Leave

Sam's house was colder than the family mansion. Not in temperature, but in feeling. It felt so empty I had a depressive episode.

It sat farther out, surrounded by tall iron gates and quiet land that stretched too far. No Danielle's easy chatter. No soft footsteps of staff moving through hallways that still felt lived-in. Just silence.

My room was large, pale, and impersonal. A king bed with white sheets. A sitting area by the window. A private bathroom that smelled faintly of new paint. Someone had already placed my luggage neatly against the wall.

I started unpacking without thinking, trying to claim the space so it wouldn't claim me first.

That was when I found it.

Leaning against the far wall, half-covered by a sheet, was a canvas.

I pulled the fabric away and froze.

It was mine.

The painting I had done in New York last winter when everything felt too heavy and I needed something ugly to match the feeling. Thick, angry strokes. Dark blues bleeding into black. The lines were uneven, almost childish in places. I had hated it the moment I finished. Susan had laughed and said it looked like a toddler had a breakdown with a brush. I had shoved it somewhere and never looked at it again.

Yet here it was.

In Sam Alexandrescu's house.

My hands shook as I lifted it. The frame was new. Someone had paid money for this mess.

A knock came at the outer door. I went out to find a servant calling me for a meal.

I tried to put the painting on the wall but the nail wasn't working. Vexed, I set it down and walked out into the hallway.

Benedict stood there with Sam.

They were already talking in low voices. Business. Their father wanted them working closer on the family company. Mergers. Shared responsibilities. Sam looked bored. Benedict looked focused.

Then Sam's phone rang.

He glanced at the screen, answered without stepping away.

"Yeah... I'm busy." A pause. His voice dropped, softer than I had ever heard it. "I said I'll call you later. Don't start." Another pause. "Fine. Keep the light on."

He ended the call like it meant nothing and looked at Benedict.

"Handle the rest. I have somewhere to be."

He didn't even glance at me before walking out.

The front door closed. The house went quiet again.

Benedict stayed.

He looked at me for a long second, then past me toward my open door.

"You're still in separate rooms," he said.

It wasn't a question.

"That was my agreement," I answered.

He nodded once, like he already knew. "I stayed here for a few days last year. Sam never uses this wing much."

He walked past me into my room without waiting for permission. I followed, heart already beating too fast.

I had been trying to hang the painting earlier and failing. The nail kept slipping. The canvas was heavier than it looked. Benedict noticed it immediately.

He stopped in front of it.

A small, almost private smile touched his mouth.

"I had to buy this," he said. "It sat in a small gallery in Brooklyn for weeks. No one wanted it." He tilted his head, studying the messy lines. "It triggered some kind of OCD I didn't even know I had. The way you drew these strokes... they're uneven on purpose, aren't they? Cute."

The word landed wrong.

Cute.

My painting.

My private, ugly thing.

I stared at him.

"What do you mean you bought it?"

He didn't answer right away. Instead he stepped closer, eyes still on the canvas, then slowly on me.

The air changed.

I should have moved back. I didn't.

He lifted one hand and brushed a strand of hair from my face. The touch was light. Careful. When I didn't pull away, he leaned in.

The kiss started soft.

Then it wasn't.

His mouth opened against mine and I let him. My hands rose to his chest without permission. He made a low sound and deepened it, one arm sliding around my waist. My knees weakened. He felt it. His hands dropped, gripped my ass, and lifted me like I weighed nothing.

The painting crashed to the floor.

The sound snapped me back.

I shoved his chest hard.

He stepped away immediately, breathing rough, hands raised slightly like he was showing he wouldn't touch me again unless I allowed it.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly.

I wrapped my arms around myself.

"I am married to your brother," I said. My voice came out sharper than I expected. "And I hope you know I was drunk when we kissed in New York."

"I understand." He took one step closer.

I raised my hand. Stopped him with a gesture.

He froze. Completely.

No argument. No push. Just stillness.

The obedience was almost more dangerous than the kiss.

I forced the next question out. "How did you get my painting?"

He looked at me for a long time. Something unreadable moved behind his eyes.

Then he spoke, voice low and steady.

"I used to walk your pet tortoise when we were kids. You left him in the garden for hours and I carried him around so he wouldn't get lonely. I kept the letters you wrote to Mara when you first left, well, that was because you mom sent the letters back and I happened to ..." He paused and just looked at me " And I've always known where you were."

The words hit in pieces; Tortoise. Letters.Always known. My mom too knew. Was everyone stalking me?

My stomach dropped.

"We were kids," I whispered. Then the second part caught up. "Wait... what do you mean you've always known where I was?"

He didn't answer.

He only looked at me like he wanted to close the distance again. Like holding me was the only thing that made sense to him.

I shook my head.

"Leave."

He opened his mouth.

"I don't want you anywhere close to me," I said. My voice shook but I kept it firm. "Now. I said leave."

For a second he stayed still.

Then he nodded once.

Turned.

And walked out without another word.

The door closed softly behind him.

I stood alone in the quiet room, the fallen painting at my feet, and realized something far worse than the kiss.

I was never good at running away.