Chapter Seven

It was Wednesday morning, and I was up before the sun.

The house was still. Quiet. Even the birds outside hadn’t started singing yet.

I had a buyer coming to the studio—an important one. The kind that could move five paintings in one afternoon and triple this month’s income. My stomach twisted with nerves, but I ignored it. I had no room for failure. Not today.

I padded downstairs, made coffee, and set out Martha’s cereal and fruit like muscle memory. Then I headed back up and nudged her door open.

“Martha,” I whispered, brushing hair from her cheek. “Up, love. Big day.”

She groaned dramatically, rolling over and pulling the blanket over her head. “Too early.”

“Come on. We talked about this. Mummy has someone coming to the studio this morning.”

She peeked out with one eye, pout already forming. “Can Daddy take me to school?”

I froze.

“No,” I said quickly—too quickly. “He’s not.”

“Why not?”

“Because I said so, Martha.”

The sharpness in my voice surprised even me. She blinked, her little face crumpling. Guilt immediately clawed at my throat.

I softened. Sat on the edge of her bed and reached for her hand.

“He’s still sleeping,” I said, gentler this time. “You know we don’t want to be late.”

She stared at me, lips pursed in defiance, but eventually nodded. “Fine.”

I got her ready in silence after that—buttoned her uniform, brushed her curls into a puff, and found the socks with the little strawberries on them. Her favorite. She let me do it all without fuss, but I knew her silence was a protest of its own.

Theo slept in the guest room. Not that it mattered where he slept—we had more than seven rooms in this house. He could’ve chosen any one of them.

What mattered was keeping the illusion intact. Especially for Martha.

She couldn’t know that her parents didn’t sleep under the same roof in the same room.

That this wasn’t some perfect family reunion.

She couldn’t know that the warmth she saw at dinner was just a temporary ceasefire.

I dropped her off at school at exactly 8:00 a.m., kissed her cheek at the gate, and promised she could watch Bluey tonight before bed. Her mood had improved by then—partially because of the other kids, mostly because she thought Theo would be there when she got home.

I wasn’t sure if that was true yet.

By 8:45, I was in my studio, wiping down surfaces that were already spotless, adjusting paintings that didn’t need adjusting, and rechecking the price tags on my pieces.

The buyer was expected at 9:30.

Everything had to be perfect.

Still, I found myself staring out the window more times than I wanted to admit.

Not for the buyer.

But for the man I’d spent years trying to forget—now sleeping two doors down.

And the little girl who still called him “Daddy” like he’d never shattered me.

—They’re here.”

I blinked, turning sharply.

Lily stood in the doorway, her phone still in hand, a small but excited smile on her face. “Sorry,” she added quickly, stepping aside. “Didn’t mean to startle you. Just thought you’d want a heads-up.”

I exhaled, nodding once. “Thanks.”

She hesitated. “You okay?”

“Fine,” I said automatically.

Another lie.

But I didn’t have time to unpack it.

I smoothed my hands over my skirt, did a quick glance at the mirror on the far wall, and headed toward the main space of the studio. My heels clicked across the floor, echoing just enough to remind me that today had to go right.

It had to.

Lily opened the front door before I reached it, her voice bright and professional. “Welcome! You must be Mr. Quinton.

Mr. Quinton.

The name sounded harmless enough. Soft, even.

But as I rounded the corner and caught sight of him—tall, tailored suit, sleek sunglasses and a smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes—I felt something tighten in my chest.

This man wasn’t just a casual collector.

He looked like someone who didn’t waste time.

And right now, all of mine suddenly felt like it was running out.

Mr. Quinton removed his sunglasses with a deliberate slowness, revealing eyes sharp as cut glass. He extended a hand. “Ms. Vargas. A pleasure.”

“Likewise,” I said, shaking it firmly.

He glanced around. “May I see the paintings?”

“Of course. Right this way.”

I led him into the gallery space, trying to quiet the flutter in my chest. He moved like a man used to owning rooms—confident, unhurried, evaluating everything and everyone.

He paused in front of the largest piece—a twilight-blue canvas with gold running like veins through the shadows.

“This one speaks,” he said, eyes narrowed in thought. “Loudly.”

I held my breath as he moved to the next, and the next. Every once in a while, he’d murmur something under his breath. Power. Truth. Grief.

Then he turned to me.

“I’ll take all five.”

My lips parted. “You—what?”

His smile returned. “All five. They belong together. Tell me where to transfer the funds.”

Just like that.

No haggling. No negotiation. Just the crisp promise of money on the table.

Fifty-four thousand pounds.

I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath until I heard the ping from my phone minutes later, confirming the deposit.

I laughed—quiet and stunned—before I caught myself.

For a moment, just a moment, the weight in my chest loosened. Theo faded into the background, and the familiar burn of survival eased.

I’d done this.

Me. Sofia Vargas.

Not because of a man.

Because of my work. My name.

I was still smiling when I walked back into the office—until I saw him.

Arzhel.

Leaning casually in the doorway, bouquet of fresh roses in his hand, wearing that lopsided grin that always gave him away before his words ever could.

He lifted the flowers slightly. “For the woman of the hour.”

Arzhel stepped aside briefly as Mr. Quinton walked past, and the two men exchanged a polite nod. Mr. Quinton offered a courteous smile—brief, unreadable—before stepping out into the sunlight with Lily trailing behind to help coordinate the pickup for the paintings.

The door shut behind them.

“That one looks like he eats CEOs for breakfast,” Arzhel murmured, stepping in. “You alright?”

I nodded, still slightly stunned. “He just bought five of my pieces.”

He raised a brow and handed me the bouquet. The roses were cream and blush, tied together with a navy ribbon—elegant, understated, expensive. “Then these feel a little underwhelming now.”

I took them, my smile returning as I gestured toward the hallway. “Come on. I’ll drop them in the office.”

He followed me in, watching as I grabbed an empty vase from the shelf and filled it at the sink in the corner. I barely had time to trim the stems before he leaned on the edge of my desk, arms crossed.

“So,” he said slowly, “how much?”

I set the bouquet down beside a stack of invoices and looked up at him. “Fifty-four thousand pounds.”

His eyes widened. “Wait. What?”

“Fifty-four,” I repeated, the number tasting even sweeter the second time.

He whistled low. “Oh my God, Sofia. That’s—Jesus, that’s massive.”

I shrugged, trying not to look too giddy. “It was a good morning.”

“No,” he said, pushing off the desk, “this calls for a celebration. I’m talking dinner. Drinks. Fireworks if we can find some.”

I laughed despite myself. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet,” he grinned, “I’m also the one who brought flowers. Don’t act like that doesn’t win me points.”

I shook my head, heart lighter than it had been in weeks. “It wins you a dinner.”

He grinned wider. “I’ll take it.”

Then his smile softened, a flicker of something warmer in his expression.

“I’m proud of you, Sofia. Really.”

I placed the flowers in the vase, arranging them without really thinking, the scent of roses rising softly between us. Arzhel had that look again—the one I always pretended not to notice. The one that lingered just a little too long.

But I didn’t say anything. I never did.

Instead, I stepped back, hands on my hips, and let myself breathe.

I had done it. Sold five pieces. In one morning.

It felt surreal.

Five years ago, I moved to Manchester with nothing but a newborn in my arms and a suitcase of clothes. Theo had left me with money—an obscene amount, really. Seven hundred million, split across accounts, trusts, and one house I didn’t ask for but couldn’t say no to.

So no, I wasn’t broke. I never had been.

But wealth doesn’t stop loneliness from sinking its claws in. It doesn’t hold your hand when your baby cries at 3 a.m. or silence the ache remembering those horrible moments. 

I didn’t know anyone in Manchester. I didn’t have friends. I didn’t even know what I wanted to do with my life. Art wasn’t part of the picture back then—not yet.

Back then, I was just surviving.

I met Arzhel at an exhibition I wandered into one rainy Sunday. I was there with a damp hoodie and a pram, still smelling faintly of baby powder and milk. He was the one hosting the event—owner of the biggest studio in the city. A man who lived like money didn’t exist because, for him, it really didn’t. Rich didn’t even begin to describe it.

We couldn’t have been more different.

But he spoke to me that day—not like someone who pitied me, not like someone sizing me up. Just like a man who saw something I hadn’t found in myself yet.

Potential.

He offered me a small corner in his gallery after that. Said I had “quiet eyes” and “an artist’s grief.”

I told him he was being dramatic.

But I painted anyway.

One piece turned into two. Two became a collection. A few exhibitions later, I had a name. A style. A following. My own studio, eventually.

But through it all, he was there.

Arzhel never asked for anything in return. Not a thing. Not even when I knew—deep down—that he wanted something more.

And maybe that was why I always pulled back.