"I’m admiring my investment." I walk to the side of the bed. "Get up. Put on something warm. Pants. Boots."
"Why?" She eyes my combat boots. "Where are we going?"
"We’re going for a walk," I say. "I want to show you the boundaries of your world."
The air outside is crisp, smelling of salt spray and pine needles. It’s cold enough to see our breath, white puffs of dragon smoke dissipating in the wind.
Ivy walks beside me, hugging a thick wool coat I gave her. She looks small against the backdrop of the massive trees and the looming stone house. She’s looking around, searching for a gap in the fence, a weakness in the wall.
She won't find one.
"The fence is electrified," I say, answering her unspoken question. "Twelve feet high. Buried three feet underground. The current is enough to stop a bear. Or a determined wife."
She glares at me. "I wasn't looking for a way out."
"Liar."
We walk toward the cliffs. The property ends in a sheer drop to the jagged rocks below. There is no fence here. The fall is the barrier.
I stop at the edge, looking down at the churning water.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" I ask.
"It’s violent," she corrects.
"Violence has its own beauty." I turn to her. The wind whips her hair across her face. She pushes it back, her cheeks flushed pink from the cold.
"I have a gift for you," I say.
Her eyes narrow. "Another necklace? Or maybe shackles this time?"
"Better."
I point toward a glass structure nestled in the trees about a hundred yards away. It looks like a crystal cathedral in the woods.
"The Conservatory," I say. "My mother built it. She loved orchids. I’ve had it... repurposed."
Ivy looks at it, curiosity warring with suspicion. "Repurposed for what?"
"Go look."
She hesitates, then starts walking. I follow a few paces behind, watching her.
She reaches the glass doors and pushes them open.
The air inside is warm, humid, smelling of damp earth and greenery. But the orchids are gone.
In their place is a studio.
But not like the one in the penthouse. This one is wilder. Canvases are stacked everywhere. There are buckets of paint, rags, palette knives. The light pouring in through the glass roof is unfiltered, raw.
And in the center, there is a single, blank canvas on an easel.
Ivy walks into the space, turning in a slow circle. She touches a table covered in charcoal sticks. She looks at the view—the trees, the ocean, the gray sky framed by the glass.
"You brought my things from the city," she whispers, recognizing a specific set of brushes.
"I brought everything," I say, leaning against the doorframe. "You have nothing left in New York, Ivy. This is where you create now."
