Things Of My Own

My father stared at me for a long time, then he nodded. "He seems like a good man. Cold, but good. And the way he gazed at you when you weren’t watching..."

"How did he look at me?"

“Like you were something he hadn’t solved yet.” My father smiled slightly. “And as if he wanted to discover it as much as anything.”

My heart did something complicated in its cage. "You're imagining things."

"Maybe. Or maybe you're both lying to yourselves more than you’re lying to everyone else."

***

Damien was on his cell phone for the entire time we drove home, talking about one-sided business transactions that went over my head. I sat, staring out the window while the city raced by in a blur and my father’s words echoed.

You're both lying to yourselves.

No. I wasn't lying to myself. I knew precisely what this was — a transaction. A year of my life for the life of my family. Nothing more.

And just because my body reacted every time Damien touched me, that didn't matter.

The safety I’d felt in his arms this morning when he’d pulled me behind him meant nothing.

The fact that I’d wanted him to kiss me in the back of this car on more than one occasion meant nothing.

"We're stopping," Damien said suddenly.

I looked up. We weren't at the penthouse. We were standing in front of a tiny art gallery in Chelsea.

"Why are we...?"

"You need something that's yours." He was already emerging from the car. "Come on."

"Damien, I don't—"

"Five minutes. Humor me."

I followed him out, confused. It was a tiny, lovely gallery that featured obscure contemporary artists. Damien exchanged a few words with the owner, who nodded vigorously and disappeared in the back.

"What are we doing here?" I asked.

"You studied art history. Gallery work is what you did until you got mired in your father’s textile business." He was staring at a painting, a slash of red and deep gold. “You sacrificed something you adored to protect your family. Just like you sacrificed a year of your life to save them now.”

"How do you...?"

"I told you. I know everything." He turned to face me. "The penthouse has an unknown room. North wing, third door. It's yours now."

"Mine for what?"

"Whatever you want. Studio, office, library. I don't care." His expression was unreadable. “You sacrificed your life for this deal. The least I can do is give you space to find out who you want to be in it.”

The owner reappeared with a pack of art supplies, like canvases, paints, brushes, easels. Professional grade, expensive.

"I can't accept."

"You can. You will." Without checking the total, Damien handed his card to the owner. “Send it to the penthouse today.”

"Damien."

"You're my wife, Isla. At least on paper." His eyes locked on mine. "That you’re able to have things of your own. Not mine. Not the contract. Yours."

Something cracked in my chest. Some wall I'd been maintaining.

"Why?" I whispered. "Why do you care?"

There was a long silence from him. Then, “Because you look like you're drowning this morning. And I know what that feels like.”

Before I could say anything, he walked out, and I was left standing in what felt like a gallery I had never seen before with art supplies that were not mine from the man who said he felt nothing but kept seeing everything.

You're both lying to yourselves, my father had said.

Maybe he was right.

***

I found the room. North wing, third door, exactly as he’d said.

It was perfect.

Floor-to-ceiling windows with north light. Hardwood floors. Empty white walls are just waiting to be filled. Space. Freedom. Mine.

The art supplies had arrived, stacked neatly in a corner. I toured the room, sweeping my hand along the wall, imagining it taking shape.

"Do you like it?"

I spun around. Damien was in the doorway, his jacket off and tie loose around his open collar, less reminiscent of a CEO than he did as a man who’d just gotten through one hell of a day.

"It's perfect," I admitted. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me. It's the least I could do." He stepped into the room. My assistant would like to review your schedule for next week. “Three charity things, one business dinner, one family thing with my mother.”

Back to business. Of course.

"Okay."

"Okay." But he didn't leave. He just stood there, watching me with this kind of focused attention that made my skin so warm.

"Was there something else?" I asked.

“Your ex won’t be able to bug you either.”

I blinked. "What did you do?"

"Made some calls. Had some conversations. Let us just say that Marcus Hale has now become very busy with his business and doesn't have time to text you."

"You ruined him?"

"I discouraged him." His smile was sharp. "Thoroughly."

I should've been horrified. Could have talked about crossing a line, ethics and all that.

Instead, I felt that perverse satisfaction once more. "Good."

His eyes flashed. “You’re not going to lecture me about abusing my power?”

"He cheated on me with my cousin and then tried to guilt-trip me into staying. He deserves whatever he gets."

"Vindictive. I like it."

“I thought you didn’t have anything.”

"I'm starting to make exceptions." The words float between us, thick with unspeakable meaning. I was careful not to interrogate.

"Damien."

"I should go. I have work." But he didn't move. Lucas is picking us up for dinner around seven. “That’s enough for two, I said, but if you want to eat by yourself —”

“You can eat with me,” I heard myself say.

Why did I say that?

"Okay." His expression changed, softened at the subplot of intimacy. "Okay."

He departed, and I stood in my new studio, my heart beating harder than I could account for.

One day down. Three hundred sixty-four to go.

I could survive this. I had to.

Even if living meant always battling against the draw, I felt toward a man who was supposed to be nothing but a name on a contract.

Even if being alive eventually required lying to everyone, including myself.

Even if it meant slowly and terrifyingly falling for someone I was never supposed to love.