“You,” I say immediately. “That moment yesterday when you smiled after I sang. You look like you loved it.”
“I did,” he says simply, and the admission makes my heart skip several beats.
“Really?”
“Really. Your voice, your talent, the way you poured your heart into that song. How could I not love it?”
I’m definitely going to cry now. Happy tears, the kind I used to think were myths until Carlo came into my life and showed me what it felt like to be genuinely cherished.
“I’ll make breakfast first,” I say, standing up and carefully placing the sketchbook on the nightstand. “But then I want to start a painting.”
“What can I do to help?”
The question stops me in my tracks. “Help?”
“With the painting. I’ve never posed for anyone before, but I’d like to learn.”
The offer is so unexpected, so generous, that for a moment I can’t speak. The idea of Carlo actively participating in my art, wanting to collaborate rather than just tolerate my creativity, is more wonderful than anything I could have imagined.
“You’d really do that? Pose for me?”
“Yes,” he says simply, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. As if it is no big deal and not a chore.
I clap my hands together in glee. Today is going to be a perfect day. I can feel it in my bones, see it in the gentle morning light, taste it in the anticipation of creating something beautiful with the man I love.
Today, I’m going to paint our happiness, and it’s going to be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever created.
Chapter twenty-three
Carlo
The afternoon light from the projector casts dancing patterns across the ceiling, a gentle forest scene complete with dappled sunlight filtering through leaves. I’m lying here in a state of lazy contentment, still floating from the massage Ginni gave me earlier. His hands had worked magic on muscles I didn’t even know were tense, and now I feel more relaxed than I have in months.
Before that, I enjoyed posing for him far more than I thought I would, and I’m far more excited to see the end result than I ever thought possible. Hopefully, he will relent and show me at least the work in progress soon.
Right now he’s perched on the edge of the bed, wearing nothing but silk sleep shorts in deep blue that make his skin look luminous. He’s got my phone in his lap, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration as he works through what appears to be my entire inbox.
This feels like an established routine now. Sitting here while he goes through my messages like a personal assistant, crafting responses that maintain the illusion of my peaceful retreat from the world. It should bother me more than it does, but watching him work with such dedicated focus is oddly endearing.
“Your accountant is very persistent,” he murmurs, showing me a string of increasingly urgent emails about quarterly reports. “I’ve told him twice that you’re taking a proper break, but he keeps sending spreadsheets.”
“Ignore him. Martin panics if he doesn’t hear from me for more than forty-eight hours.”
Ginni nods seriously and deletes the emails with decisive swipes. “People really don’t understand the concept of rest, do they? No wonder you were so wound up when you arrived.”
When I arrived. Like I walked in here willingly instead of being drugged and abducted. But there’s something charming about the way he’s rewritten our origin story in his mind, turning kidnapping into a romantic rescue mission.
He’s gotten faster at mimicking my writing style, barely pausing now as he types responses that sound authentically like me. The attention to detail is remarkable. He’s even picked up on the fact that I use different tones for different people, more formal with business associates, casual with friends, slightly sarcastic with people I don’t particularly like.
“Oh, this one’s interesting,” he says, opening what looks like a group text from some of the other capos. “They’re planning a poker night next week. Should I accept for you?”
“Tell them maybe,” I say automatically. “Depending on how I’m feeling.”
The reply comes so easily. Founded on my stubborn belief that I’ll be back to my normal life soon, that this is all temporary. Even though with each passing day, the idea of leaving thisbeautiful basement feels less appealing and more like stepping back into a world that never felt quite right to begin with.
Ginni’s fingers fly over the keyboard, and I find myself admiring the elegant way he moves. Everything he does has this unconscious grace, like he’s performing a dance only he can hear the music for.
“Keith wants to discuss the lighting system installation for the new VIP section,” he continues, scrolling through more messages. “Should I schedule something for when you’re back?”
