Gabe absorbs this without reaction. "Destination?"
"Key Largo."
His gaze sharpens. A flicker of recognition beneath the professional calm. He knows the Keys mean something to me. Knows there's history there, most of it unpleasant, even if I've never spelled it out for him.
"We'll be taking the private jet," I tell him. "I'll handle coordinating with my pilot."
"Okay. Security profile?"
"Quiet. As in, invisible." I hold his gaze. "All I need your team to do is get Avery and me to the airport without incident. No press, no chance of leaks. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, we're still in New York."
Gabe nods slowly, already running logistics behind those steady eyes. Threat assessments, personnel, transport, the variables he juggles as naturally as breathing. But there's a question there too, one he's too professional to ask outright.
He knows this isn't just a vacation.
"I'll coordinate with the team tonight," he says finally. "Arrange transport to your hangar, keep everything off the books. You'll have a full brief in an hour."
"Good."
He rises, hesitating at the door. "Anything else I should know?"
I consider the question. What I'm planning for Avery. What this getaway truly means. But that's just for her right now.
"Not yet," I say. "I'll fill you in when the time is right."
Gabe accepts this with a nod. Once the door closes behind him, I'm alone with the quiet and the clarity that's been building all morning. Sharp-edged and certain, already in motion.
Avery wished she could be in two places at once. I can't give her that. Not precisely.
But I can give her something she doesn't know to ask for.
23
AVERY
My brush hovers abovethe canvas, loaded with the final stroke of titanium white I’ve applied to the painting I’ve been working on for weeks. I step back, heart beating hard beneath my ribs, and let myself see what I've made. Layers upon layers of glaze and pigment, light built through transparency, depth achieved through feeling more than technique.
And now, finally, it's finished. It might be the best thing I've ever created.
I wanted nothing less.
The upper portion glows with luminosity, creams and soft golds bleeding into translucent whites, the kind of light that feels earned rather than given. Beneath it, darker glazes show through like memories rendered in Prussian blue and raw umber, shadows that make the brightness above feel hard-won. The composition draws the eye the way I intended—upward, pulled toward the ineffable, toward the space between color and meaning.
At least, I hope the piece will communicate everything I want it to say.
This painting is for Nick. My wedding gift to him. I want it to be special. My expression of everything we’ve gone through and the miracle of where we’ve finally landed… together.
Right, no pressure.
"Holy shit, Avery."
Lita's voice pulls me away from the temptation to second-guess and angst over whether Nick will like my gift. She's crossed the studio from her welding station, goggles pushed up into her electric-blue pixie cut, and she's staring at the canvas with her mouth slightly open.
"It's done?" She moves closer, studying the way the glazes interact, the luminosity of the upper layers. "This is amazing. I mean, you’re disgustingly talented, but this piece is just… damn. It’s fucking stunning."
Warmth spreads through my chest, almost embarrassing in its intensity. Lita doesn't give easy praise. She'll tell you when something isn't working, when you're being lazy or safe. Her approval means everything.
"You really think so?"
