Chapter 64 Hush
Lawrence paced his office, back and forth, There had to be a way out of this mess.
Maybe if he went to Ethan swallowed his pride and begged it would be enough to change his mind, because this mistake was enough to get him suspended.
He stepped out, ready to try.
Then he saw him.
Ethan was heading toward his car. Lawrence's heart slammed against his ribs. Ethan stopped, turning just enough to catch his eyes.
For a long second, neither moved.
"Stay out of my way," Ethan said, his voice low and certain, "and I'll stay out of yours."
He walked on without looking back, leaving Lawrence rooted to the spot.
Lawrence pondered about what Ethans statement meant as he walked back to his office.
He shut the door behind him and picked up the phone.
"Tell everyone to hold off," he said.
There was a pause on the other end.
"No, I mean everything. All of it," he added, his voice low. " "we have to move cautiously till everything die down" he said while scanning the area.
He hung up, leaning back in his chair, the echo of Ethan's words still ringing in his head.
The mansion was too quiet.
Lena had wandered from one sunlit room to the next, aimlessly trailing her fingers along polished furniture she still didn't feel belonged to her. Just months ago, she'd been a broke artist in a cramped apartment, juggling overdue rent notices with calls from her father's landlord about the gallery's bills. Now, all of that was paid off in one swoop Ethan's signature on their contract had bought her out of the spiral.
It should have felt like freedom.
But it didn't.
Yes, she had this sprawling house, a bank account that no longer stung when she checked it, and closets full of clothes she hadn't even touched. But Marrying Ethan meant stepping into the spotlight with him, and he was not only a billionaire but one of the most watched men in the city. Every move she made could end up in a headline. And Ethan... Ethan was far too strict to let her roam freely. Until their contract ended, her life wasn't entirely hers.
As she wandered around the house, she remembered the art gallery Ethan had refurbished from an old storehouse for her and headed straight out.
When she arrived, she unlocked the doors with the keys he had given her. Stepping inside, she once again marveled at how wonderful the place looked. Then an idea struck her since she still had a lot of money left, she would reconstruct her father's gallery and fill it back up with paintings. Paintings she would create right here.
Her father had taught her how to paint and not just taught her, she had inherited his skill.
She walked to the back room, remembering Ethan mentioning he had bought some supplies.
When she opened the door, she stopped in awe.
The room was overflowing: rows of paint tubes in every imaginable shade, from deep ultramarine to the softest blush pink; stacks of blank canvases in all sizes; easels polished and ready; jars of fine sable brushes alongside wide-bristled ones for sweeping strokes; palettes both classic wood and sleek glass lined neatly on the shelves; drawers of charcoal sticks, pastels, and sketching pencils; bottles of linseed oil and turpentine; rolls of high-quality paper; aprons and overalls in crisp white and rich navy, still with their tags; even a cabinet of gold and silver leaf for gilded details.
It was more than just stocked it was a treasure trove for any artist.
Lena was stunned and, in a way, moved. Ethan always outdid himself, always finding a way to remind her that he lived in a world where limits didn't exist. The room looked like an upscale art supply shop, yet everything here was for her.
Gratitude stirred in her chest as she scanned the shelves. She reached for a set of brushes, running her fingers along the smooth, vibrant handles. They weren't just functional they were beautiful, clearly chosen with a woman in mind. The thought made her smile widen, a warmth spreading through her at the intentionality of it all.
For the first time in a long time, she felt a flicker of pure excitement. This was enough to push her to paint again, to breathe life back into her father's gallery.
Lena gathered the brushes, paints, and a fresh canvas, carrying them carefully into the main gallery. The space was wide and empty, its echo reminding her of another gallery smaller, humbler, but alive with her father's laughter.
She set the supplies down on a long table and, for a moment, closed her eyes. His face came to her easily: the fine creases at the corners of his eyes, the stubborn lift of his brow when he was focused, the faint smudge of paint he always seemed to have somewhere on his skin.
Her chest tightened, but it wasn't the sting of grief, it was the pull of wanting to keep him here somehow.
She crossed the room to the largest canvas she could find, leaning it against the central easel. This wouldn't be a small piece for a quiet corner. No this would take the heart of the gallery. A tribute, bold and impossible to ignore.
Her father had once told her, If you want to make something immortal, make it big enough that it can't be forgotten.
She smiled faintly, opened the first tube of paint, and began to plan her strokes.
Just as she painted the first stroke, her eyes began to sting. A deep ache rose in her chest, she missed him more than she'd let herself admit. Her father had been all she ever truly had. She'd thought he would be with her longer, but he'd already been an older man when she was born, and time had stolen him sooner than she was ready for.
She set the brush down, letting the grief come. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to remember his face in every detail, knowing it would make her cry but also sharpen the memory of the man he had been.
The tears came anyway.
Alone in the empty gallery, she broke down, her silent sobs carrying through the vast space until they sounded louder than she'd meant them to.
When the tears finally slowed, Lena sat there for a moment, her breathing uneven. The ache in her chest hadn't gone, but it had changed, less like a wound, more like a reminder.
She reached for the brush again, turning it slowly in her hand. The bristles were stained with that first, hesitant stroke, and she thought about how her father would have laughed at her stopping so soon. Art isn't polite, Lena. It doesn't wait for you to be ready.
A faint smile tugged at her lips. He wouldn't have wanted her to cry forever, he would have wanted her to work.
She stood, squared her shoulders, and faced the canvas. If this was going to be a tribute, then every line, every shade, had to carry the truth of who he was.
And so, with eyes still wet and heart still heavy, she began again each stroke a piece of him brought back to life.