36. Gideon
36
Gideon
I can’t fucking sleep. Again.
The ceiling of my bedroom seems to mock me with its pristine emptiness. Three in the morning and my mind won’t shut down. Numbers from the Tokyo deal keep scrolling behind my eyelids like ticker tape, and every time I close my eyes, I see Blackwell’s smug face.
Fuck this.
I throw off the covers and head to the kitchen. Maybe some warm milk or something stronger will knock me out. As I pass Ava’s door, I pause. There’s a sound. Soft at first, then unmistakable.
Crying.
My heart rate spikes. Without thinking, I push the door open.
“Ava?”
She’s curled on her side, back to the door, shoulders shaking. The moonlight through the window illuminates her dark curls splashed across the pillow.
“Sorry,” she whispers, not turning around. “Did I wake you? ”
“No. I was already up.” I hover awkwardly at the threshold. This isn’t part of our agreement. Comforting each other in the middle of the night wasn’t in the contract. “Are you okay?”
Stupid question. Obviously, she’s not okay.
She doesn’t answer, just keeps her back to me, shoulders trembling slightly.
Fuck the contract.
I cross the room and sit on the edge of her bed, keeping a careful distance. “Is it... us? This situation?” I gesture vaguely to the space between us, though she can’t see it. “I know this isn’t ideal. But it’ll be over soon enough.”
A harsh sound between a laugh and a sob escapes her. “That’s not it.”
“Then what?”
She shifts, turning to face me, and the sight of her tear-streaked face hits me like a physical blow. Her eyes are red-rimmed, mascara smudged below them. She looks vulnerable in a way I’ve never seen her, and something protective surges in my chest.
“She was the only one who supported me,” she whispers.
“Who?”
“My grandmother.” She glances at the door. “Keep your voice down. I don’t want my mother to hear.”
I’d forgotten her mother was still here, sleeping in the guest room. “Your grandmother,” I repeat softly. “The portrait your mother mentioned earlier...”
Ava’s body goes rigid. “You noticed that?”
“I noticed you. The way you reacted when she brought it up.”
She sits up, pulling her knees to her chest, making herself small. I resist the sudden urge to pull her against me.
“My stepfather sold it,” she says flatly. “It wasn’t just a painting. It was my future he sold, my grandmother’s memory. He knew exactly what he was doing.”
I wait, giving her space to continue.
“The portrait was... everything. My grandmother taught me to paint. She was the only one who believed in me. After she died, I painted her portrait. It was the best work I’d ever done.”
Her voice breaks, and I find myself moving closer.
“There was this scholarship competition. Full ride to Parsons. The portrait was going to be my submission. I know I would have won. It was that good.”
I think of Ava’s talent, the raw emotion she captures on canvas, and I believe her.
“Three weeks before the submission deadline, he sold it. Just... took it from my room when I was at school and sold it.”
“Jesus,” I mutter.
“It wasn’t the first time. He’d been sabotaging me for years. Locking up my art supplies. Scheduling family obligations during art classes. Telling me I had no talent. But this...” Her hands clench into fists. “This was calculated. He waited until I had poured everything into that painting, until the deadline was close enough that I couldn’t create something new in time to apply again. Then he took it.”
Rage builds in my chest, hot and familiar. “And the money?”
“He kept every penny. Used it for a fishing boat.” She laughs bitterly. “Meanwhile, I had to take out loans. Work three jobs through college. Delay starting at Parsons for years.”
“That’s why you were so defensive about the studio,” I realize aloud. “When I questioned your financial decision.”
She nods. “Financial security isn’t just having money in the bank. It’s having control over what matters to you.” Her eyes finally meet mine. “He took that from me. My work, my choices, my future.”
The parallels hit me hard. Celeste, smiling as she drained my accounts. The calculated way she’d studied me, learning exactly where to strike. The cold realization that I’d been played, that my judgment had been so completely compromised.
“I understand,” I say quietly, and I do. More than she knows.
Fresh tears spill from her eyes. “I don’t even know how much it sold for. How much does a fishing boat cost? Not that it matters. It was priceless to me.”
Without thinking, I reach out and brush a tear from her cheek. Her skin is warm and soft under my thumb. She freezes at the contact, and so do I, suddenly aware of the boundary we’re crossing.
“You should try to sleep,” I say, pulling back my hand. “Your mother leaves tomorrow. You need rest.”
She nods, looking small against the pillows. “Thank you. For listening.”
I stand, putting necessary distance between us. My chest feels tight, constricted. This isn’t business anymore. This is something dangerous.
“Goodnight, Ava,” I manage.
“Goodnight, Gideon.”
I close her door and lean against the wall in the hallway, trying to steady my breathing. Fuck. I shouldn’t care this much. Shouldn’t feel this murderous rage toward a man I’ve never met for hurting her. Shouldn’t want to track down that painting and return it to her, whatever the cost.
The parallels between us are too strong. Both betrayed by people we should have been able to trust. Both having something precious stolen. But Ava fought back. She rebuilt. She painted anyway.
I return to my bedroom without the midnight snack I’d been seeking. Sleep will be even more elusive now, but for different reasons. The walls I’ve carefully constructed are showing cracks, and I don’t know how to repair them.
Tomorrow, I’ll focus on work. Create distance. I’ll be the businessman again, not this... whatever I just was in her room.
Three more months.
I can maintain boundaries for three months.