CHAPTER 5 Reclaiming the Canvas
POV: Maya
For four years, my world was measured in Julian’s quiet approval, pristine white marble countertops, and the suffocating silence of a penthouse that never truly felt like home. Today? My world smells like aged parchment, lemon oil, and history. And honestly? I’ve never felt more alive.
I roll my eyes, placing the delicate bone folder on the wooden table and taking the cup he offers. "Please. I’ve restored eighteenth-century silk tapestries without breaking a single thread. A little nineteenth-century ledger isn't going to defeat me."
David grins, leaning his tall frame against the edge of the workbench.
He’s built like a former athlete who traded the field for dusty library stacks—broad shoulders, rolled-up sleeves revealing forearm tattoos, and a sharp, observant gaze hidden behind dark-rimmed glasses.
He doesn't look at me like I'm a fragile piece of glass about to shatter. He looks at me like I’m an expert.
Which, somehow, hits harder than any compliment Julian ever paid me.
"I don't doubt you for a second," David says, his voice warm, low, and genuinely curious. "I'm just amazed you ended up here. A woman with your preservation credentials usually belongs in the Met, not a coastal archive three hours away from the city."
I take a slow sip of the coffee, letting the heat settle in my chest. Because the city was slowly killing me, I think. But out loud, I keep my voice light, laced with that new, sharp edge I’ve been cultivating over the last three weeks.
"Big cities are overrated," I reply, flashing him a small, wry smile. "Too much noise. Not enough soul. Besides, someone has to save your local history from falling apart."
"Touché." David holds up his hands in mock defeat, his dark eyes sparkling with amused respect.
"Well, your soul is safe here. And for the record?
The archive hasn't run this smoothly in a decade.
You're a miracle worker, Vance." A real, unbidden laugh escapes my lips.
It feels strange on my tongue—bright, light, and completely unburdened.
When was the last time I laughed like that? Certainly not in Julian's dining room, surrounded by high-society sharks waiting for me to slip up. Certainly not while playing the perfect, quiet wife to a man whose heart was permanently stationed somewhere in Paris with Clara. Clara.
Even just thinking her name used to send a cold spike of inadequacy straight through my chest. Now?
It’s just a dull ache. A fading scar. They deserve each other—the tragic artist who realized too late what she gave up, and the brooding billionaire who spent four years staring at a memory instead of the breathing woman right in front of him.
"Earth to Maya," David says softly, nudging my shoulder gently with his.
"You went somewhere far away for a second. "
"Just running through my to-do list," I lie effortlessly, setting my coffee down and pulling a set of archival gloves back onto my hands. "We have three more estate collections to catalog before Friday, remember?"
"Right. Work." David chuckles, stepping back toward the main display floor, though his eyes linger on me for a second longer than necessary.
"Just remember to breathe, okay? You don't have to carry the whole building on your back in week one.
" "I like the weight," I tell him honestly.
He smiles, nods, and turns to handle a walk-in visitor, leaving me alone in the quiet sanctuary of the workroom.
I pull the next document toward me—a faded water-damaged blueprint from a local 19th-century theater—and get to work.
My fingers are steady. My mind is focused.
For four years, I channeled all my energy, sharp organizational skills, and passion into maintaining Julian Thorne’s life.
I curated his schedules, preserved his image, and smoothed out his edges, all while completely erasing my own. Not anymore.
This work is mine. This life is mine. I’m not standing in anyone's shadow, waiting to be noticed, waiting for a breadcrumb of affection from a man who treated me like an acceptable consolation prize. My phone, tucked away in my purse on the far shelf, buzzes quietly.
I ignore it. I changed my number the morning I left, cutting every digital tether that bound me to the Thorne name.
The only people who have this new line are my landlord and the museum director.
It buzzes again. Then a third time. Frustrated, I slide off my stool, pull my gloves off, and retrieve the phone.
An unknown, unblocked number glares up at me from the screen, followed by a incoming text notification.
My thumb hovers over the screen. For a split second, my pulse spikes, old habits screaming at me to brace for impact.
But I take a slow, deep breath, anchoring my feet to the hardwood floor of the archive, and open the message.
[Unknown Number]: Maya. Please. The house is empty.
No one knows where the quarterly portfolio notes are. We need to talk.
No apology. No "are you okay?" Just panic over a missing folder. A cold, sarcastic laugh bubbles up in my throat. He still thinks I'm his assistant. He still thinks the sun rises and sets on his corporate schedule.
I don't type a reply. I don't yell. I don't break down. I simply block the number, drop the phone back into my bag, and walk back to my worktable. Let the house be empty, Julian. You're finally seeing what living with a ghost actually feels like.