9. Chapter 9
9
Bella
H oly.
Fucking.
Hell.
“Okay,” I whisper, pointing at the painting as if it can hear me. “If this is what people see when they smoke weed, I’m starting a petition to legalize it everywhere. ”
I tighten my grip on my bag like it’s a lifeline. It’s still slung over my shoulder, heavier than usual, thanks to Elena’s neon-green dildo currently nestled inside. Of all the things to have with me while gawking at a portrait of a man who looks like sin personified, that’s the one.
The portrait looms, and I swear those stormy eyes—like the lovechild of steel and a hurricane—are laughing at me.
A flush crawls up my neck, creeping higher until my ears are on fire.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I mumble. “You’re a painting. You have no right to judge.”
But damn, those eyes. They’re impossible to ignore. It’s like someone bottled the essence of wicked ideas, swirled it with just a hint of regret, and gave it a piercing glare. They’re sharp enough to cut glass, deep enough to drown in, and hauntingly hypnotic. If eyes were weapons, his would be classified as illegal in at least ten countries.
I narrow my own eyes at the painting. “Why do you look like you’re plotting world domination but could also recite poetry to seduce someone while doing it? That’s not fair. Pick a lane.”
I blink, looking away, then glancing back like a moron, checking if the painting’s changed somehow.
It hasn’t.
Of course it hasn’t.
His gaze—can you even call it a gaze if it’s from a painting?—seems to bore into me. Those eyes have layers, like an onion, except the kind that doesn’t make you cry. Instead, they make you question everything, including why you suddenly want to touch a wall.
I take a step back, then forward again, torn between pretending I’m unaffected and admitting defeat to a damn portrait. Who does he think he is? Oh, right. A painting. A ridiculously attractive one.
I narrow my eyes at the painting and lean forward like I’m about to spot a secret watermark. The details are mesmerizing—the ink curling up his arms, the slight wrinkle in his shirt as though he just rolled out of bed (someone’s bed, probably), and that smirk is the kind of smirk that promises the dirtiest, most depraved acts imaginable. It’s the kind of smirk that says, “I know exactly what filthy thoughts you’re having, and I’m gonna make them look like a goddamn Disney movie compared to what I’ll do to you.”
I shift on my feet, my face heating. “I mean, who even commissions a portrait like this? Narcissists? Oil baron playboys? Ghosts who haunt impossibly fancy bedrooms?”
My fingers twitch, and I force them to stay at my side. No touching. Touching the art would be insane.
“You’re just paint,” I say, as though convincing myself. “And I am a professional woman. I sell houses for a living. I have seen so many bedrooms—more than most people in a lifetime.”
The smirk seems to deepen. Sure, sweetheart, tell yourself that.
“Okay, you know what?” I snap. “You’re not even my type.” The lie tastes bitter. “Too cocky. Too… shirt-sleeves-rolled-up-for-no-reason.”
My bag shifts against my shoulder, and I suddenly remember what’s inside. My cheeks blaze.
“Great. Now I’m flirting with a portrait and carrying a sex toy like I’m auditioning for ‘Desperate Women of Suburbia.’”
This is getting ridiculous. I slap my cheek lightly.
“Snap out of it, Bella. He’s paint. And canvas. He doesn’t have a pulse, much less… other things.” My voice trails off as I realize what I’m implying, and I groan.
I drop my bag onto a nearby armchair and turn my back to the painting. “Nope. Done. Shower. Cold shower.”
Crossing the room, I focus on the door to what I assume is the en-suite bathroom. My palms are clammy, my skin feels too tight, and I don’t understand why every nerve in my body feels like it’s on fire. I am not this person. I am not the kind of woman who gets flirty at the sight of… well, a painting.
Right?
The sound of my breath feels louder in the silence, and I swear I can feel his eyes on my back. But I keep moving. A few minutes under cold water will fix this. It has to.
And if it doesn’t, well… I’ll blame the portrait. Or Elena. Definitely Elena.
The bedroom is massive, the kind that swallows you whole and still has space for more. The bed dominates the room. It’s the kind of bed meant for sin, not sleep, and the thought heats my cheeks even more. The walls are lined with intricate molding, the kind you see in old estates, except this feels different—sleeker, colder, like someone wanted to impress but not comfort.
Next to the portrait, there’s a mirror. Gigantic. Of course, it’s gigantic. It stretches from the floor to the ceiling, framed in black wood with carvings that swirl like smoke. For a second, I catch my reflection—wide-eyed, flushed, and altogether out of place. Behind me, the bed looms in the glass like a ghost, impossibly vast, impossibly inviting.
I drag my gaze away and cross the room, heading for one of the doors. The first handle doesn’t budge. Locked. The second one mocks me the same way. My jaw clenches as I try the third. Finally, it clicks open, and I step inside, almost sagging with relief.
The bathroom is bigger than my first apartment. Polished marble floors, a high-end rainforest shower, and a sleek, backlit mirror that I avoid making eye contact with because I know how wrecked I look. My palms are clammy, my heart’s racing.
I take a deep breath, trying to slow the frantic thudding in my chest, and that’s when it hits me. The bathroom smells faintly of cedarwood and some kind of expensive soap—like a forest got drunk on a Saturday night and decided to crash at a spa. It’s the kind of smell that makes you want to inhale deeply, which I do. Unfortunately, that also reminds me of the joint.
God, was that even a smart idea? I don’t even smoke weed! But no, I thought, It’s my birthday. What’s the worst that could happen?
Apparently, this . A billionaire bathroom that smells like indulgence, me having a minor breakdown, and the looming shadow of whatever terrible luck brought me here in the first place.
I glance at the shower controls—chrome and glowing faintly blue, like some futuristic spaceship cockpit. Hot water. Definitely hot water. A cold shower might make sense logically, but there’s no way I’m saying no to a massage spray that could power-wash my soul.
I strip off my clothes, piece by piece, tossing them onto the floor in a messy heap. My jeans smeared with mud and rain. My shirt? Sweat and desperation. By the time I’m down to my underwear, I catch sight of myself in the mirror and freeze.
“Oh, my God.” I laugh—actually laugh—at the sight of myself. It’s not even funny, and yet it’s hilarious. My hair looks like I’ve been electrocuted, my mascara is halfway down my face like some sad panda, and my expression is pure, unfiltered chaos. “This is why people shouldn’t do drugs,” I mutter, pointing at my reflection. “You look ridiculous. Like a raccoon who got caught robbing a Sephora.”
I laugh again, harder this time, doubling over with my hands on my knees. The sound bounces off the marble, echoing back at me like a taunting ghost. I bite my lip hard to stop the noise, but my shoulders keep shaking. Tears prickle at the corners of my eyes. It’s not funny—nothing about this is funny—and yet here I am, laughing so hard I’m almost crying. Great. That’s not unsettling at all.
“Get it together, Bella,” I mutter, swiping at my damp cheeks. “You’re not high. You’re just… temporarily stupid.”
I press my lips together to muffle another round of giggles, which is a terrible idea because now they’re trembling. It’s like my body is stuck on a laugh-cry loop. Fantastic. I stand there, gripping the edge of the sink, willing the wave of ridiculous emotions to pass. Slowly, my breathing steadies. My lips stop trembling. The urge to laugh subsides, leaving behind a weird, hollow ache in my chest.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I hook my fingers under the straps of my bra, unclasp it, and let it fall to the floor. My panties follow, and for some reason, that feels like the biggest hurdle—like they’re the last shred of logic I’m clinging to. The cool air brushes against my skin, raising goosebumps, but I ignore it. It’s just me and this absurdly fancy bathroom now.
The water hisses as I turn on the shower, steam billowing almost immediately. The heat wraps around me like a hug from the inside out, and I don’t even hesitate to step in. The moment the water hits me, it’s like a switch flips. Hot, soothing jets pound against my skin, kneading every tense muscle until I’m practically melting. My head tips back, my eyes flutter closed, and a low groan escapes my lips before I can stop it.
“This,” I whisper to the showerhead, “this is what heaven feels like. I don’t even care if I’m dead.”
The smell of cedarwood intensifies as the steam rises, mixing with the lavender shampoo I find in an absurdly chic dispenser. I lather it into my hair, marveling at how soft it feels.
“Rich people shampoo,” I murmur. “Of course it’s life-changing. Probably costs ninety dollars a drop.”
Minutes pass—maybe more. The combination of heat, steam, and my hazy brain slows everything down to a lazy crawl. I press my forehead against the cool tile, the contrast a jolt of clarity. My fingers trail idly through the water cascading down my body, and for one fleeting, shameful moment, I think about him. The man in the portrait. His eyes, his smirk, his hands. What they’d feel like.
I snap upright, blinking rapidly. “Nope,” I say out loud. “Nope, nope, nope. Not doing this.”
The shower continues to pour over me, but my brain is already running in circles. What is wrong with me? It’s just a stupid painting with the stupidly hottest man I’ve ever seen.
I violently shake my head as if that’ll somehow rattle the absurd thoughts loose. It doesn’t work. Instead, I’m left standing there, wet hair dripping down my back and my high brain reminding me in a very smug voice that I was just flirting with a painting.
“You’re nuts, Bella,” I mutter, rubbing my temples. My eyes land on the shower shelf, where an assortment of bottles gleam like a rainbow of overpriced promises. Frosted glass, metallic caps, labels written in elegant script—it’s like a soap convention for the rich and shameless.
One bottle catches my eye, its gold lettering practically shouting Savon élite pour Hommes. I squint at it, my brain translating it as Elite Soap for Fancy Dudes. Or maybe Smell Like Power and Questionable Life Choices. Either way, it’s coming with me.
“Well,” I say, grabbing the bottle, “if I’m going to lose my mind, I might as well smell like success doing it.”
The pump gives a satisfying squelch as I squeeze out a dollop of the soap. It’s thick, pearlescent, and smells like a lumberjack wandered into a luxury cologne store. Cedarwood, a hint of leather, and something so masculine it practically grows a beard on contact. I sniff it again.
“Holy shit, this smells like… regret. Sexy regret.”
I start with my hair because it seems logical. Soap is soap, right? I lather it in, the rich foam making my fingers glide through my hair like butter.
“French soap for French hair,” I murmur, catching my reflection in the shower’s glass panel. My head is now a frothy, bubbly mess, like I stuck it in a whipped cream dispenser. I laugh at myself—actually laugh.
“This,” I say to the mirror, pointing at my sudsy reflection, “is why people shouldn’t smoke weed. Look at you. You’re ridiculous. You’re one loofah short of starring in a shampoo commercial for idiots.”
Still giggling, I rinse my hair, the smell intensifying as the soap cascades down my shoulders. It’s oddly intoxicating, filling the shower with the kind of scent that belongs in a men’s magazine ad, complete with a brooding guy leaning against a motorcycle.
Next, I pump out more of the soap for my face. “You’re expensive,” I tell the bottle, “so you’d better multitask.” I lather it on, scrubbing vigorously before realizing the masculine scent has now invaded my nostrils, like I’m inhaling the essence of testosterone.
I rinse, blinking at the steam swirling around me. “Clean face, clean conscience. Except not really, because now I smell like a lumberjack, and I’m still thinking about him. ”
But I’m not done. The soap deserves a full-body trial. Another pump, and I work it over my skin, letting the heat of the shower and the smooth glide of the foam make me forget how utterly insane this day has been. My hands trail over my arms, my legs, and— Nope, stopping that thought right there.
“Manly soap,” I mumble, scrubbing harder. “Manly, manly soap. Not a metaphor. Not a problem.”
By the time I’m done, the bathroom smells like the aftermath of a high-end bachelor party. I turn off the water, the silence almost deafening, and step carefully onto the marble floor. My legs are jelly, and I’m ninety percent sure the combination of heat, steam, and weed has turned my brain into soup.
I grab a towel—beige, soft, and big enough to wrap myself, though just barely. It lands just above my ass, which is, frankly, a personal victory, given how short it is.
“It’s fine,” I tell myself, adjusting it. “Just wait for the high to wear off. Find help. Go home. Pretend this day never happened.”