Chapter 23
AVERY
My brush hovers above the canvas, loaded with the final stroke of titanium white I’ve applied to the painting I’ve been working on for weeks.
I step back, heart beating hard beneath my ribs, and let myself see what I've made.
Layers upon layers of glaze and pigment, light built through transparency, depth achieved through feeling more than technique.
And now, finally, it's finished. It might be the best thing I've ever created.
I wanted nothing less.
The upper portion glows with luminosity, creams and soft golds bleeding into translucent whites, the kind of light that feels earned rather than given.
Beneath it, darker glazes show through like memories rendered in Prussian blue and raw umber, shadows that make the brightness above feel hard-won.
The composition draws the eye the way I intended—upward, pulled toward the ineffable, toward the space between color and meaning.
At least, I hope the piece will communicate everything I want it to say.
This painting is for Nick. My wedding gift to him. I want it to be special. My expression of everything we’ve gone through and the miracle of where we’ve finally landed… together.
Right, no pressure.
"Holy shit, Avery."
Lita's voice pulls me away from the temptation to second-guess and angst over whether Nick will like my gift. She's crossed the studio from her welding station, goggles pushed up into her electric-blue pixie cut, and she's staring at the canvas with her mouth slightly open.
"It's done?" She moves closer, studying the way the glazes interact, the luminosity of the upper layers. "This is amazing. I mean, you’re disgustingly talented, but this piece is just… damn. It’s fucking stunning."
Warmth spreads through my chest, almost embarrassing in its intensity. Lita doesn't give easy praise. She'll tell you when something isn't working, when you're being lazy or safe. Her approval means everything.
"You really think so?"
"Uh, yeah." She gets serious, tilting her head, examining the composition from a different angle. "I love the weight of this right here,” she says, indicating a section of the artwork. “And the way the light builds up from the center? It feels like… I don’t know. Like hope."
I nod, unable to suppress my smile. “That's exactly what I was reaching for. Exactly what I wanted it to mean.”
She gives me a satisfied smirk. “Well, it’s all right there. What are you calling it?"
I hesitate to answer. I've already chosen the title. I knew it the moment the concept crystallized in my mind, but saying it out loud now would feel like giving away a secret that belongs to Nick and me.
"I’ll tell you after I give it to him."
“Fair enough.” Lita accepts this with a shrug. “He’s going to love it."
“Thanks. I hope so.”
An hour later, I start packing up. Brushes cleaned, canvas left to dry, the familiar ritual of closing down for the day. My gaze strays to the window overlooking the street below.
Kelsey O’Connor is at the coffee shop across the street, dressed in jeans and a light sweater, waiting for me.
Through the glass, I notice she's positioned at a table with a clear sightline to the studio entrance.
She's reading on her phone, or pretending to, but I know she's tracking every person who walks past.
And downstairs, another of Gabe’s team, Vaughn, is waiting with the car. Tall, handsome, built like he could bench-press the vehicle he's guarding. He’s the newest addition to my security detail, assigned specifically to drive me wherever I need to go.
This has become my life now. Watched. Escorted. Protected, whether I feel it’s necessary or not.
I gather my bag, say my goodbyes to Lita and Matt, then head for the stairs, trying not to let myself bristle over being so closely observed and managed.
It's not that I don't understand Nick’s need to know I’m safe.
I do. The pregnancy changes everything. After the fainting spell, after the ER, I can't argue that his fears are unfounded.
But understanding doesn't mean I have to like it.
As I step outside, Kelsey is already heading out of the coffee shop to meet me. She gives me a small nod and a smile, discreet as ever. She's good at her job, and I genuinely like her. That almost makes it harder to resent her near-constant presence every time I leave the penthouse.
This can't become normal, I think. We can't live like this forever.
But even as I think it, I know I'm negotiating with reality. Nick won't compromise on my safety or on our baby's. And part of me, the part that felt his terror when he dropped to his knees at the atelier and searched my face like he was on the brink of crumbling, understands why.
Vaughn opens the car door before I reach it. "Ms. Ross."
"Thank you." I slide into the backseat, Kelsey climbing into the passenger seat beside Vaughn. Then we’re off, the city scrolling past the tinted windows.
I’m surprised to realize Nick is already home when Kelsey and Vaughn drop me off at our building. I hear him in the kitchen, and I head that way, curious.
He’s taken off his suit jacket, which is draped over the back of a barstool at the kitchen island. His shirtsleeves are rolled to his elbows and he’s in the process of slicing a roasted turkey breast for sandwiches.
I inhale the aroma of fragrant spices and oven-fresh bread. “It smells amazing in here.”
He looks up when I enter, and the smile that crosses his face wraps around me like a caress. “Thought you’d be hungry for lunch when you got home.”
"I am."
He intercepts me before I can reach him, his hands finding my hips, pulling me against him. The warmth of his body, the solid strength of him, draws a soft sound of contentment from between my lips. “You came home from work early just to make me lunch?”
He grins. “Lunch, and dessert if I get lucky.”
“Oh, I think it’s safe to assume you’re going to get lucky, Mr. Baine.”
He bends his head down and nuzzles the sensitive curve of my neck.
As I tilt my head back to give him access, my gaze catches on something propped on the barstool I usually occupy.
It’s a stuffed elephant. Pale gray, impossibly soft-looking, with big embroidered eyes and a sweet, simple smile. Small enough to fit in a baby's arms.
My breath stops.
"I saw it in a boutique window today." Nick's voice has gone careful, watching my face as I extricate myself from his embrace and go to pick up the sweet toy.
"I saw it, and I thought—" He pauses. Hesitation flickers behind his eyes, careful hope, the uncertainty of a man who's never bought anything for a baby before and doesn’t seem sure he's allowed to want this. "Too soon?"
Tears well before I can stop them. Joy builds inside me, rising and swelling until I can barely contain it. "It's perfect," I manage. "Nick, it's—"
I can't finish. My hand rises to cover my mouth.
Tears spill over, tracking down my cheeks, and I'm crying in earnest now, which is ridiculous. I can’t dismiss it as pregnancy hormones, though I definitely have my share of those.
This is something else. It's him engaging with our unborn baby.
With fatherhood. With the future we're building together.
He's already imagining our child holding this.
With the plush animal in my hand, I return to Nick and wrap my arms around him, pressing my face into his chest, letting his heartbeat steady me. His arms come around me immediately, tight, secure, the way he always holds me when I need anchoring.
"Thank you," I whisper against his shirt. "For this. For everything."
His lips press to the top of my head. "There's nothing I wouldn't give you. Either of you."
We stand there for a long moment, wrapped in each other, the kitchen quiet around us. My free hand finds its way between our bodies to rest on my belly, and his palm settles over mine, fingers weaving together.
The moment stretches, tender and perfect. Then Nick's hand shifts on mine, and he draws me back so he can find my gaze.
"There's something I want to tell you," he says quietly. "I spoke to Beck today about the tabloid issue. We’ve called off the lawyers. I’m not going after Rennick Media anymore.
" His jaw flexes, then releases, and I see the weight of this decision in the set of his shoulders, the solemnity of his expression.
"I've decided to let the whole thing go. "
I set the elephant on the island. "You dropped it? What about wanting to make sure no one else comes after us… or comes after you?"
I know how deeply that concerned him when the story about me first broke. I had accepted that Nick needed to protect himself in whatever way he felt necessary. I’d understood that. I’d supported him, even if I disagreed with his tactics. But this is a surprise.
"Like I told Beck, that’s not a war I need to wage right now. Especially not when it only puts us farther into the spotlight. We don’t need the extra attention. You don’t need the stress.” He strokes my cheek, his touch tender. “So, I’m done with it.”
Surprise washes through me first, then a deep gratitude. This man who’s spent his whole life armored in control and vengeance decided to give it up. For me. For us. For the family we're building.
My eyes sting with fresh tears.
"I'm sorry," he continues, his voice low and rough. "Sorry I let my anger drive me at all. I’m sorry I made you feel like I wasn't hearing you. You were right, and I was—"
I silence him with a kiss. My hands frame his face and I pour everything I can't articulate into the press of my mouth against his. Appreciation and pride and fierce, overwhelming love for this complicated man who keeps choosing to be better than the wounds that shaped him.
He makes a gruff sound in his throat and pulls me tighter, one hand fisting in my hair, the other splaying wide across my lower back. The kiss deepens, hunger sparking between us like a struck match. When I finally pull back, we're both breathing hard.