4- The Scandal

By morning, I was a thief, an adulteress, and a madwoman.

Damien slid the tablet across the breakfast table without a word. The headline took up half the screen: BILLIONAIRE'S WIFE FLEES TO RIVAL'S MANSION. Beneath it was a photograph of me stepping out of a cab at his front gate, suitcase in hand. Taken from across the street. Julian's investigator hadn't wasted a minute.

"Keep reading," Damien said.

I did. Julian's statement was a masterpiece of wounded dignity.

My wife has been under severe emotional strain. She has withdrawn marital funds and is no longer herself. I am heartbroken, and I only want her to come home safely.

My coffee went cold in my hands.

"There's more," Damien said.

The second article showed Isabella, flawless in cream silk, standing beside my seascape. The caption called her the city's brightest new artist. The quote underneath made my vision blur.

I poured two years of my heart into this painting. Seeing it finally hang is the greatest joy of my life.

Two years.

"I painted it in eleven weeks," I said. My voice sounded strange. "The winter after my mother died. The harbor she used to take me to. I painted it every night until my hands cramped."

Damien said nothing. For once, he didn't have a smooth answer.

I walked to the window. A dozen photographers had gathered at the gate, lenses glinting like insects. One of them spotted me and shouted. The glass swallowed the sound, but I read his lips.

Thief.

"My PR team has a response drafted," Damien said behind me. "Documents, interviews, a defamation notice—"

"And when they ask where I got ten million dollars?"

He stopped.

"If I defend myself, I have to say who I am," I said slowly. "Julian runs, Isabella gets a head start on her lies, and the exhibition means nothing."

"Then you say nothing."

I turned. "They're calling me a thief."

"And you let them." His grey eyes were steady. "Men like Julian don't fall because you push them. They fall because you hand them enough rope."

My phone rang before I could answer. Marcus.

"Clara." His voice was wrong, tight and quiet. "Julian's lawyers served the gallery this morning. A subpoena. They want every record on the seascape sale: the seller, the account, where the ten million went."

The room tilted. "Marcus—"

"Damien's team already filed an injunction. It's blocked." A pause. "For now. He's not guessing anymore, Clara. He's hunting."

I lowered the phone and looked at Damien. He had heard every word.

"Then we finish the collection before 'for now' runs out," he said.

Nine days later, I finished the portrait at two in the morning.

In that time, Julian gave three interviews. Isabella gave five. Every talk show in the city wanted the heartbroken CEO and the gifted painter who comforted him. I didn't read the comments. I painted.

I stepped back from the canvas, and my legs almost gave out.

Julian, in his perfect tuxedo. His face melting like wax to reveal a hollow, gold-plated skull underneath. In his hands, a small, broken seascape.

"You're still awake."

I whirled. Damien stood in the doorway in grey sweatpants and a black t-shirt. No suit, no armor. Without them, he looked less like a rival and more like a predator off duty.

His eyes went to the canvas and stayed there. The clock ticked.

"It's vicious," he finally murmured. "It's going to ruin him."

"It's honest."

"It's a weapon." He looked at me. "And the woman holding it is about to collapse."

He crossed the room, took the brush from my shaking fingers, and set it down. Then his hand closed around my chin, firm and commanding, forcing me to look at him.

"You are not doing this for him anymore," he said, low. "You are doing this to win. And to win, you have to sleep."

A tear cut a clean line through the paint on my cheek. I hadn't cried since the gala. I had been too angry.

"If I stop, I hear him," I whispered. "Useless. Every time I close my eyes."

"You are not useless." His forehead came to rest against mine. "You are the most dangerous woman in this city."

I closed the last inch.

The kiss was hard and desperate, nine days of fury and exhaustion colliding. His hands tangled in my hair. I gripped the front of his shirt like he was the only solid thing left in the world. For one second, I wanted to disappear into it.

Then he pulled back, breathing hard, his eyes almost black.

"Not like this," he said roughly.

Heat flooded my face. "Damien—"

"I don't take what's vulnerable." He stepped away, jaw tight. "When I have you, Clara, it will be because you're standing on your own two feet and you choose me. Not because you're running on revenge and no sleep."

He picked up the blanket from the chaise and tossed it to me. "Sleep. That's an order."

At the door, he paused, one hand on the frame. "One more thing. Julian just gave a second interview tonight. He told the world you're unstable. He told them I'm manipulating you."

"Then he's winning."

"No." A slow, dangerous smile. "He just made himself the story. Every lie he tells now goes on the record. Every one of them can be used against him." His gaze moved to the gold skull on the canvas. "Let him keep talking."

The door closed.

I stood alone with the painting, my lips still burning, my heart pounding. Nobody had ever given me an order that felt like care. I wrapped the blanket around my shoulders.

Then I picked up a fresh canvas.