Chapter 9 OVERWHELMED

Chapter 9 OVERWHELMED
Hazel is already asleep by the time we get home.
The beach house looks quieter than usual. The porch light is off, just a thin stripe of glow leaking from the kitchen into the hallway. As soon as the door closes, the sound of the ocean turns up, soft but constant, like someone taking a long breath right behind the walls.
I nudge my heel out of the torture devices otherwise known as stilettos. Both shoes skid across the rug.
“Hazel?” I call out, half on reflex.
There’s a pink sticky note on the console table, Kayla’s handwriting slanted and messy.
Hazel knocked out at 9. Sugar crash. I’m stealing your Doritos. Love you.
I peel it up. “Official traitor. She bailed before finding out what happened to my painting.”
Luca shuts the door behind us, his shoulders dipping a little. I’d already yanked off his tie in the car; the top buttons of his shirt are undone, his throat looking… too human for a night like this.
“She’d be way more interested in the free snacks than the auction numbers,” Luca says. He drops his keys into the ceramic bowl, the clink way too loud in a house this still. “So, how does it feel, Ms. De Cruz, being formally courted by my big brother in front of a room full of rich people?”
I lift a brow, turning toward him. “Your brother just bought my trauma for the price of a Manhattan apartment. What do you think?”
“Half an apartment,” he corrects, easy.
“Add buyer’s premium, tax, gallery fee…” I shrug. “That’s a full one-bedroom with a view of the building next door.”
Luca laughs once, short. His eyes are dark, but there’s still that little spark in them that usually makes me forget bad things exist. Tonight, the spark isn’t bright enough.
“I’m just shocked he showed up,” he goes on, walking into the kitchen. He opens the fridge, grabs a bottle of water, but his gaze is still on me. “He usually doesn’t bother coming to small auctions like this. At most he sends someone.”
“Yeah, well.” I follow, scooping my hair up into a too-tight knot. My scalp protests immediately. “Maybe he got bored buying buildings and decided to upgrade to altars.”
The word slips out too easily. Altar. Old wounds snap to attention in the middle of a kitchen that smells like lemon and dish soap.
I turn toward the upper cabinet, reaching for the champagne flutes we save for special moments. My hand goes up, fingers grazing glass.
The first flute is slick. It almost slips before Luca moves in and catches it from underneath.
“Maya.” His fingers brush the back of my hand. Warm. Steady. “Slow down.”
“Relax, I haven’t even started getting drunk.” My voice sounds light. Too light. “It’s artistic tremor. Comes free with big nights.”
He doesn’t answer. He just takes down two glasses himself and sets them on the island. His movements are neat, efficient. I’m the one who suddenly feels like I’m borrowing my own hands.
I inhale, grab the bottle of prosecco from the fridge. I pop the cork; the small pop bounces off the walls. Normally harmless. Tonight my chest shivers like my body thinks it’s a starting gun.
Gold bubbles rush up the bottleneck. I pour.
Halfway through, the foam climbs too fast. The first glass floods to the brim, spilling over the rim onto the counter. Cold drops hit my fingers, run down to the floor.
“Shit,” I mutter. “See? Artists and logistics are fundamentally incompatible.”
Luca takes the bottle from my hand without a word. He sets it down, grabs a cloth, and starts wiping the counter. His eyes flick to my hand. There’s a small crease forming between his brows. “You’re shaking.”
“I just finished a show.” I reach for some paper towels too quickly and swipe at foam that’s almost gone. “My body is celebrating.”
“Maya.”
I hate the way he says my name tonight. Too soft, too careful. Like I’m a glass that just almost shattered.
I take a long pull straight from my flute without a toast. Half of it goes down in one shot. Cold, sharp, rough.
“See?” I tap my own chest, coughing a little. “Still alive. Haven’t exploded.”
Luca rests his hip against the counter, watching me like he’s trying to take my face apart line by line. “You don’t have to pretend you’re fine all the time, you know that, right?”
I shrug and move past him to the sink. Kayla and Hazel’s little plates are already rinsed and stacked. Nothing left to wash. I pull two clean plates from the cabinet anyway, drop them into the basin, and crank the tap on.
The water gushes too hard. It splashes onto my satin dress, leaving transparent spots. Great. New pattern.
“I’m fine.” I grab a sponge and start scrubbing plates that aren’t even dirty. “I just sold a painting for enough to pay for therapy for the rest of my life. I’m supposed to be throwing a party, not having a breakdown.”
My nails drag across porcelain harder than necessary. The faint scraping sound threads through the rush of water and the ocean outside. A strange rhythm.
Luca comes closer, taking up space at the side of the sink. “Big things have a way of hitting late,” he says quietly.
“Is this a corporate motivational session now?” I shoot him a sideways look, mouth tilted. “Did your brother infect you with self-help-book sound bites?”
The corner of his mouth lifts for a second, then drops again. He sets his glass down and turns off the tap with one calm twist.
The kitchen gets instantly quieter. Just the leftover sound of waves, the soft hum of the fridge, and my heartbeat pounding way too loud in my ears.
I’m still gripping the sponge under the dripping faucet. I lift my hand, water running between my fingers, cold as it trails down to my wrist.
Luca catches my wrist and guides my hand to the edge of the sink. “Maya.”
“Yeah?” I look at him, defiant. That’s my default. Panic, then bite. “You gonna ask me to sign your forehead as your favorite artist?”
“I just want to ask you one thing.” His gray eyes are dark, serious. Darker than usual. “Are you actually okay?”
The question hangs between us. Big. Annoying.
I blink once, then laugh. Too loud. The sound bounces off the cabinets.
“So you’re only now realizing your girlfriend is a little unhinged after she almost drowns clean plates?” I gently ease my wrist out of his grip and turn to grab a dish towel. “I’m fine. I just need… alcohol and carbs. And maybe a brief cuddle with my new bank balance.”
“This isn’t about the auction.” He doesn’t move from where he’s standing. “You’ve been numb since the gallery.”
“I was in impossible heels, Luca. Women’s feet are allowed to have suicidal thoughts.”
He ignores the sarcasm. Of course he does. He’s had years of practice.
“When I introduced you to him…” his voice drops, “you froze.”
Obviously. Because you’d just introduced me to the source of our child’s DNA, darling.
I give a small shrug, playing it off, reaching for my glass again. “Maybe I was just surprised your brother turned out to be that… presentable. You never told me your gene pool could look that good.”
It’s a joke. It should be a joke. But some part of my brain registers the fact that I just complimented the man who wrecked my life in the kitchen of the new house I built without him.
Luca squints. It’s a tiny reaction, almost invisible if I weren’t me.
“‘Presentable,’” he repeats softly. “Interesting choice of word.”
“Why?” I lift the glass to my lips. “You want me to call him ugly so your ego feels safe?”
“I’ve just never seen you… notice someone like that before.”
I let out a short laugh, twisting the dish towel in my hands until the fabric coils tight. “God, you’re jealous.”
It comes out light, like the idea is funny. Part of me does think it’s funny. Another part of me… goes rigid.
Luca watches me for a moment, long enough for the air between us to shift. He exhales through his nose, like he’s debating whether this topic deserves gasoline.
“If I say ‘a little,’ you’re going to use it against me for a year,” he says finally.
I grin. “Minimum.”
But there’s something in his jaw. The way the muscle flexed when he said him. The way his gaze hardened for a second back at the gallery when Rafael stood too close to me. I saw it. I filed it away. I pretended not to.
Luca leans his back against the counter, ankles crossing. “He’s not the type who just shows up like that. There was something when he looked at your painting. When he looked at you.”
I knock back the rest of my champagne; the bubbles rush up my nose. “What are you trying to say? That your brother fell in love at first sight with my depressive altar?”
“No.” He shakes his head slowly. “More like… he saw something he recognized.”
The sentence hits like someone tossing a small rock at thin glass inside my chest. The crack is fine, but I hear it.
My hands go busy on instinct. I set the glass in the sink, grab another plate, yank open the dishwasher even though it’s empty. “That’s how collectors are. They flip through the trauma catalog and pick whatever feels most relatable. Maybe he’s got his own altar. Rich families usually thrive on drama.”
“Maya.”