23. Chapter 23
Chapter 23
Los Angeles
R osie stood in the small, cluttered studio, surrounded by half-finished canvases, the scent of oil paint and turpentine thick in the air.
She was back.
Back in her space.
Back with her people.
Back on the beat-up couch in the corner, the one she slept on when she wasn’t pulling all-nighters at the easel.
She’d left Isaac’s house days ago, taken the train back up the coast, not looking back.
It was the right thing to do.
She couldn’t be around him anymore.
Not like that.
Not when he had so much to figure out.
And not when she had too much to lose.
Tonight, she was meeting Greg Taylor for dinner. He’d changed it from San Diego to L.A., close to his corporate offices, where they’d finally hammer out the details of his offer. Convenient for her anyway, since she needed to be far away from Isaac as possible.
Her stomach twisted with nerves, but she didn’t have time to indulge them.
She needed to clean up her life.
Prepare.
She was going all in on this career—no more distractions.
Rosie picked up her phone, flipping through her messages.
Isaac.
Again.
He had been checking in since she left. Not long messages. Just texts, here and there.
Isaac:
How are you?
How’s LA?
Still mad at me?
You sure you’re okay?
He never said it outright, but she could feel it in the space between his words—
He was upset she left. But she knew it was the right thing. For both of them.
She dropped the phone onto the table, rubbing her hands over her face. Greg’s dinner invitation was a turning point. A way to move forward. To carve out her own life, her own independence, to focus on her future.
She needed this.
And whatever was happening—or not happening—with Isaac? It had to stay in the past. She had to keep her eyes on what mattered.
Rosie smoothed her hands down her blouse, the fabric clinging just slightly to her skin, still warm from the heat of the day.
Her jeans were the same ones she’d worn two nights ago, and she hated that she could feel the looseness around her waist.
Stress. Hunger. Lack of sleep.
It was catching up to her.
But she refused to look like it.
Her makeup was flawless.
Thick, dark lashes.
Cherry-red lips, a little bolder than usual.
A touch of blush on her hollowed-out cheeks, trying to hide the fact that she hadn’t eaten a full meal in days.
Her stilettos clicked against the cracked pavement as she stepped outside the studio, the dry heat of the evening wrapping around her like a second skin.
The air smelled of asphalt and paint, warm citrus from the fruit vendors down the block, and the distant salt of the Pacific.
Greg Taylor had sent a car.
She almost hadn’t accepted.
But this wasn’t charity.
This was business.
And if she was ever going to claw her way out of this life, if she was ever going to stand on her own two feet, she had to be okay with taking help that didn’t come with strings attached.
Greg was different.
Greg was offering her something real.
She slid into the cool, pristine interior of the black town car, her fingers smoothing over the supple leather as the door shut behind her.
The driver pulled into traffic, heading toward the city, toward a restaurant she couldn’t afford to walk into on her own.
She exhaled sharply, trying to ignore the gnawing emptiness in her stomach.
She had told Greg she was working late at the studio.
But when he had casually asked where she lived, she hadn’t hesitated to tell the truth.
“For now? The studio.”
No shame.
No embarrassment.
Because this was temporary.
It had to be.
She stared out the window as the city blurred past, the lights of downtown flickering like fireflies against the violet sky.
By the time the car pulled up to the curb, Rosie forced herself to square her shoulders, lift her chin, step out like she belonged here.
The restaurant was sleek, modern, beautiful.
A place where people like Greg Taylor belonged.
Not her.
But she wouldn’t let herself think that way.
She stepped inside, the rush of air conditioning hitting her skin, cooling the sweat at the back of her neck.
The scent of expensive wine, charred steak, truffle oil, and money wrapped around her as she scanned the room.
Greg spotted her first.
He stood immediately.
Tall. Commanding. Handsome in his perfectly tailored suit, silver hair sharp under the dimmed golden light.
He smiled, genuine.
And then—his hand was on her lower back, businesslike but flirtatious.
Cool. Steady. Confident.
His lips brushed her cheek in greeting.
“Rosie,” he said smoothly, his voice warm, appreciative. “Thank you for coming.”
Rosie exhaled, forcing a smile.
Because here—tonight—she wasn’t going to feel like the girl who couldn’t afford food.
Tonight, she was going to be Rosalie Quentin, an artist worth investing in.
She let Greg guide her to the table.
She let him seat her, elegant, controlled, precise.
And for the first time in a long time, she let herself pretend she wasn’t starving.
* * * * *
Rosie’s fingers curled around the crystal stem of her wine glass, cool against her skin as she brought it to her lips. The rich, full-bodied red washed over her tongue, velvety and bold, with hints of black cherry, spice, and oak—one of those perfectly aged, ridiculously expensive bottles she would never buy for herself.
The restaurant was the kind of place that didn’t just serve food—it curated an experience.
Soft, ambient golden lighting cast a warm glow over the polished mahogany tables. The hum of low conversation and quiet laughter filled the space, punctuated by the occasional clink of glass against porcelain. White-gloved servers moved through the room with precise elegance, pouring wines, presenting dishes like they were unveiling priceless works of art.
And the food—God, the food.
It started with a selection of delicate appetizers—a tartare of A5 wagyu, topped with caviar and a drizzle of black garlic aioli; a freshly baked sourdough boule, served with whipped truffle butter so decadent it practically melted on her tongue; and a burrata salad, its creamy center spilling over a bed of heirloom tomatoes, drizzled with aged balsamic.
She had to force herself to eat slowly, to savor it, even as her body wanted to devour everything in front of her.
Greg watched her with quiet amusement, his own wine swirling in his glass.
“You’re enjoying yourself,” he noted, eyes sharp, assessing.
Rosie set her glass down, a small, almost embarrassed smile tugging at her lips. “It’s incredible,” she admitted.
Greg leaned back slightly, his weathered but refined features thoughtful. “You strike me as someone who doesn’t let herself indulge often.”
Rosie hesitated, then shrugged. “Some people aren’t built for luxury.”
Greg’s lips curved, but there was something else in his gaze now—understanding. Recognition.
“Neither was I,” he said.
Rosie glanced up. “No?”
Greg exhaled, setting his glass down. “I was in the system, too.”
Rosie’s fingers froze over her napkin.
She hadn’t expected that.
Greg’s expression remained measured, composed, but there was a weight behind his words. “Group homes, foster families. The whole cycle. I lived it.”
Rosie swallowed, feeling her pulse pick up slightly.
“You… pulled yourself up from nothing?” she asked, voice quiet, careful.
A slow, knowing smile touched his lips. “I did.” He studied her for a beat. “And so will you.”
Something twisted inside her.
That certainty. That belief.
It was something she rarely heard.
And even more rarely from someone who understood.
The next course arrived—butter-poached lobster, served with saffron risotto, finished with microgreens and a delicate citrus beurre blanc.
Rosie picked up her fork, but she barely noticed the food now.
Greg took a sip of his wine before resting his elbows lightly on the table. “Your work does something people don’t expect.”
Rosie tilted her head, listening.
He gestured slightly, thoughtful. “It starts conversations that never happen.”
She swallowed.
Greg leaned forward slightly. “I watched people at the gallery, Rosie. Strangers—parents, professionals, politicians—standing in front of your paintings, discussing the perspective of a child in the foster care system.”
His voice dropped slightly, more intense now.
“When do you ever hear that? When do people ever talk about what it’s like to be that kid?” He shook his head. “They don’t. Because it’s too uncomfortable. Because it’s easier to pretend it’s just a statistic.”
Rosie’s chest felt tight.
Greg exhaled, sitting back. “But your work forced them to see it. To feel it.” He paused, his gray eyes locking onto hers. “Art is supposed to challenge people. Inspire them. Make them uncomfortable enough to care.”
Rosie gripped her napkin, nodding slowly. “That’s the whole point. It’s why I paint. It’s not just about trauma. It’s about… hope.”
Greg’s gaze flickered with something like approval.
“Hope is the most powerful thing you can give someone,” he said quietly.
Rosie’s throat felt tight.
She knew that.
Because for a long time, she hadn’t had any.
She forced herself to take a small bite of the lobster, but it barely registered.
Greg exhaled, running a hand over his jaw. “I want to integrate this into my work.”
Rosie blinked, trying to refocus. “Your philanthropy?”
He nodded. “Art therapy. Educational grants. Youth outreach. I’ve always supported children’s initiatives, but this made me realize how little focus there is on giving kids in the system an actual voice.” He leaned forward, his tone measured but deliberate. “I want you to be part of that. I could hire you as a contractor—or an employee. You’d be part of a team to build this out, both the actual art and then the vision of the program. It’s going to be a lot of work, but I think you’ll have the grit and resilience to push this forward for me.”
Rosie’s breath hitched.
Greg Taylor—a billionaire investor, a man who could change the trajectory of her entire career—wanted her work to mean something bigger.
For once, she didn’t feel like an imposter.
For once, she felt seen.
She hesitated, then set her fork down, her fingers pressing against the linen napkin in her lap.
“I don’t usually talk about my past,” she admitted, voice low, careful.
Greg didn’t push.
He just waited.
She swallowed. “My dad… is serving a life sentence.”
Greg’s expression didn’t shift, but she felt the weight of his silence.
“For killing my mother,” she continued, her voice level but distant.
Greg exhaled slowly, setting his wine glass down.
Rosie forced herself to meet his gaze.
“He hurt me, too.”
Something flashed across Greg’s expression—brief, controlled, but undeniably real.
Rosie’s chest felt tight.
She hadn’t told many people. Not like this.
Her fingers curled into her lap, pulse hammering.
What she didn’t say—what she never told anyone—was that Isaac Rayleigh saved her life.
Isaac was the one who stopped her father.
Isaac was the only reason she made it out alive.
Greg’s voice was low, steady. “I’m sorry.”
She shook her head, blinking against the burn behind her eyes. “Don’t be.” She lifted her chin. “I’m still here.”
Greg studied her for a long moment, then nodded once.
A flicker of understanding passed between them.
They both knew what it meant to survive.
The waiter arrived with the next course—dry-aged filet mignon, finished with a rich demi-glace, served alongside black truffle mashed potatoes.
Rosie picked up her fork.
She took a breath.
And for the first time in a long time—she felt like she was finally moving forward.