Chapter 5
AVERY
The brush moves across canvas in a long sweep of pearlescent white, and I'm lost in it—that place where time dissolves and there's nothing but the work taking shape beneath my hands.
Soft light pours through the studio's tall windows, warm against my shoulders, catching the wet paint and making it glow.
I've been standing here for nearly two hours, building up layers, stepping back to study the composition, stepping forward again to add another translucent glaze.
My shoulders ache, but I don’t mind. It means I’ve been focused on my art instead of scattered across a dozen wedding details and press anxieties.
I carry another ache today too, the pleasant one that settled into my muscles last night while Nick had me pinned beneath him, his mouth at my throat, his body moving in mine until I nearly passed out from pleasure.
That ache is deeper, sweeter. I shift my weight and feel the echo of him still owning my body even hours later.
The painting is nearly finished. It’s large, ambitious in ways that make something flutter low in my belly when I look at it too long.
Abstract, layered, complex. Its palette is predominantly serene, lots of creams and soft golds, translucent whites that catch the light.
But underneath, there's depth. Darker glazes showing through the luminosity, shadows that make the light feel hard-won rather than easily given.
This is what peace looks like after surviving darkness.
I already texted Nick when I arrived. His response still warms me when I think of it. The promise of dinner that he’ll make for us, and of what will come after, hums beneath my skin like low current. A few more hours here, and then I’ll head back home to him.
Behind me, the soft click of Lita's pliers punctuates the studio's quiet.
She's working on one of her wire sculptures today. I don’t have to look her way to picture her, bent over her scarred worktable with that focused furrow between her brows, her shocking neon-blue pixie cut catching the light.
Across the room, Matt mutters something to himself, working through some problem in the portrait series he's been obsessing over for weeks.
Sharing this cramped studio space with my friends is one of my favorite parts of any day.
Before I met them a couple of years ago, I had mostly painted alone, anywhere I could find a quiet place to set up my easel.
Being around Lita and Matt has been a true boon to my creativity.
Plus, they’re just fun to hang out with.
"Coffee break." Lita's voice cuts through my concentration. "Any takers?"
"I'm good," Matt says without looking up.
“When do I ever say no to coffee?” I set down my brush, flexing my fingers, and turn.
She's already moving toward the espresso machine I bought for the studio six months ago. It’s a good one, because all three of us know coffee matters, and the sludge from the bodega down the street was slowly killing us.
"You're a saint, Lita."
She snorts. "Hardly." But she's already grinding beans, tamping grounds, pulling shots like a pro. The smell of fresh espresso blooms through the studio, cutting through linseed oil and the faint chemical bite of Matt's acrylics.
I stretch while I wait, rolling my neck, feeling vertebrae pop.
The ache in my lower back is more pronounced now, likely from standing too long in one position.
I press my thumb into the muscle and find the knot, working at it.
Nick would do this better. Nick's hands know exactly where I carry tension, exactly how much pressure to use.
The thought of him touching me there sends warmth spreading through my chest, down into my belly.
Maybe I’ll ask him for a proper massage tonight. Before or after he makes good on his promise to see that I “get my fill”. The thought of his flirty text reply this morning makes my lips curve into a private smile.
“Getting close?” Lita asks as she brings me the small cup, crema perfect on top.
“What?”
She nods toward my canvas. “Your painting. How’s it going?”
“Oh.” Am I blushing? I wrap my hands around the warm ceramic and bring the cup up to my mouth. The smell of the coffee is so intense, I pull back without taking a sip. “Did you use a different setting on this?”
She frowns. “No. Same as always. Why? Something wrong?”
I try again, taking a little taste while she watches. Maybe it’s just me. I shrug, then set the cup down on the side table at my work area. I turn my attention to the painting that's consumed me for weeks, the wedding gift Nick doesn't know about yet.
"It’s coming along, I think. One or two more sessions, maybe."
"It's beautiful, Ave." Lita's voice has gone soft, genuine. "Really. I love the movement of it. The underlying calm. Whatever you're trying to say, it comes through."
The words settle into me, warm and reassuring. She doesn't know what it's for, what it means. But she sees something true in it anyway.
"Thank you."
She leans against my supply table, casual and comfortable, her combat boots crossed at the ankle. The diamond stud in her nose winks as she tilts her head. "So. The countdown until you become Mrs. Baine is on, huh?"
Mrs. Baine. Heat flares in my belly at the words.
Nick’s wife. I think of standing at the front of that church as I promise him forever.
The anticipation is a physical thing. A tightening low in my core, the same feeling I get when Nick looks at me across a crowded room and I know exactly what he's thinking.
"Yep, three and a half weeks." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "I can hardly believe it's so close."
"You ready?"
"I've been ready since the day he asked me. Maybe since before that."
Lita grins, but there's warmth beneath the teasing. "Look at you. All glowy and in love. It's disgusting. And also kind of adorable."
"Thanks. I think?” I reach for my cup of espresso, then decide to leave it sitting. “You’re still coming, right?”
She nods enthusiastically. "Normally, I wouldn’t get excited about a stuffy church wedding, but for you? I’ll make an exception. I bought a fancy dress and everything. Very civilized of me."
I smile at her. "I can't wait to see. I know you can rock a dress when you want to."
"Yeah, well, don't get used to it. This’ll be a one-time thing, then it’s back to ripped denim for me.”
The easy rhythm of our exchange loosens the tension I’ve been carrying. This is what I needed today. Friends who knew me before the penthouses and society pages. Who see me as Avery, not as an extension of someone else's world.
Lita downs the rest of her coffee, then pivots away from my station. "Back to work I go. That sculpture isn't going to weld itself."
I watch her cross the studio, sidestepping a stack of Matt's canvases on the way. I turn back to my own canvas, picking up my brush again, letting the conversation settle into comfortable silence.
The morning unfolds in layers of color and light. I lose myself in the work, adding another wash of translucent white to the upper portion, building the luminosity I'm after, stepping back to study the effect before leaning in again.
The colors are singing. I can feel it in my bones, that moment when a piece starts to come together, when the separate elements coalesce into something whole. Soon I'll have to stop, let the layers dry, come back with fresh eyes. But not yet. Just a few more strokes before I let it rest.
My phone buzzes on the supply table. I glance to the side, see it’s not Nick, then I go back to the patch of soft shadows I was working on.
My phone buzzes again. And again. Insistent in a way that cuts through my focus.
I set down my brush, frowning. Probably a vendor about some wedding detail. Or Rachel with a press request I'll want to decline. I wipe my hands on a rag and cross to the table, reaching for the phone.
I don’t recognize the number.
Something shifts in my stomach. A tightening, faint but present.
The preview text shows on the lock screen: Avery Ross - request for comment on article published today regarding...
What article? My thumb hovers over the screen. The tightening spreads upward, becoming pressure in my chest. Reporters don't usually text directly. They go through Rachel. Through official channels.
But sometimes, when a story is big enough, when they want a reaction before anyone can prepare me—
I unlock the phone. There's a link in the message.
Don't click it, some instinct whispers. Call Rachel first. Call Nick.
But my thumb is already moving. Already tapping.
The article loads.
The headline fills my screen, bold and brutal:
BILLIONAIRE brIDE'S DARK PAST: EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW WITH MOTHER OF AVERY ROSS
Below it, the subheadline:
From Pennsylvania Poverty to Park Avenue Penthouses: Convicted Killer Brenda Leigh Coyle Speaks About Daughter's Violent Childhood
Oh, shit. The phone shakes in my hand. My hand. I'm shaking.
I scroll down, unable to stop myself.
"While Manhattan's elite prepare for what's being called the wedding of the decade, the bride-to-be's past reveals a starkly different story.
Avery Ross, fiancée to billionaire CEO Dominic Baine, grew up in rural Pennsylvania poverty, the daughter of a woman later convicted of killing her abusive husband. .."
The studio tilts. My breath comes shallow, too fast, not enough air.
Quotes from my mother, pulled and twisted: "Avery always wanted more than what we had. She was so talented, so beautiful. I knew she'd find a way out."
They made it sound like ambition. Like climbing. Like everything between Nick and me was strategy instead of love.
I keep scrolling, sickness building inside me. The details are laid bare, all facts, yet each word feels like a blade slashing into my flesh.
Martin Coyle's death, the gunshot, my mother's conviction. Manslaughter. Twelve years served. Rodney's name, his extortion charges. All of it dragged into daylight for strangers to pick through.
There are a few photos accompanying the article.
My mother's face, weary and stripped of dignity—her mugshot from years ago.
A later image of her, evidently snapped by a paparazzo while she was here in the city earlier this year.
And below it, me at some gala, polished and expensive on Nick's arm.
The contrast screaming everything the article wants readers to believe.
Does Dominic Baine know what he's marrying into?
The question sits on the screen like an accusation.
My legs won't hold me. I grip the edge of the supply table, knuckles white, making my cold cup of espresso jiggle.
Shame rises from somewhere deep inside me.
Sixteen years old in a police station, the whole town whispering.
The shame feels the same now. The same exposure.
I thought I'd buried it. Built a life on top of it.
But here it is, clawing up through my chest, my throat, choking me.
I can’t deny the facts in the article, but none of it has ever been public before. Nick helped make sure of that. He kept my darkest secrets then took steps to ensure they never got out. Until now.
Oh, no. Everyone will see this. How many already have?
Nick’s associates. His friends. The wedding guests. Potentially this whole city, everyone looking at me, knowing—
"Avery?"
I’m so lost in my spiral of horror, the concerned voice seems to come from far away.
"Avery. Hey."
Hands on my arms. Lita's face swimming into focus, creased with worry. When did she cross the room? How long have I been standing here?
"What the hell just happened? You're white as a sheet."
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.
"Let me see." She reaches for my phone, glances at the words filling the screen. “What the fuck?”
Matt gets up, crossing the studio. “What’s going on?”
I pull my phone back, clutching it to my chest. Can't let them see any more of it. Can't let anyone else see what I came from, what Nick is tying himself to, what the whole world will likely know now.
"I… I have to go." The words scrape out. Barely recognizable.
"Go where? Avery, talk to me—"
I shake my head. "I have to get to Nick."
I'm moving on autopilot now. Grabbing my bag from the chair, keys jangling somewhere inside. My hands won't stop shaking.
"Avery, wait." Lita follows me to the door. "You're scaring me. Are you okay to drive? Let me take you—"
"I'm fine. I just—I need to go. I need to see him. I’m okay."
The lie tastes like ash. I'm not okay. I may never be okay again.
But I have to move. Have to get to him. The need is physical, urgent, a pressure in my chest that won't ease until I'm with him.
"Let me know when you’re safe," Lita calls as I wrench open the door. "Please, Avery."
I nod without looking back. The door closes behind me and I'm in the hallway, then the stairs, then bursting onto the street to hurry to my car. To my relief, there is no press waiting to pounce on me. I climb behind the wheel, my entire body shaking.
I have to talk to Nick. I fumble in my purse for my phone, pulling it out with trembling hands. Then I hit Nick’s saved number and wait for it to connect, doing everything I can to hold back the dread and panic that’s clawing at the back of my throat.
Pick up, Nick. Please, pick up fast.