Chapter 8
Knox
The opening beats of "Toxic" pulse through my studio speakers as I attack the canvas with a palette knife loaded with Prussian blue. Dark, moody, suffocating—exactly how William makes me feel when he's in full CEO mode.
The paint goes on thick, aggressive strokes that would make my art school professors cringe. But this isn't about technique. This is about getting out some of my frustration.
I've been out here since William's spectacular meltdown at lunch. Carina had looked so defeated when she left, and Travis... I've never seen him that angry. The whole thing was a disaster, and of course I escaped to the only place that makes sense anymore—my studio, my music, my paint.
Britney's voice washes over me as I grab a tube of cadmium yellow. Freedom. Joy. The life I could have if I wasn't trapped being William Montclair's baby brother, eternal disappointment, the family fuck-up who wastes his time with art instead of focusing completely on the sacred family business.
The yellow explodes across the blue, violent and beautiful. I'm so lost in the process that I don't hear the door open.
"Is that... Britney Spears?"
I spin around, nearly dropping my palette knife. Carina stands in the doorway, head tilted, a small smile playing at her lips despite the redness around her eyes.
"I... uh..." I gesture helplessly at the speakers. "It helps me think."
"Knox Montclair, abstract expressionist and Britney fan." Her smile grows wider. "I never would have guessed."
"Please don't tell anyone." I'm half-joking, half-serious. "I have a reputation to maintain."
"What reputation? The brooding artist who only listens to obscure jazz?"
"Exactly." I set down the palette knife, suddenly self-conscious. "Are you okay? After earlier..."
Her smile falters. "I'm fine. Travis helped. He's good at that—making people feel better."
Something in her tone makes me study her closer. She's changed since lunch, now wearing jeans and a pink sweater that makes her look younger, more vulnerable.
"You don't have to be fine," I say. "William was an ass. A complete, total, inexcusable ass."
"He's under a lot of pressure—"
"Don't." I turn back to my canvas, needing something to do with my hands. "Don't make excuses for him. He doesn't deserve it."
She moves closer, and I catch her intake of breath when she sees what I'm working on. The painting is raw, chaotic—deep blues twisted with violent yellows, hints of red where they meet and muddy into something painful.
"Knox, this is..." She stops, stares. "This is incredible."
"It's a mess." But her genuine awe makes me smile. "I'm just... working through some stuff."
"Can I ask what it means?"
I should deflect, make a joke, change the subject.
Instead, I find myself telling the truth.
"This is how I feel most days." I point to the dark blues dominating the left side.
"That's William. His expectations, his control, the weight of being a Montclair.
And this"—I gesture to the bright yellows fighting for space—"is everything else.
Art. Freedom. The life I actually want."
"And where they meet?"
"Chaos." I laugh, but it's bitter. "Pretty much sums up my existence. Caught between who I'm supposed to be and who I am."
Carina studies the painting with an intensity that makes me nervous. Most people look at my art and see pretty colors or interesting shapes. She looks like she's reading my diary.
"I can see the conflict," she says softly. "The way the colors fight each other but also can't exist without each other. It's..." She turns to me. "Your art is real, Knox. This isn't some hobby. This is you, translated onto canvas."
My throat tightens. "You get it."
"I get it." She reaches out like she might touch the painting, then pulls back. "Does William ever really look at your work?"
"William thinks my art is a phase I'll grow out of." I grab a rag, wiping paint from my hands with unnecessary force. "Like I'm still sixteen and this is some teenage rebellion."
As if summoned by his name, the studio door slams open.
"Knox, turn down this ridiculous music!" William stands in the doorway like an avenging angel in a Tom Ford suit. "Some of us are trying to work."
"Some of us are working," I shoot back. "Just because it doesn't involve spreadsheets—"
His eyes land on my painting and his expression shifts to that particular brand of disdain he reserves for my art. "Don't you have marketing materials to review?"
"It's Sunday, Will."
"Since when has that stopped us?" He looks between Carina and me, and something dangerous flashes in his eyes. "I need those campaigns by tomorrow morning."
"They're already done. Have been for a week."
"Then review them again. We can't afford mistakes because you're distracted by..." He waves dismissively at my canvas. "This."
The word is a weapon, sharp and precisely aimed. This. Not art, not work, not anything of value. Just this.
"Get out," I say quietly.
"Excuse me?"
"Get. Out." I step between him and my painting, protecting it instinctively. "This is my space. You don't get to come in here and—"
"I own this space," he reminds me coldly. "Everything here exists because I allow it."
"William," Carina says, and her voice is steel wrapped in silk. "Stop."
He turns that icy gaze on her. "This doesn't concern you."
"Actually, it does." She moves to stand beside me, solidarity in action. "You're being cruel. Again. And I'm tired of watching it."
Something flickers across William's face—surprise, maybe, or hurt. But it's gone before I can identify it, replaced by his CEO mask.
"I see Travis isn't the only one you've charmed," he says, and the implication is ugly.
"That's enough." My hands clench into fists. "Get out, Will. Now."
He leaves without another word, but his presence lingers like a toxic cloud. I stand there shaking, fury and hurt warring in my body.
"Fuck him," I mutter, then louder, "Fuck him and his empire and his fucking expectations."
I storm to the speakers and crank the volume. Britney's voice fills the studio at a level that probably violates several noise ordinances. Petty? Yes. Satisfying? Absolutely.
"Knox..." Carina touches my arm gently.
"I'm so tired of it," I say, the words pouring out like paint from an overturned can.
"Nothing I do is ever serious enough for him.
Marketing director? That's just babysitting until I 'grow up' and take a real position.
My art? A cute hobby that I'll abandon when I get serious about life.
Even the women I date—'inappropriate' or 'not suitable' or 'distracting you from what matters. '"
"He doesn't see you," she says simply. "He looks at you and sees what he thinks you should be, not who you are."
"Story of my fucking life." I laugh, but it's all edges. "William's little brother. Never just Knox. Never enough on my own."
"You're enough," Carina says firmly. "More than enough. You're talented and kind and you see beauty in the world. You make people laugh. You stood up for me when you didn't have to. You're..."
She trails off, and I realize how close we're standing. When did that happen? I can see flecks of gold in her green eyes, can count the freckles across her nose.
"I'm what?" My voice comes out rougher than intended.
"You're extraordinary," she whispers. "And anyone who can't see that is blind."
Something shifts in the air between us. The music fades to background noise as I become hyperaware of every detail—the way her chest rises and falls, the paint smudge on her cheek from earlier, the way she's looking at me like I'm art worth studying.
"Carina..."
"Show me," she says. "Show me more of your work. Show me who you really are when William's not watching."
I should step back. She's with Travis—sort of, maybe, it's complicated. This is a bad idea for a dozen reasons. But she's looking at me like I matter, like my art matters, like all the pieces of myself I've been told are wrong are actually worth something.
"Okay," I breathe.
I lead her around the studio, showing her canvases I've never shared with anyone.
The landscape series from last winter when I was so depressed I could only paint in grays.
The portraits of strangers I'd sketched in Zurich cafes.
The experimental pieces where I'd thrown every rule out the window just to see what would happen.
She studies each one seriously, asking questions, making observations that show she's really looking, really seeing. When we reach my most recent series—abstract expressions of joy in brilliant, impossible colors—she gasps.
"These are... Knox, these should be in galleries."
"William would never—"
"Fuck William." The profanity sounds strange in her voice but also perfect. "Sorry. But seriously, fuck him. This is your life, your talent. Why does he get a say?"
"Because he's William," I say helplessly. "Because he saved me after our parents' divorce. Because the company pays for all this. Because—"
She silences me by pressing her fingers to my lips. "Because you're scared."
I nod against her fingers.
"I get it," she continues. "I was scared too. Stayed in a marriage that was killing me slowly because I was scared of who I'd be without it. But Knox... the fear is lying to you. You're already who you're supposed to be. You just have to choose it."
Her fingers are still on my lips. Without thinking, I kiss them softly. Her breath hitches.
"Carina," I say again, a warning and a question.
"I know," she whispers. "I know this is complicated. Travis and I... but being with you feels different. He makes me feel safe. You make me feel alive."
"I don't want to hurt anyone."
"Neither do I." She moves her hand to cup my cheek. "But I also don't want to keep pretending I don't feel what’s happening between us."
I lean into her touch, my eyes closing. "You have paint on your face."
She laughs, surprised. "What?"
"Earlier. You must have touched your cheek with paint on your hands. You look like art."