16. Ava
16
Ava
I slip my phone into my pocket and adjust my sunglasses, squinting against the Brooklyn sunlight. The converted warehouse looms before me. It’s all exposed brick and industrial windows. Exactly what I’ve been searching for online all week.
This is it. This is the one. Please don’t let the price be totally insane.
“Ms. Redwood?” The realtor checks her clipboard. “I mean, Mrs. King?”
“Ava is fine.” I force a smile while my stomach does an uncomfortable flip at the name change. Still not used to that.
Behind me, Michael and Diana, my not-so-subtle security detail, maintain a professional distance. I left Parsons early today, and they’ve shadowed me to four different properties already, their expressions never changing as I rambled about light quality and ventilation. Poor souls.
Bet babysitting an artist wasn’t in their special forces training manual.
“The space has excellent northern exposure,” the realtor continues, unlocking the massive sliding door. “Perfect for consistent light without harsh shadows.”
I step inside and nearly gasp. Sunlight pours through industrial windows, illuminating a cavernous space with concrete floors and pillars reaching toward a ceiling at least fifteen feet high. The smell of old wood and metal mingles with a hint of dust. It’s not the musty kind, either, but the honest dust of a place with history.
“How much?” I ask, trying to sound casual while my heart races.
She names a figure that would have sent me running a week ago but now feels... possible.
“I’ll take it,” I say before I can second-guess myself.
The realtor blinks. “Don’t you want to consult with your husband?”
Bristling, I straighten my shoulders. “I don’t need to consult with anyone . I’ll sign today.”
Diana shifts her weight behind me. I can practically feel her thinking, Gideon’s not going to like this.
Two hours later, I’m holding keys to my very own studio space. Sebastian, Gideon’s driver who’s been patiently waiting outside, raises an eyebrow when I climb back into the sleek black car.
“We have a couple more stops to make,” I tell him, trying to sound authoritative despite the nervous flutter in my chest.
At the rate I’m commandeering Gideon’s driver, he’s going to have to get me my own Sebastian soon. He already offered once, but that seemed like overkill. Now I’m not so sure.
“Of course, Mrs. King.” His voice betrays nothing, but I catch his glance in the rearview mirror .
“Art supply store first. Then furniture. And please, just call me Ava.”
Mrs. King sounds like I should be wearing pearls and hosting charity galas, not spilling paint on everything I own.
By late afternoon, I’ve spent more money than I’ve ever had access to in my life. Supplies that I used to ration like precious jewels now fill the trunk. The best paints, brushes that don’t shed, canvas by the roll rather than by the inch. Furniture will be delivered tomorrow: industrial shelving, a robust worktable, storage units, and a comfortable chair for those times when I need to stare at a piece and contemplate whether it’s brilliant or belongs in a dumpster.
When we finally pull up to Gideon’s— our —building, my phone buzzes with a notification from the bank. The student loan payoff has processed. Just like that, the debt that’s shadowed me for years is gone.
Goodbye, legacy of stepdaddy dearest. Hope you choke on your beer tonight.
The elevator ride up to the penthouse feels longer than usual. My security detail tactfully keeps their eyes forward, but I know they’re fully aware of what I’ve done today. I wonder how long it will take for Gideon to find out. I already told him I’d spend the money. Let’s see what happens when he finds out I’ve actually done it.
I’ve barely kicked off my shoes when I hear his voice from the doorway of his home office.
“Productive day?”
I straighten up, meeting his gaze. “Very.”
Gideon steps into the living room, his expression unreadable. The afternoon sun filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows casts half his face in gold, the other half in shadow. It’s irritatingly symbolic of how I never know which version of him I’m getting.
“Sebastian tells me you’ve been property hunting.”
Of course he did. So much for driver-client confidentiality.
“I found a studio space,” I say, trying to keep my voice casual. My face feels warm already. Damn my tendency to turn red at the slightest provocation. “In Brooklyn. Warehouse conversion.”
“I see.” He moves toward the kitchen, loosening his tie. “And were you planning to mention this?”
I follow him, crossing my arms. “I’m mentioning it now.”
“After already signing.” It’s not a question.
“Yes. After using my settlement money to secure a workspace that meets my needs.” The defensiveness in my voice is unmistakable. “Which is exactly what I said I would do. Did you think I was joking?”
Gideon pours himself a glass of water, offering me one with a silent gesture that I decline.
“I assumed you’d want to discuss property investments,” he says. “I have contacts who could have helped you find something—”
“I didn’t need help,” I interrupt. “I know what I need in a studio. Natural light. High ceilings. Space to work without constraint.” I take a breath. “For once in my life, I wanted to make a decision completely on my own terms.”
Without anyone’s approval. Without someone telling me it’s impractical or reckless or not good enough.
The silence between us stretches, humming with tension.
“Show me,” he says finally.
“What?”
“Your studio. Show me what you chose.”
I pull out my phone, flipping through the photos I took earlier. My hands are slightly unsteady as I pass it to him, and our fingers brush momentarily. The contact sends a shiver through me that I refuse to acknowledge.
Gideon scrolls through the images slowly, his expression thoughtful. “Northern exposure. Good foundation.”
“It has character,” I say, unable to keep the pride from my voice. “And it’s all mine.”
He hands the phone back. “What about your student loans?”
“Paid off.” The words feel surreal coming from my mouth. “Every cent.”
Something flickers across his face. I can’t read it. “You’ve been busy.”
“I know what matters to me.” I tuck my phone away, feeling suddenly defiant. “Financial security means different things to different people, Gideon. For you, it might be diverse investment portfolios and hedge funds. For me, it’s freedom from debt and a space to create without compromise.”
The corner of his mouth twitches upward. “You used the line from our argument yesterday.”
Busted.
My cheeks flush hot. “It bears repeating.”
He takes a sip of water, studying me over the rim of his glass. “You know, most people would have consulted financial advisors before making such significant expenditures.”
“Most people haven’t spent years having their artistic decisions questioned and undermined by someone who was supposed to support them,” I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. “Today, I finally got to make choices on my own terms.”
His expression softens marginally. “I understand the impulse.” I can see the unsaid question lingering on his tongue. Who undermined your artistic decisions? Thankfully he doesn’t ask it. I’m not ready to go there, not yet.
“Do you really understand?”
“I built my first development project against the advice of every seasoned investor I knew,” he says, surprising me with the admission. “They said I was reckless. Naive. That I’d lose everything.”
I lean against the counter, genuinely curious now. “What happened?”
“I succeeded where they said I would fail. Because I understood something about the market that they didn’t.” A rare, genuine smile crosses his face. “Sometimes expertise doesn’t match instinct.”
“So you’re saying I might actually know what I’m doing?” My tone is lighter now, the tension between us shifting.
“I’m saying I should have given you more credit.”
Well, knock me over with a paintbrush.
I tuck a stray curl behind my ear, not sure how to respond to what feels suspiciously like respect coming from Gideon King. My face is still warm, but it’s different now. Not embarrassment so much as a strange, unfamiliar satisfaction.
“The studio will be ready tomorrow,” I say after a moment. “I have a lot of work to do. I’m going to leave Parsons early again.”
Gideon nods. “I’ll make sure your security detail is briefed on the new location.”
I nearly roll my eyes but catch myself. The security is non-negotiable, part of our arrangement. A small price for my newfound freedom.
“Thank you,” I say, meaning it for more than just the security acknowledgment .
He holds my gaze a moment longer than necessary, and something subtle shifts between us. A glimmer of mutual understanding, perhaps. Or maybe just the recognition of two stubborn people reaching an unexpected détente.
“Congratulations on your studio, Ava,” he says finally. “I hope it brings you what you’re looking for.”
As he walks away, I stand alone in the kitchen, feeling oddly victorious. Today, I changed my circumstances in ways my younger self could never have imagined. I secured my creative future. I erased a financial burden deliberately placed on me by someone who wanted to control my path.
And maybe, just maybe, I earned a tiny bit of respect from New York’s most demanding billionaire.
Not that I need his approval.
But it doesn’t feel terrible to have it.