17. Ava
17
Ava
T he paint fumes make my nose tingle as I carefully arrange tubes of color on the folding table I’ve set up in the corner of the living room. The afternoon sun slants through the floor-to-ceiling windows, coating everything in golden light that would make even a mediocre painting look halfway decent.
Great, Ava. Just colonize the man’s multi-million dollar penthouse like it’s your freshman dorm room, why don’t you.
But I need this. My Brooklyn studio is perfect for large-scale work and messy projects, but the commute will eat up hours of painting time. Time I can’t spare with graduation looming.
I step back to assess my handiwork. A compact workstation nestled between two windows, drop cloth carefully taped down to protect the floor, portable easel unfolded and ready. It’s modest enough that it shouldn’t offend His Majesty’s sensibilities, but functional enough for daily sketching and smaller paintings.
I pause for a moment to admire the Rothko he has hanging on the opposite wall. If only I can one day strive to that level of perfection.
The elevator dings, sending my heart into my throat.
Crap. He’s home early.
I wipe my hands on my already paint-splattered jeans and try to look confident in my territory-claiming. Gideon rounds the corner, loosening his tie, and stops short when he sees my setup.
“What’s this?” His voice is neutral, giving away nothing.
“Just a small workspace,” I say, my chin lifting slightly. “For everyday painting. Brooklyn’s great for my bigger projects, but sometimes inspiration strikes at midnight.”
He steps closer, then crinkles his nose as the smell of linseed oil and turpentine hits him. “The fumes are a little... strong.”
“Oil paint,” I shrug. “It’s got personality.”
Gideon pulls out his phone and types something quickly. “I’ll have Philip upgrade the ventilation system in this section of the penthouse.”
“Philip?” I ask.
“My household manager.”
Of course he has a household manager. Why wouldn’t he? I guess I shouldn’t be surprised by now. Probably has a sock organizer and professional pillow fluffer, too.
“Right. How silly of me to ask,” I say. “Does Philip also alphabetize your breakfast cereals?”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Philip doesn’t believe in breakfast cereal. It’s beneath the dignity of this household.”
I can’t tell if he’s joking or not, which is somehow worse.
Gideon’s eyes scan the careful arrangement, sweeping over the drop cloth, the folding table, and the small tackle box of brushes I’ve labeled and organized by size and function.
“I’m being neat, I promise,” I tell him. “No paint on the fancy floors or walls. I’ve got tarps and everything.”
Shut up, Ava. You’re rambling like a guilty teenager.
“I visited your warehouse yesterday,” he says, completely ignoring my nervous chatter.
Wait, what?
“You did?” My voice comes out higher than intended. “Why?”
He shrugs, setting his briefcase down. “Curiosity. I wanted to see the space that was worth bypassing all my financial advisors.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “Spying on me already? That was fast.”
“Not spying. Appreciating.” He walks closer, examining my paint arrangement. “The windows are exceptional. The sunlight will be consistent throughout the day.”
My mouth opens, then closes. I wasn’t expecting him to actually understand why I chose that space.
“It’s a good foundation,” he continues. “The load-bearing columns give you natural dividers for different work zones. And the freight elevator will make moving larger canvases easier.”
I blink rapidly. “You noticed all that?”
“I notice everything, Ava.” His gray eyes meet mine. “I understand now why that space made sense for you.”
The compliment—if that’s what it is—makes me fidget with the cap of a paint tube. “Thanks. I thought you’d be annoyed that I didn’t consult you first.”
“About the Brooklyn studio? We’ve already discussed that.” He gestures to my penthouse setup. “This, however, seems excessive. You’re already working long hours at Parsons, and now you’ll have two studios?”
I roll my eyes. “That’s a bit ironic coming from a workaholic like you, don’t you think? When was the last time you left your office before eight?”
His eyebrows shoot up. “That’s different.”
“Is it? You literally have a bed in your office for when you work all night.”
“It’s a couch.”
“With a blanket and pillow permanently stationed on it.” I cross my arms. “Face it, King. You’re the last person who should lecture anyone about work-life balance.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close enough to make my stomach do a stupid little flip.
“Fair point.” He removes his suit jacket, draping it over the back of a chair. “So explain this to me. Why do you need both spaces?”
I hesitate, not used to having anyone genuinely interested in my creative process. “Different environments inspire different work. The Brooklyn studio is for exploration—big, messy projects where I can splash paint everywhere and not worry about ruining anything. This—” I gesture to my modest setup “—is for capturing quick ideas. Sometimes I wake up with an image in my head that will disappear if I don’t get it down immediately.”
He nods thoughtfully. “Like recording a dream before it fades.”
“Exactly.” The fact that he gets it catches me off guard. “The middle-of-the-night paintings are often my best work. Raw. Unfiltered. Before my inner critic wakes up.”
Gideon steps closer to the table, studying my brushes with unexpected interest. “What determines your choice of brush? These all look the same to me.”
I laugh. “Blasphemy! That’s like saying all stocks are the same.” I pick up a flat brush with a sharp edge. “This is for sharp lines and geometric shapes.” I select another with a round, tapered tip. “This creates fluid, organic strokes. The brush is an extension of your hand, your intention.”
His gaze follows my hands as I demonstrate a few strokes in the air. “You’ve never used digital tools? Seems more efficient.”
“Says the man with fourteen fancy fountain pens on his desk.”
He actually smiles at that. “Touché.”
“Some artists work digitally. I need the tactile connection—the resistance of the canvas, the smell of the paint.” I gesture to the tubes arranged by color family. “Each pigment has its own personality. Cadmium sulphide is temperamental but gives the most vibrant yellows. Prussian blue bleeds beautifully into wet surfaces.”
I realize I’m rambling, but Gideon’s watching me with genuine curiosity. His typical impatience is nowhere to be seen.
“Sorry,” I say, feeling my cheeks warm. “I tend to get carried away talking about this stuff.”
“Don’t apologize. It’s refreshing to hear someone speak passionately about their craft.” He picks up a tube of paint, reading the label. “Most people I deal with are passionate only about profit margins.”
I snort. “Well, passion doesn’t pay the rent. Or didn’t, until recently.” I gesture vaguely between us, acknowledging our arrangement.
An awkward silence follows, reminding us both of the strange circumstances that have brought us together.
“Will you show me?” he asks suddenly. “Your process, I mean. When you paint.”
The request catches me completely off guard. “You want to watch me paint?”
He looks almost embarrassed. “I collect art, but I’ve never observed its creation. It’s a gap in my understanding.”
“I... sure, I guess.” I tuck a curl behind my ear, oddly flustered. “Though watching paint dry isn’t exactly thrilling entertainment.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
Something warm unfurls in my chest at his interest. For a moment, I forget we’re basically business partners in a marriage of convenience. It feels almost... normal. Like we’re just two people getting to know each other.
Dangerous territory, Ava. Remember the contract. No emotional involvement.
“Well, don’t expect a miracle,” I say, trying to rebuild the wall between us. “Most of painting is staring intensely at a canvas while looking constipated.”
He laughs, a rich sound I’ve rarely heard from him. “I look forward to the constipated staring.”
I roll my eyes, but can’t help smiling. “You’re weird, you know that?”
“I’ve been called worse.” He checks his watch. “I have a call in ten minutes. But I’m free after seven if you’re planning to work tonight.”
“I might be.” I try to sound noncommittal, but the idea of sharing my creative process with someone who seems genuinely interested is oddly appealing.
As he walks away toward his office, I stare at my makeshift studio, feeling strangely unsettled. This wasn’t in the script—Gideon showing interest in my art, in my process. Being understanding instead of controlling. Looking at me like I’m actually worth listening to.
Don’t get used to it. This is still a business arrangement with an expiration date.
I pick up a brush and twirl it between my fingers, trying to ignore the fact that for the first time since moving in, this penthouse feels a little less like a gilded cage and a little more like a place I could actually exist.
Not home. Definitely not home.
But something surprisingly close to it.