Done setting

“Now I am a psycho?” Dennis sneered.

He leaned closer, his face inches from hers, his eyes filled with a disturbing mixture of anger and amusement. Audrey instinctively turned her face away as he moved even closer, his lips almost brushing hers.

Suddenly, a loud sound rang out from Audrey’s phone, which was tucked inside the bag hanging from her shoulder.

The interruption made Dennis pause.

Audrey quickly reached for the phone with her free hand and answered the call.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Audrey. I cannot find my new Jordan shoes. Did you see them?” James asked from the other end.

Audrey remained silent, her eyes fixed on Dennis as his hand remained around her neck.

“Hello, sis?” James continued when he received no response. “I know you took them.”

“Where are—”

Before he could finish, Dennis snatched the phone from Audrey’s hand and ended the call.

“What the hell are you doing?” Audrey gasped.

Dennis tossed the phone aside and reached for her again.

That was when something inside Audrey snapped.

With all the strength she could muster, she drove her elbow into his side. Dennis recoiled in surprise, loosening his grip just enough for her to wrench herself free.

Audrey stumbled forward, coughing as she rubbed her neck. She barely had time to catch her breath before Dennis reached for her again.

“Do not dare touch me!” she yelled.

She shoved him back with both hands, but when he tried to grab her once more, Audrey slapped him hard across the face.

The sound echoed through the room.

Dennis froze.

Audrey stood there breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling as she stared at him. For the first time, there was no fear in her eyes, only fury.

“Never put your hands on me again,” she said through clenched teeth.

She snatched her phone from where Dennis had tossed it and stepped toward the door.

“And do not ever show your face to me again!”

Without waiting for a response, Audrey stormed out, muttering curses under her breath as she disappeared through the doorway.

Dennis remained rooted to the spot, staring after her in stunned disbelief.

The woman who had spent years swallowing her anger, lowering her voice, and apologizing even when she had done nothing wrong had finally fought back.

And for the first time, Dennis seemed to realize that the woman standing before him was not as weak as he had always believed.

The Mercedes pulled up in front of the building, and Timmy stepped out. He walked into the building, heading straight for the elevator as he made his way to the fourth floor.

He stepped into the spacious, well-furnished office. The room was tastefully decorated, with a large mahogany desk positioned at the far end, plush leather chairs arranged neatly around a glass table, and large windows overlooking the city. A few carefully selected pieces of artwork adorned the walls. One could tell at first glance that the owner was a lover of fine art. The soft lighting gave the room a warm, sophisticated feel.

Behind the large desk sat a young man, comfortably settled in a high-backed leather chair. He leaned back slightly, one hand resting on the armrest while the other held a document he appeared to be reading. His expensive suit was perfectly fitted, and his expression remained calm and composed as he lifted his eyes to acknowledge Timmy’s presence.

Timmy walked straight toward him and stood in front of him, his hands folded behind his back.

“I was unable to meet with her, sir. But I left the private card with a lady I suppose was her colleague, with the instruction to call once she gets back,” he said, watching the man as he stood up and walked toward the corner of the office, where an extraordinary piece of art adorned the wall. Its beauty was almost indescribable, as though every brushstroke held a story of its own. He ran his fingers gently over the surface, studying it.

“I see,” he said, his expression unreadable.

“You are really hell-bent on finding this lady,” Timmy said, walking slowly toward Jonas as he stood before the portrait, his gaze fixed on the intricate piece. He had spent days searching for one Miss Audrey Bennett, the artist he believed was responsible for the artwork.

“I must find her,” Jonas said, pausing for a moment before turning to face Timmy. “And until I do, I will not be satisfied.”

Timmy knew Jonas well enough to recognize that tone. Once Jonas set his mind on something, he never backed down until he had achieved it.

Timmy had known Jonas since they were ten years old. His father had worked as Jonas’s father’s driver for years, and through that connection, Jonas’s father had taken an interest in Timmy’s education. He eventually awarded him a scholarship to attend the same school as his son.

From that point on, the two boys grew up together. What began as their fathers’ connection gradually became a genuine friendship, one that remained intact long after they left school.

Even after Jonas’s father passed away and Jonas inherited the family business, their relationship never changed. When Jonas eventually took over the company, he brought Timmy on as his personal assistant. It was not merely because Timmy was competent or trustworthy; Jonas simply felt more at ease around him than he did with anyone else.

Timmy was the only person who dared to tell Jonas the truth without sugarcoating it. Jonas’s strict personality, coupled with the authority that came with his wealth and position, was enough to make most people think twice before speaking their minds around him. No one wanted to be the person who displeased him or challenged his decisions. So, more often than not, people told Jonas exactly what they thought he wanted to hear.

“I will make sure I find her,” Timmy said, giving a slight nod before turning and walking out of the room. He quietly closed the door behind him.

Jonas continued running his fingers across the artwork, studying every detail with an intensity that made it seem as though he were searching for something hidden within it.

Who else could bring his idea to life if not the artist behind this magnificent piece hanging on the wall?

Jonas had searched for an artist capable of giving form to something that existed only in his mind: a feeling, an image, a vision he had desperately wanted to see brought to life on a canvas.

The only person who had ever been able to interpret his emotions through art was a little girl he had met at the park twenty-two years ago.

Jonas was only eight at the time.

He had been sitting alone on a park bench, his head lowered as he stared at the ground. He had a lot going on in his mind.

A little girl, who could not have been more than four, had been watching him from a short distance away.

After several minutes, she walked over to him, holding a small painting in her hands.

She stopped in front of him and held it out.

“Do not worry,” she said in her tiny voice. “It is going to be okay.”

Jonas stared at the painting.

Then he looked up at her.

He did not understand how she had done it, but somehow, the little picture looked exactly like what he had been feeling.

His mouth opened, but no words came out.

“How did you…” he finally began.

“Drey!”

A woman’s voice suddenly called from behind them.

The little girl turned around.

The woman hurried toward them, reaching for her hand.

“Drey, what did I tell you about talking to strangers?”

“But, Mommy…” the little girl protested, glancing back at Jonas.

“Come on, honey.”

Her mother gently took her hand and gave Jonas an apologetic smile.

“I am sorry about that.”

Before Jonas could say anything, she led the little girl away, disappearing into the crowd.

Jonas remained on the bench, staring after them.

He looked down at the little painting still in his hands.

For the first time, someone understood him without him having to say a word.

For years, he had tried countless artists, including some of the most renowned names in West Virginia, describing exactly what he wanted and hoping that, somehow, one of them would understand what he struggled to put into words.

But they had all failed.

Some had come close, capturing fragments of what he had envisioned, but none had managed to capture the one thing that mattered most. No matter how skilled the artist was or how beautiful the finished piece looked, it never felt right. It never carried what he had been searching for.

Eventually, Jonas had given up hope. Perhaps what he wanted could never be translated into art. Perhaps the feeling he carried so vividly within him was something no artist could ever understand, let alone bring to life on a canvas.

Until a few weeks ago.

The desire was reignited when he came across a remarkably detailed piece of art. There was something about it that stirred a feeling he had not experienced in years: a strange sense of calm, an inexplicable inner peace. He could not explain why, but he knew there was something different about this particular piece.

He had immediately sent Timmy to purchase it.

Now, it hung beside him.

There was something about the artwork that reminded him of that incident from twenty-two years ago.

Every detail seemed deliberate, yet nothing about it felt forced. It was a stunningly intricate masterpiece, bearing only three letters inscribed at its bottom corner: AUBE.

He had later learned from Timmy that it was an abbreviation of the artist’s name, Audrey Bennett.

Jonas’s fingers traced the edge of the painting once more as his eyes remained fixed on it.

Perhaps, after all these years, he had finally found the artist he had been searching for.