No one moves.
No one breathes.
And then—the last one walks through the door.
And everything stops.
It’shim.
The man who has mywallet.
The man who saweverything.
The man who now possesses the green monster of a dildo meant to stay hidden in a boxforever.
The man I fantasized about against my better judgment.
My stomach hits the floor so hard that I’m pretty sure it’s in hell now.
Mr. Portrait.
Because that’s what he is. The man from the massive oil painting in Shadow Hill—the one I couldn’t stop staring at.
He doesn’t walk. He commands the space, every slow, calculated step reeking of control. He’s in a black suit, crisp, custom-tailored within an inch of its life, molding around broad shoulders and a frame that shouldn’t be legal. His gray eyes scan the room like he’s already bored of us, like we’re insignificant. Like he’s already decided who in this room is worth keeping and who’s just a waste of oxygen.
His hair’s different today, slightly tousled but still impossibly neat—like he ran a hand through it while casually deciding someone’s fate. There’s a dark shadow of stubble along his jaw, just enough to make him look more dangerous, as if the pure, unfiltered power rolling off him wasn’t enough.
I don’t even realize I’m not breathing until Jenna lets out a tiny, terrified squeak next to me.
Sandra, the woman who can cut someone down with a single look, suddenly seems unsure. Her usual smug, Botoxed expression cracks, replaced with something far more uncertain.
She clears her throat, voice suddenly small, as she stares at the army of suits and the man leading them.
“Who… what’s going on here?” she demands, but there’s no bite to it. No fake authority. Just genuine, wide-eyed confusion.
But Mr. Portrait doesn’t even look at her.
He just walks straight to me.
Straight. To. Me.
His presence swallows everything around us, cutting through the world like a blade.
And suddenly, it’sjust him and me.
Towering over me.
So much bigger. So hot. So much more dangerous up close.
I don’t move. I can’t move.
His eyes pin me in place like he’s studying me. Like he’s waiting for me to react.
The corner of his mouth twitches, just barely. Like he knows exactly what I’m thinking about right now.
His voice? Deep. Slow. A command wrapped in velvet and barbed wire.
“Isabella Marquez.”
