42. Ava
42
Ava
I wake to the feeling of Gideon’s arm draped heavily across my waist, his breath warm against my neck. Morning sunlight filters through the studio’s grimy windows, casting patterns across the floor.
Last night was different. Not just the sex, though that was spectacular as always, but the way he watched me paint. The vulnerability of it. The way he looked at me afterward, like he was seeing something beyond our contract.
Don’t read too much into it, Ava.
I carefully extract myself from his embrace, his face softening in sleep in a way it never does when he’s awake. Without his intensity, he looks younger. More vulnerable.
No getting attached. No feelings. Remember the clause.
“Where are you going?” His voice, rough with sleep, startles me as I pull on my paint-stained sweatpants.
“Back to painting,” I say, avoiding his eyes.
He sits up, sheets pooling around his waist, muscles shifting under tanned skin. The sight makes my stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with hunger. The food kind, I mean.
“I’ll probably sleep here tonight,” I continue. “I really want to get some work done. Don’t wait up for me.”
He watches me as I gather my things, his gaze heavy on my skin.
“Last night—” he begins.
“Was great,” I interrupt, my heart racing. “Really great stress relief. Thanks for that. Have a good day at work.”
I rush out of the room and I’m painting within five minutes. Gideon pauses on the way out, and opens his mouth as if he wants to tell me something, but then he leaves without a word. Let alone a hug or a kiss on the cheek.
I let you a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
I’m a little disappointed when he doesn’t show up again that night, nor the night after. But it helps me understand that yes, the sex was just release. Nothing has changed between us. And probably nothing ever will.
Three days later I finally emerge from my creative cave. Gideon has been suspiciously hands-off the whole time, just checking in with brief texts that I’ve answered with equally brief reassurances.
“Ms. Redwood, you’re finally ready to head back to the penthouse?” Michael’s voice pulls me from my thoughts as he stands by the studio door, pretending he hasn’t noticed I’ve been wearing the same paint-splattered sweatpants for three days straight. He and Diana have been taking turns sleeping in their piano-black SUV outside while the other guards the entrance .
“Yeah, I’m ready...”
Michael nods. “The SUV is waiting. I’ll inform Mr. King you’re on your way.”
Great. Now he’ll know exactly when to conveniently have an urgent business call.
That’s unfair and I know it. Gideon hasn’t been avoiding me. I’ve been avoiding him. Easier to hide in Brooklyn than face whatever shifted between us that night.
Nothing, remember?
The ride back to Manhattan is silent, save for the soft classical music playing through the speakers. I press my forehead against the cool window glass, watching the city blur by.
You’re going to have to talk to him eventually. Unless you plan to sleep in your studio until the divorce.
Divorce. The word sits heavy in my stomach. Six more weeks until our contract ends and we go our separate ways. The thought makes me feel slightly nauseated, which I’m blaming entirely on three days of questionable eating habits and not on any inconvenient feelings.
“We’re here, Ms. Redwood,” Michael announces as we pull up to the building. Diana is sitting in the passenger seat beside him, and she gets out to open the back door for me.
I gather my tote bag, wincing as I notice the streak of ultramarine blue I’ve accidentally left on the Italian leather. Gideon gave me this bag last month, casually, like it wasn’t worth more than my first semester’s tuition. At least the SUV’s seats were spared any paint.
“Thanks for the ride,” I tell Diana. She looks exhausted and a little relieved. Probably looking forward to a good night’s sleep in her own bed. I feel a little guilty for making them camp out in the SUV, but I remind myself that she and Michael are paid extremely well for their services.
“Ms. Redwood?” Diana calls as I head for the entrance. “You have...” She gestures vaguely at my face.
I catch my reflection in the tinted car window. There’s a streak of burnt sienna across my cheek. Also, my hair is piled in what can only be described as a rat’s nest secured by not one but two paintbrushes, and I have dark circles under my eyes that would make a panda confuse me for its best friend.
Peak trophy wife material right here.
“It’s fine,” I shrug. “Gideon’s seen worse.”
Like my soul, for instance, when he watched me paint.
Inside, I pass the security desk and enter the elevator. I fumble with the button to the penthouse floor, my fingers still slightly sticky with acrylic medium. It finally recognizes my print and the elevator door closes. After too many waking hours in my Brooklyn studio, I’m running purely on muscle memory and the fumes of several questionable coffees from a place near the warehouse that I’m pretty sure doubles as a mob front.
The elevator doors open onto the penthouse suite, immediately assaulting me with the scent of whatever magical concoction Mrs. Laurent has left in the warming oven. My stomach growls in response. I’ve forgotten to eat lunch again. And breakfast. Possibly dinner yesterday, too.
I drop my bag by the door, rolling my shoulders to release the tension of hunching over canvases all day. My gaze automatically lifts to the massive Rothko that dominates the living room wall, you know, the one whose estimated value makes my former student loans look like pocket change.
Except the Rothko isn’t there.
In its place hangs the large abstract from my thesis collection, the one with sweeping indigo gestures against a fractured golden background.
I blink hard.
Great, now I’m hallucinating. This is exactly what Lucy warned me about. ‘Sleep deprivation makes you basically drunk without the fun parts,’ she said.
But when I open my eyes, my painting is still there, perfectly centered, professionally lit.
“What the actual—” I move closer, confirming it’s indeed my work. The signature in the bottom corner stares back at me.
My heart starts pounding.
Oh god. Have I accidentally painted over the Rothko? Oh shit. How could I have?
My mind races, trying to figure out exactly how I could fuck this up so badly, but I’m drawing a blank.
I spin around, suddenly registering that something’s off about the entire space. The de Kooning in the hallway is gone too, replaced by my experimental mixed media piece on urban isolation. The small Hockney that usually hangs by the dining room entrance has been swapped for my triptych on memory distortion.
Everywhere I look, million-dollar masterpieces have been replaced with... me.
I’m still standing frozen in the center of the living room, experiencing what can only be described as an out-of-body experience, when I hear the elevator open.
Gideon walks in, loosening his tie with one hand, his phone pressed to his ear with the other. “—need those projections by tomorrow morning. Yes. Fine.” He ends the call, pocketing his phone before his eyes find mine.
“You’re home early,” he says casually, as if the walls aren’t currently experiencing an identity crisis.
I gesture wordlessly at the artwork, my brain unable to form coherent sentences.
He follows my wild hand movements, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “Ah.”
“Ah? Ah? ” I finally find my voice. “Your multi-million dollar Rothko is gone and all you can say is ‘ah’? Did we get robbed by the world’s most selective art thieves? Should I be calling the FBI or having a panic attack? Because I’m leaning toward the latter, but I’m flexible.”
Gideon approaches, his expression amused as he shrugs out of his suit jacket. “The Rothko is fine. They’re all fine.”
“They’re all—” I spin in a circle, taking in the transformed space. “Then where are they?”
“In storage.” He says it so matter-of-factly, like he’s telling me he’s moved a coffee mug. “I had them moved while you were at your studio.”
I stare at him, trying to process this information. “You put twenty million dollars’ worth of art in storage? Voluntarily? Are you feeling okay? Should I be calling someone?”
Gideon moves to the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water. “Thirty-eight million, actually, with the recent Christie’s valuation of the de Kooning.” He takes a sip, watching me over the rim of his glass. “And I’m feeling perfectly fine.”
“Then why would you—” I gesture again to my artwork, suddenly feeling uncomfortably exposed. It’s one thing to show my paintings in galleries or even in the small studio space I’ve carved out in the penthouse. It’s entirely another to see them hanging where literal masterpieces had been, inviting direct comparison. “These are just studies, works in progress. They’re not— they don’t belong next to names like that. And they certainly can’t replace them.”
“I disagree.” Gideon sets down his glass and moves closer, stopping before my large abstract. “This piece in particular expresses something the Rothko never could.”
“Yeah, amateur technique and questionable composition choices,” I mutter.
He turns to me, his expression surprisingly serious. “Your work has life, Ava. Movement. The Rothko appreciates by seven figures every year while hanging on my wall, but when was the last time I actually looked at it? Really looked?” He shakes his head. “I realized I’d prefer to see something that moves me, rather than something that moves markets.”
The simple statement hits me with unexpected force. I’ve spent my entire artistic life feeling inadequate. Not good enough for scholarships, galleries, collectors. My stepfather’s voice whispering that my talent isn’t worth investing in. And here’s Gideon, a man who can own any masterpiece in the world, choosing my unfinished expressions over established genius.
“But mine are worth—” I start.
“I know exactly what they’re worth,” he interrupts softly. “Both financially and otherwise.”
I move through the space, taking in each piece he’s selected. He hasn’t just grabbed whatever was available; he’s chosen deliberately. Pieces that speak to each other, that create a narrative through the penthouse. He’s curated my work with the same care museum directors give to major exhibitions.
“You’ve purchased nearly my entire Parsons collection,” I say, flabbergasted.
“Everything with a price tag, anyway,” he concedes. “Except your recreation of your grandmother’s portrait. That piece belonged exactly where it was—watching over the gallery like it had found its rightful home.”
I stop before a smaller canvas near his office. It’s a study of shadows I’d abandoned months ago, frustrated with its execution. “How did you even get this one? It’s not even finished. The perspective is all wrong on the lower third.”
Gideon moves beside me, his arm brushing mine. “That’s what makes it interesting. You can see the struggle, the process. It’s honest. Parsons gave it to me when I bought the others.”
I turn to look at him, really look at him. This man who calculates risk down to the decimal point, who has backup plans for his backup plans, who constructed our entire relationship around careful contracts and clauses. And yet here he is, surrounding himself with unfinished, imperfect expressions of emotion.
“This is a very grand gesture for someone who doesn’t do emotional involvement,” I say quietly.
His eyes meet mine, and for a breathtaking moment, I see something unguarded there. “Perhaps we—”
My heart stutters in my chest. “Yes?”
Before he can respond, he steps back, the moment passing as he checks his watch. “I’m expecting a call from Singapore in twenty minutes. Mrs. Laurent left dinner in the warmer. You should eat something. You forget to do so when you’re painting.”
And just like that, he’s walking toward his office, the familiar Gideon reasserting himself. But as he reaches the doorway, he pauses, looking back at my work surrounding us.
“They belong here, Ava,” he says simply, and disappears into his office.
I don’t know what to think anymore. I’m so confused. I just stand there in the center of the penthouse, surrounded by my own creations in place of masterpieces, feeling like something fundamental has shifted beneath my feet. The contract reminder meeting with Mr. Hoffman is tomorrow, where we’ll review the “no emotional involvement” clause and discuss our approaching separation date.
Yet today, Gideon has replaced thirty-eight million dollars of art with my soul on canvas. And he acts like it’s no big deal.
But it is. It really is.
I sink onto the couch, staring up at my abstract where a Rothko had hung. It’s one of the first pieces I’d painted after I was accepted at Parsons. I hadn’t realized how clearly my feelings showed in those indigo sweeps, how plainly my heart was displayed in those golden fractures.
But Gideon had.
And he’d chosen to live with it rather than a masterpiece.