23. Ava
23
Ava
P aint clinging to my fingernails is my version of a manicure. It’s 2 AM, and I’m completely lost in my work in the small studio space I’ve carved out of Gideon’s penthouse. Classical music plays softly from my portable speaker. Something Mozart-ish that usually helps my brain shut off the overthinking part. But not tonight.
You’re not painting him again, are you? The nagging voice in my head sounds suspiciously like Lucy. You absolutely are. Girl, this is getting pathetic.
I feel a stab of guilt when Lucy’s voice floats through my head. I’m going to have to tell her the truth soon. But not yet. Not until I figure this out.
There’s nothing to figure out, I remind myself. All of this is fake. My life. Our marriage.
I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and try to clear my mind.
Focus on the painting.
I open my eyes and step back from the canvas, tilting my head. The abstract swirls of dark wood tones morph into the suggestion of a face. Strong jawline, intense eyes that somehow manage to pierce even though they’re just blobs of paint.
“It’s not him,” I mutter to the empty room. “It’s a visual exploration of... strength and vulnerability.”
Right. And I’m the Queen of England.
I dab more paint onto my brush and blend the shadows around the eyes. The smell of linseed oil and turpentine fills my nostrils, comforting and familiar in this alien penthouse of sleek surfaces and perfect angles. My little creative room is the only place that feels like me here. Paint-splattered drop cloths, brushes soaking in jars, canvases leaning against walls.
The canvas I’m working on isn’t the only one featuring a certain billionaire. Three others lean against the wall, all “abstract” works that somehow incorporate elements of Gideon. His silhouette always carved from those dark wood tones, weathered but resilient, with fascinating contradictions. Just as I’d described his mask to him at the gala.
The gala. My stomach tightens remembering Vanessa’s wine attack. But for some reason the one thing that really stands out is the offhand remark she made before we were even seated: “I’m actually surprised you married at all. Especially after what happened with Celeste. That kind of betrayal leaves scars.”
Who the hell is Celeste? And what kind of betrayal?
I add a new figure to my painting. A fiery, all-consuming presence that threatens to engulf both the central figure and the smaller shadow I’ve painted beside it. That would be me, I guess. The smaller figure. Just a shadow.
Real subtle with the symbolism there, Ava. Maybe try writing “MY ISSUES” in big letters across the top?
I sigh and reach for my crimson paint. The figure that might be Celeste needs more intensity, more danger. I smear it with my fingertips, forgetting about brushes entirely. The paint is cool and slick against my skin, and I lose myself in the physical sensation.
I don’t hear the door open.
“Still awake?”
I jump nearly a foot, my hand clutching my chest. “Jesus, Gideon! Warn a girl! You know how I feel about you watching me painting.”
He stands in the doorway, tie loosened, jacket discarded, white shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms. His hair is slightly mussed, like he’s been running his hands through it. It’s his tell when he’s stressed or tired.
“Sorry,” he says, not looking particularly apologetic. “Late meeting. Saw the light under the door.” He pauses. “I have something for you.”
I notice for the first time that he’s holding a garment bag draped carefully over one arm.
My eyebrows shoot up. “For me?”
“Don’t look so shocked. I’m capable of gift-giving.” He steps into the room and holds out the bag. “It’s a small apology for the gala fiasco.”
I take the bag, suddenly aware of the paint smeared across my fingertips. “I’m going to get paint all over it.”
“It’ll survive,” he says dryly.
With cautious fingers, I unzip the garment bag and gasp softly. Inside is a blue dress. It’s the same rich, deep blue as the gown Vanessa had ruined with her “accidental” wine spill. But this one is a more casual evening version, elegantly simple but unmistakably luxurious.
“It’s by the same designer,” he says, watching my reaction closely. “I thought you might like something you could wear more than once.”
Something warm and unwelcome unfurls in my chest. The dress is perfect, exactly my style and size. I’m very careful to keep my paint-smeared fingers on the garment bag.
Definitely don’t want to ruin this one.
“This is... wow.” Eloquent as always, Ava. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do this.”
“I know I didn’t,” he says simply.
A sneaky thought occurs to me: I should probably keep the tags on this one. Return it, either before or after our arrangement ends. Because this feels too personal, too much like a real gift from a real husband.
I can feel heat creeping up my neck and settling in my cheeks. Stupid fair complexion.
“I’ll... try it on later.” I carefully zip the bag back up. “Thank you. Really.”
He nods, and for a moment, something almost soft crosses his face before the mask slips back into place
I set the dress aside, and suddenly realize what I’m working on and lunge for a cloth to throw over the canvas. The movement is so abrupt and obvious that it might as well have been a big sign pointing to exactly what I don’t want him to see.
His eyebrow rises. “What are you hiding?”
“Nothing. Just... it’s not finished.” My face only gets warmer. Full lobster mode engaged!
“I’m not a critic,” he says, stepping into my sanctuary. “I’m just curious.”
The studio seems to shrink with his presence. He’s too big, too much, taking up all the air with his expensive cologne and the faint scent of whiskey on his breath. I back up against the easel, as if I could physically shield it with my body.
“It’s private,” I say, trying to sound firm but hearing the slight waver in my voice.
His eyes narrow slightly. “It’s still my penthouse...”
He steps closer, his gaze moving over the other canvases leaning against the wall. I watch his expression change as he recognizes something in them.
“These are new,” he says, bending slightly to examine one.
I shrug, aiming for casual but probably landing somewhere around panic-stricken. “Just experimenting with some stuff.”
“There’s a recurring theme.” He glances at me, then back at the paintings. “A figure.”
My heart is hammering against my ribs. I’m caught between wanting to deny everything and the artist in me that craves understanding, recognition.
“Abstract figures,” I correct weakly. “Exploring power dynamics and vulnerability through color and form.”
“Abstract.” His mouth quirks. “Sure.”
He turns toward the one I’m working on, the one I failed to hide. I consider throwing myself in front of it like I’m stopping a bullet, but that would only make things worse.
“May I?” he asks, gesturing to the cloth covering it.
I want to say no. I should say no. But what comes out is: “It’s not finished.”
He lifts the cloth carefully. I watch his face as he studies it, the flicker of recognition, the slight widening of his eyes when he sees the fiery figure threatening to consume the others.
“Who’s that?” he asks, pointing to the destructive presence.
“Just a visual representation of... threat.” I swallow. “Danger.”
“You depict danger as a woman of fire?” he asks suspiciously.
I shrug meekly.
“It’s doesn’t represent Vanessa, does it?” he asks.
“Oh hell no,” I tell him. “Vanessa would be a viper with huge tits.”
He laughs at that, but then his expression becomes serious again as he studies the painting once more. Then he says a single word so softly that it barely registers. “Celeste.”
He looks at me, and my face must give me away because he nods slightly. “Vanessa shouldn’t have mentioned her.”
“She clearly wanted to rattle me,” I say. “Worked, I guess.”
“You could have asked me about her.”
I shrug, reaching for a brush to give my hands something to do. “Didn’t seem like my business.”
“But you were curious enough to paint her.”
“ I told you , I wasn’t painting her. I don’t even know what she looks like.” The brush trembles slightly in my hand. “I was exploring... concepts. It’s just a representation of danger.”
“Concepts that look remarkably like me, you, and a destructive force threatening both.” His voice isn’t accusatory, just matter-of-fact.
I set the brush down before I snap it in half. “Fine. Yes. I paint what’s on my mind. It’s how I process things.”
He steps closer, his gaze returning to the canvas. “You made me too tall. ”
The tension between us suddenly deflates, and a startled laugh escapes me when I realize he’s joking. “That’s your critique?”
He shrugs, grinning. “Just an observation.” He’s standing right beside me now, his shoulder nearly touching mine. The studio feels impossibly small.
“Your eyes are wrong, too,” I say, turning to face him.
“How so?”
“They’re warmer than that. More gray than blue. And they change with your mood.”
Stop talking, Ava. Right now.
His gaze locks with mine, as if comparing my assessment to reality. “You’ve been studying me.”
“I’m an artist. I notice details.” My voice comes out huskier than intended.
“What else have you noticed?” He’s so close that I can feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the subtle notes beneath his cologne, something uniquely him.
That you have a tiny scar near your left eyebrow. That your hands have stories written across the knuckles. That when you’re actually amused, your eyes crinkle first, before your mouth catches up.
“That you ask too many questions,” I manage to say.
He smiles, just slightly. “Occupational hazard.”
We’re standing inches apart now. Paint still clings to my fingertips. I wonder if it would stain his white shirt if I touched him.
His gaze drops to my mouth. Something shifts in the air between us, a tangible thing, like the moment before two lips touch. I find myself yearning for his touch. To feel his mouth pressing against mine. To feel his tongue—
He suddenly steps back, all warmth vanishing behind that wooden mask I’ve painted so many times.
“We should both get some sleep.” His voice is coolly professional.
I blink, feeling like I’ve been slapped. “What just happened?”
“Nothing. That’s the point.” He straightens his already straight tie. “Section 5, paragraph 3 of our agreement. No emotional involvement.”
This section 5, paragraph 3 will be the end of me.
“Are you seriously quoting contract sections at me right now?”
“I’m reminding us both of the terms we agreed to.” He glances at the covered windows. “The blinds are shut. No one from Blackwell’s team would see us anyway, so there’s no need for a performance.”
The disappointment that floods me is as unexpected as it is unwelcome.
You’re actually upset he didn’t kiss you? Get it together, Ava.
I remind myself that I helped construct section 5, paragraph 3. Insisted on it, even.
“Right,” I say, my tone matching his. “No audience, no show. Business arrangement 101.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Exactly.”
“Well, don’t worry. I’m not confused about what this is.” I turn back to my canvas, picking up a brush I don’t need. “Goodnight, Gideon.”
He hesitates, and for a moment I think he might say something else. Instead, he simply nods. “Goodnight, Ava.”
When he’s halfway across the room, I whisper softly: “And go fuck yourself.”
“What was that?” he calls over his shoulder.
“Nothing,” I reply sweetly. “Night night. ”
He grunts, then leaves, shutting the door behind him.
After he’s gone I stare at the painting. The dark figure. The shadow beside it. The fiery threat surrounding them both.
With sudden, decisive movements, I grab a palette knife and scrape across the canvas, destroying hours of work in seconds. Red and black and gold smear together into an unrecognizable mess. Tears stream down my cheeks.
Maybe some things are better left unexpressed.
But even as I think it, I know I’ll paint him again tomorrow. And the next day. And the next. Because that’s the truth about art. It reveals what we’re trying to hide, even from ourselves.
Especially from ourselves.