3- The Tantrum

I was standing in the middle of Damien Thorne's private art studio, staring at a blank canvas, when my phone buzzed. It had been six hours since I walked out of Julian's mansion. Damien had given me an entire wing of his estate, with high ceilings, perfect natural light, and every art supply I could ever dream of. His staff had carried my single suitcase upstairs without a word, as if women fleeing billionaires arrived every day. I had already changed into jeans and a paint-splattered shirt. For the first time in five years, I felt like I could breathe.

The wedding ring was still on my finger. I twisted it off and set it on the glass table beside my phone. It left a pale band of skin, a stripe of five years. Then the phone buzzed again, and I looked at the caller ID.

Julian. Fourteen missed calls, and now a fifteenth.

I stared at the screen as it shuddered against the glass. I should have ignored it. But a dark, vindictive part of me wanted to hear what he sounded like when I wasn't there to fix things. I swiped to answer, but I didn't speak.

"Clara." His voice was sharp, but there was an undeniable strain underneath it. "Where the hell are you?"

"Somewhere you can't reach me," I said calmly.

"Do you have any idea how tonight looked?" he snapped. "Richard Crane asked where my wife was. In front of the entire board. I had to tell him you were ill."

Of course. Not worry. Not regret. Just the optics. "I'm sure you handled it," I said. "You always do."

"Isabella was gracious enough to cover for you," he went on. "She'll understand if you apologize quickly."

Gracious. I thought of my seascape hanging beside her smiling face, and my grip tightened on the phone until my knuckles ached.

"Enough." He switched to the smooth, patient voice he used on difficult investors. "You've made your point. Come home, apologize, and we'll forget this ever happened."

Apologize. I almost laughed. "My lawyer files the papers in the morning," I said. "Sign them, and this can stay quiet."

"Your lawyer." He gave a short, ugly laugh. "You don't have a lawyer. You don't have anything. My banker says you emptied the joint account."

"I took back what I put into it. Four thousand dollars. You'd know that if you ever read a statement."

The line went quiet. I could hear him breathing, and somewhere behind him, the faint clink of glass. He was drinking. "You're making a mistake," he said, and the calm was gone. "You're out there alone, with no income and no protection. I will tell everyone you're unstable. I will make sure no gallery, no school, no employer in this city will hire you. And when your father needs his follow-up care, who's going to pay for it? You'll be on my doorstep by the end of the week."

"It's already paid for."

"With what?"

"You told me to find another way, Julian." My voice was steady, and I was proud of that. "I found one."

Silence again, longer this time, and different. This wasn't anger. He was thinking, and Julian thinking was always more dangerous than Julian shouting. "Clara," he said slowly. "What did you do?"

I hung up.

My hands were trembling, but my chest felt lighter than it had in years. A text from the hospital lit up the screen: my father was resting comfortably, vitals steady. I read it twice, as if the words might change.

"You look like you're plotting a murder," a deep voice said from the doorway.

I turned. Damien leaned against the frame, arms crossed, in a dark sweater instead of a suit. I had no idea how long he'd been standing there. "Just a character assassination," I said, picking up a piece of charcoal. "Julian called. He's threatening to ruin me."

"I'd be disappointed if he hadn't," Damien said, stepping inside. "He called three of the best divorce firms in the city tonight. Two of them already work for me, and the third just discovered a conflict of interest."

I stared at him. "You've been busy."

"I told you I move fast." He glanced at the phone. "Did he ask where you are?"

"He doesn't know. But he asked how I paid for my father's surgery." I turned the charcoal over in my fingers. "He's going to start looking for that money."

"Let him look. Money leaves a trail, but this one won't lead to you. Marcus made sure of that." His grey eyes held mine. "The question is whether you're ready. He'll freeze what he can. He'll spread rumors. It will get ugly."

"Let it get ugly." I hesitated. "Why are you really doing this? Beating Julian can't be worth this much to you."

Something shifted in his face, quick and guarded. "Julian owes me. That's all you need to know tonight."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I'm giving."

Before I could press him, my phone buzzed again on the glass. A message from Marcus. I read it twice, then a third time, and a laugh escaped me, short and incredulous.

"What is it?" Damien asked.

I held up the screen. "Julian's assistant called Marcus an hour ago. Julian wants to buy another E.L. Works piece. He's offering whatever price we name."

Damien went very still. Then he smiled, slow and cold and delighted. "He calls you useless to your face," he said softly, "and begs your agent for your work behind your back."

"He doesn't want me," I said. "He wants a prop."

"Then let him want." Damien's smile sharpened. "Tell Marcus to stall. Don't say yes, and don't say no. Let Julian wonder what it will cost him."

I typed with steady fingers: Stall him. Say nothing. Then I set the phone face down, turned to the canvas, and pressed the charcoal to it in one sharp, angry stroke.

I wasn't painting a seascape this time. I was painting the monster I had lived with for five years.

"Three months," I said, not looking at him.

"Make it hurt," Damien replied, and left me to it.