Seven people. Seven humans who need monitors, whiteboards, espresso access, at least two emotional support plants, anda little privacy. All because Luca Walker wants the world at his feet.
It’s been two days since I saw him, and I already know how intense he gets when he wants something donehisway. And yet here I am, coordinating logistics like it was my full-time job.
Damn you, Luca Walker.
When I decided to move to Miami, it wasn’t because I had dreams of palm trees and pastel rooftops. It was for the money. Ugh, I hate even admitting that. But my mom’s sick and she needs us. If it weren’t for that, I’d probably be one of those sunburned, sandy artists painting strangers’ dogs on the boardwalk and surviving off cafecitos and mangoes.
Instead, I ditched my dream of being a painter and became a graphic designer.
That led me to marketing. And, apparently, I’m good at selling ideas. Really good.
But did I sell Luca on the idea? Or did he buy it because I was the one selling it?
That’s the question keeping me up tonight.
I crawl out of bed in nothing but underwear and make my way to the balcony. The hardwood floor is cool under my feet, scuffed from years of tenants before me, creaking in places that give away every step. Imperfect, but mine.
For now.
It’s nearly four in the morning, and everything’s dark, quiet. No lights in the building across from mine. Pretty sure no one can see me.
The heat’s still pulsing in the air. Miami doesn’t believe in seasons.
I live in Doral—this peaceful, colorful little pocket where Venezuelan culture is everywhere and I actually feel… comfortable. It’s a far cry from the freezing, hustle-drenched chaos of New York. There’s no Guggenheim, no Chelsea galleries. But there’s still art here. And slowly, I’ve found my way back to mine.
I paint sometimes. Nothing fancy. Random things, mostly. Sometimes it’s fruit. Sometimes it’s Henry Cavill’s face. And sometimes… the sea.
The ocean here is magical. The water’s a wild blend of turquoise, sea foam, white foam—basically my dream palette in acrylics. And palm trees. I freaking love painting palm trees.
That’s what I should be doing right now.Painting. Not staring at a quiet street, spiraling over a man I used to love.
I turn back inside to the canvas I’ve been working on. It’s a weird one. I usually stick to realism, but this came from a dream. I walked into a room filled with iron chains—but they weren’t scary. They were wrapped in flowers and bright ribbons.
So I painted that.
Just one last brushstroke. Then I step back to look at it from a distance.
It’s… different. But I like it.
I snap a photo and upload it to my anonymous Instagram. Yep, I have socials—but no one knows it’s me. My handle’s @LoveLamb, and I post everything that lives in my head. People DM me all the time asking to buy my stuff. Depending on the piece—and the vibe—I sometimes say yes.
Just as I’m putting my phone down, I hear the distant chirp of a bird.
Oh, God.Morning. My stomach knots. In just a few hours, I have to go into the Property Group office. And seehim.
Why did I say yes to this job?
Luca has a car.
Well, technically it’s the Walkers’ car or whatever, but since he and Silas—his brother…—are the oldest, they’re the ones who drive their younger brothers around.
Meanwhile, I’ve got this sad little bike that barely works, and I have toshareit with my sister, Lauren. Life’s not fair, and I’m not afraid to say it.
Silas Walker is the actual worst. He walks around like he’s God’s gift to humanity and acts like he’s too good for literally everyone. Especially my sister, who’s basically the sweetest human alive. She barely even talks to anyone—besides me, duh—and that jerk has the audacity to…
Deep breath. Focus, Em. We're not talking abouthimright now. Think aboutLuca.
“What do you wanna get?” he asks, eyes on the Sonic menu like it’s the SATs.
