CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
ELENA

The jet's engines hummed beneath us like some expensive purr, but I couldn't shake Sofia's words from my head. Someone is asking questions about my parents' accident. In Chicago. Right when we were heading back.

"You're thinking so loud I can practically hear it," Alexander said, looking up from his tablet. We were somewhere over... I don't know, probably Ohio? Everything looked the same from forty thousand feet.

"Sofia's call," I said, turning away from the window. "It's just... weird timing, you know?"

Alexander set aside his work completely, giving me his full attention. That thing he did where suddenly I was the only person in his universe—it still caught me off guard sometimes.

"Tell me exactly what she said."

I repeated Sofia's warning about someone asking questions, watching Alexander's expression carefully. He was doing that thing where his jaw tightened just slightly—barely noticeable unless you'd spent way too much time studying his face.

"Could be anything," he said after a moment. "Insurance companies sometimes audit old claims, especially if there's a statute of limitations approaching. Or maybe an estate lawyer handling some bureaucratic nonsense."

"My parents weren't exactly millionaires," I pointed out. "What estate?"

"Sometimes these things take years to process. Property deeds, medical records, accident reports—there's always some clerk somewhere shuffling papers." Alexander reached for my hand, his thumb tracing circles on my palm. "Your parents weren't connected to anything dangerous, Elena. This is probably just some pencil-pusher doing their job very, very slowly."

The rational explanation settled something in my chest. "So you think it's nothing?"

"I think it's the kind of boring bureaucratic mystery that involves forms in triplicate and takes three years to resolve." Alexander smiled. "Much less exciting than secret societies and mysterious necklaces."

"Thank God for boring mysteries," I said, leaning back in my seat.
"I've had enough excitement to last several lifetimes."

"Ready for a quiet life in Chicago?"

I snorted. "Quiet? With you? That's like expecting a tornado to take up knitting."

Alexander's laugh was rich and warm.
"I'll have you know I'm perfectly capable of being boring."

"Prove it."

"I once spent an entire weekend organizing my sock drawer."

"By color or fabric?"

"Both. And thread count."

I looked at his eyes. "You're joking."

"I never joke about sock organization."

"Oh my God, you're serious. You actually—" I dissolved into laughter. "That's the most billionaire thing I've ever heard. Who organizes socks by thread count?"

"Someone who appreciates quality," Alexander said with mock dignity.

"Someone who has too much time and too much money," I corrected, still giggling.

The plane began its descent into Chicago, and I watched the familiar skyline rise through patchy clouds. Home. Except, was it home anymore? Or was home wherever Alexander happened to be?

"As for your apartment," Alexander said diplomatically. "There is nothing left to save."

The reminder was like a slap in the face.
My paintings, my art supplies, my photos—everything I'd fought for, lost. "I know. I just...I wanted to see it, maybe. Say goodbye, properly."

"We can drive past it if you like. But, Elena..." He grabbed for my hand again. "There's nothing there but broken glass and bad memories."

I nodded, and my throat tightened. "So, where to? Hotel?"

"Actually," Alexander said, and something in his tone made me look up. "I hoped you would remain in the penthouse. With me."

"Alexander—"

"Not because of security," he said swiftly. "Yes, it's safer, but that isn't why...Elena, I need you with me. I want to wake up next to you, fight over what to eat for breakfast, and watch you paint."

He paused, running a hand over his hair. "I'm asking you to move in with me."

My heart went through a confusing feeling in my chest. "That's a big step."

"I know. And I know we haven't talked about it, and maybe it's too fast, but—"

I gave him a kiss that made him pause his rambling. "Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes, you ridiculous man. I'll move in with you." I grinned. "Though technically, since all my stuff got destroyed, I'm basically moving in with nothing but the clothes in my back."

"I might have addressed that," Alexander boasted, looking satisfied with himself.

An hour had gone by, and I was standing in the doorway of what was once Alexander's guest bedroom, my mouth wide open like a fish.

"You built me a studio," I said, stupefied.

"I had it built," Alexander corrected, hovering behind me like he was nervous. "Do you... Is it okay?"

Okay? Light and space dominated the entire room. Large windows on the north side went from the floor to the ceiling, lighting everything with soft, equal sunlight. Professional easels stood ready, surrounded by more art supplies than I'd owned in my entire life. I also had a sink for washing brushes and a system that let out any fumes from the oils I used.

“Alexander," I breathed, walking to touch an easel that probably cost more than my old rent. "This is incredible. When did you—how did you—"

"I made some calls from Italy. Asked what a professional artist would need." He kept watching to see how I felt about everything. "I wanted you to have a real studio. A place where you could create anything."

I looked at him and felt tears choking my throat.
"Nobody's ever done anything like this for me."

"You deserve it," he said simply. "You deserve everything."

I flung myself at him and embraced him, kissed him with all the love, gratitude and happiness I had in me.
He caught me, picked me up and swung me around until I was giddy.

"Is that a yes?" he whispered into my lips.

"That's a hell yes," I said, then kissed him again because I could. Now, I had a billionaire boyfriend, the best art studio in town and a happiness I didn’t understand.

I had to take a few breaths and then I spotted a wrapped package sitting on a bench.

"What's that?" I said as I pointed.

Alexander frowned. "I don't know. That wasn't here when we left for Italy."

I took the package, observing that the outside didn’t have a delivery sticker or the date when it was sent. Just to see my name written with handwriting I did not recognize. The only thing inside was a photograph of Margaret at an easel, paintbrush in her hand, totally entranced in what she was doing.

I studied the photo. Everything about the image was poetic, making Margaret seem as if she was totally involved in creative work.

As he took the photo, Alexander’s face grew serious. "And security said no packages were delivered to the building while we were gone."

Something made me cold and it wasn’t the chill from the air conditioner. "So, how did someone get into your private elevator to leave this here?"