Chapter 187 Chapter 187 Served
I walk through Snaz’s loft, his work scattered across every wall, every surface, every inch of exposed concrete. The place smells like paint, coffee, and weed. Giant industrial windows stretch from floor to ceiling, flooding the space with gray San Francisco light. The city outside looks cinematic, all hills and fog and old buildings stacked on top of one another.
Trevor Roberts—Snaz—is only twenty years old, but his paintings feel older than him. Heavy. Emotional. He paints people mostly, but not in the way most artists do. His portraits don’t just capture faces. They capture the ugly underneath too. Fear. Loneliness. Desire. Regret. Looking at some of them makes my chest tight.
I stop in front of a massive canvas of a woman submerged underwater, her eyes open, her mouth slightly parted like she’s drowning and peaceful at the same time.
“Beautiful,” I murmur.
“I painted that after my girlfriend cheated on me,” Trevor says casually from behind me.
I glance over my shoulder. He looks like a kid pretending to be an artist. Oversized black shirt hanging off his thin frame, baggy jeans sagging too low, beat-up Vans, paint stains covering his hands and forearms. His dark hair is a complete mess.
And yet somehow, annoyingly, he’s gorgeous in that tortured-genius kind of way.
“You sure you’re old enough to be a curator?” he asks.
I laugh softly. “Yes. I’ve got a master’s in fine arts, ten years of experience, and a sales record your future agent would cry over.”
His mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile.
I continue walking through the loft, studying each piece carefully. The gallery will eat this collection alive. Vegas collectors love emotional suffering when it costs six figures.
“I want these ten,” I say, pointing. “Those five in the corner. The triptych near the windows. Also the one by the front door.”
He watches me while I work, hands shoved into his pockets.
“That’s forty pieces total,” I finish.
“You picked all my favorites.”
“That’s because I’m good at my job.”
His eyes linger too long. I already know where this is heading and I’m not in the mood for it.
“I’ll email the contract tonight,” I continue professionally. “My logistics team will contact you tomorrow. They’ll package everything and ship it to Vegas. The exhibit opens in two weeks.”
“How long are you staying in town?”
“Not long. I have three kids.”
Something flashes across his face at that.
“No fucking way.”
I laugh. “Yes fucking way.”
“You don’t look old enough to have three kids.”
“Well, I do. And they miss me when I travel.”
He studies me openly now, zero shame about it.
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-two.”
Again, that look. Not shock exactly. Interest.
Dangerous interest.
I internally sigh. Jesus Christ.
“I want to paint you,” he blurts out suddenly.
I blink at him. “Excuse me?”
“On that couch.” He points toward a cerulean velvet sofa near the windows. “Upside down. Hair spread out. Legs over the back. Fully nude.”
I stare at him.
Trevor steps closer, animated now, hands moving while he talks.
“You’ve got this face that looks soft but mean at the same time. Like you’d either ruin somebody’s life or save it depending on your mood. It’d be fucking incredible.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “I don’t think so.”
“It would take five hours max.”
“No.”
“You’d look amazing in oils.”
I laugh despite myself. “You are insane.”
“That’s not a no.”
“It absolutely is a no.”
He grins, completely unbothered. “Think about it. I’ll be here all day tomorrow.”
I shake my head again and grab my coat.
He walks me downstairs anyway.
Outside, the San Francisco air is cool against my skin. I wave down a cab and slide inside, giving the driver the address to Elizabeth and Jax’s townhouse.
As we pull into traffic, my phone rings.
I answer without looking, still thinking about Trevor’s ridiculous proposal and those giant sad eyes of his.
“Elena, this is Keenan Carter.”
Immediately my stomach tightens.
“I have good news and better news,” he says smoothly. “We filed faster than expected and your husband is currently being served.”
Everything inside me freezes.
“You said thirty days,” I whisper.
“It’s only been three business days, yes. We got lucky.”
Lucky.
I almost laugh at the word.
My palms instantly go sweaty. My chest tightens so hard I can barely breathe. Ivan is home with the kids. I planned this carefully. I wanted him served while away on business so I wouldn’t have to see his reaction.
I didn’t want to watch his face when he realized I was done.
“Oh my God,” I breathe.
“You alright?”
“Yes,” I lie quickly. “Thank you.”
“We’ll be in touch soon.”
The call ends and I stare blankly out the cab window while the city blurs past.
Served.
It’s done.
There’s no taking it back now.
For a full minute I just sit there gripping my phone like it might explode. My mind races through every possible reaction Ivan could have.
Anger.
Denial.
Cold indifference.
Maybe he’ll finally admit everything.
Maybe he’ll pretend none of it happened.
Maybe he’ll fight me for the kids.
That thought hurts more than the cheating ever did.
My phone vibrates again in my hand.
Ivan.
I stare at his name lighting up my screen but can’t force myself to answer.
The cab driver announces we’ve arrived.
I shove cash at him and step out onto the curb.
Elizabeth and Jax’s townhouse is beautiful. White wood siding, massive windows, warm light glowing from inside. Expensive but comfortable. The kind of place filled with laughter and expensive wine.
I climb the front steps slowly.
My phone buzzes again.
A text this time.
Call me right fucking now. What do you mean you want a divorce? Why?
I stop dead on the porch.
Then, completely against my own will, I start laughing.
Not a cute laugh.
Not a soft laugh.
A full, slightly unhinged laugh that makes my stomach hurt.
Why?
Why.
The front door swings open and Jax immediately frowns at me.
“What’s wrong, Elena?”
I hold up my phone, still laughing like I’ve finally lost my mind.
“Your brother wants to know why I filed for divorce.”
Jax’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh shit.”
Elizabeth appears behind him instantly. “What happened?”
I step inside slowly, the warmth of the house hitting me all at once.
“Ivan got served the divorce papers,” I say calmly.
Then I look down at my phone again as it starts ringing for the third time.
Ivan.
Still calling.
Still pretending he doesn’t know exactly why this is happening.