“She brings not only professional skill and expertise, but heart. This project exists because she understands the healing power of art and how it can change lives. I trust her completely to lead it.”
I glance again in her direction. She looks like she’s about to grow wings and fly. Good. She deserves it and more.
Questioning hands begin to raise. I lift my own and say, “More information will be forthcoming. You will all be kept in the loop.”
A voice cuts through the crowd. “Amalie Denning will be in charge?” a young reporter asks. “Your former nanny?”
The word lands wrong. It’s diminishing. Careless.
“She is more than that,” I calmly reply. “She’s an accomplished artist. A wonderful teacher. She is the woman I love.”
The words hit like a gunshot. Amalie gasps, her eyes searching mine, questioning whether or not she heard me correctly. We’ve never said it out loud, though I have felt it—that’s for goddamn sure.
And now it’s in the open. In front of the entire city.
I step away from the podium and take Amalie’s hand. I can feel her shaking a little bit. Andrei, Sasha, Amalie, and I go back inside. Once we’re in the lobby, away from the chaos and noise, she looks up at me.
“Roman,” she whispers. “I love you, too.”
And just like that, a new day, a new life dawns.
CHAPTER 53
AMALIE
“Come. We are nearly there.”
The mansion is quiet. It’s softer. Settled.
Sasha’s down for the night. Roman doesn’t say where we’re going. Instead, he takes my hand and leads me down a corridor I’ve never noticed before. The walls are bare, aside from the occasional wall-mounted lighting. We stop in front of a door at the very end. The lights are on inside.
“What is this place?” I ask. “And why is it so empty?”
“It is empty because, until now, there has been no one to occupy it.” He gestures toward the bare walls. “These will need your touch, of course. If you find some pieces that catch your eye, decorate as you see fit.”
My jaw nearly drops. I think about the other hall, the one with the priceless, incredible art. When Roman says, “decorate as you see fit,” he doesn’t mean picking out stuff from Etsy. He means create another wing of his private museum.Ourprivate museum.
“I will definitely do that,” I say, forcing down my shock.
“Good. But that will be a project for another time. This room is what I wanted to show you.” With that, he opens the door.
When I realize what it is, I stand in the doorway, stunned, my brain struggling to catch up with my eyes. “An art studio,” I whisper.
“Yourart studio.”
I swallow and step inside. Canvases—all different sizes and textures—line the walls. A long worktable sits with jars filled with brushes sorted by type and palettes laid out ready to be worked from. Shelves are stacked with paints, charcoals and clays.
My throat tightens. “These are mine,” I say softly, my gaze landing on a metal slide ruler I’ve had since college.
“I had Andrei and some of my men gather what we could from your apartment. Whatever else you need, we can bring over tomorrow. And the lighting can be adjusted. You’re always talking about the importance of light.”
I turn slowly in a circle, taking it all in. I notice a desk in the corner—sleek, practical, loaded with office supplies and what looks like the latest iMac, with a brand new MacBook docked next to it.
“I figured you would need a private work space for all of the responsibilities with the Artists’ Studio. Whatever else you need, just tell me, and I will provide it.”
I press a hand to my mouth. Never in my life did I think I would work in this kind of room. And it’s all mine.
“I wanted you to have a private space. Not borrowed, not temporary. Your own studio to do with as you see fit. Naturally, you will have another office at the Artist Studio.”
