaned back just a fraction. “As I’m heading off to Australia, you’re in charge of this weekend’s exhibition. I need you to work some of your magic on James Greg. Get that portrait of Napoleon he’s holding hostage. The bastard won’t budge if it’s me, but for some reason, your pretty eyes seem to do the trick.”
I let go of his tie. “Consider it done. Have a safe trip, Lazzio. Try not to get bitten by a tarantula or something—I’d hate to be the one stuck as CEO.”
With a sway of my hips I turned to leave, knowing he’d have to get the last word in, as usual.
“Try not to fuck Nathan Simons,” he called after me. “Wouldn’t want him needing therapy at my expense.”
I didn’t bother turning around. I just flipped him off and walked out.
Guess I’ll be fucking Nathan Simons this weekend then.