Ash pulls me into his arms, and we drift into sleep.
I wake before him, as usual, and quietly slip out of bed to head for the studio.
My creative block vanished when we got back from Paradise, which I should have pieced together as a second warning to all the good things Ash was bringing into my life at the same time. The thought of telling off Alistair shreds my confidence, and my brain spins straight into catastrophe.
I’d known it was fucked-up the whole time, but trying to un-fuck it brings all the billionaire’s subtle manipulation—the mind games, the control—to the surface.
Money’s part of it. Refusing automatic deposits is stupid, probably, but it’s clear now I was wrong to think I ever stayed above the fray. Leaving his parties early didn’t matter.
To Alistair, I’m nothing but a fly in his web. He probably enjoys watching me resist. My flapping is proof of life. But flies don’t beat spiders. They just get away. Oh, fuck this fucking metaphor. It feels hopeless, because it isn’t just the money. I wanted this.
Sitting in my studio, I can’t work out how to escape. Every option I can think of wilts against even the thought of Alistair’s thin smile.
“Trying something new?” Jamal’s voice jolts me out of the death spiral. “That’s your second white canvas today.”
“Third,” I correct, pointing to the two others leaning against the wall, both coated in thick layers of gesso.
“You want to talk about it?” he asks, leaning against the doorframe.
“I’m breaking it off with Alistair tonight.”
Jamal’s reaction is exactly what I need. “Oh, shit, you serious?”
“Right? It’s a big deal!”
“Huge. What happened? You win the lottery or something?”
“I’m moving in with Ash.”
“Ohhhhh.” Jamal stumbles back a step, then lunges forward, pulling me into a quick hug. “Dude.”
“Right?” A grin spreads across my face.
“I never thought I’d see the day,” he says, shaking his head in mock disbelief.
“Oh, come on.”
“You seemed married to the tortured artist persona.”
“It’s not a persona. I’m still broke.” My gaze drifts to the growing pile of white canvases and the looming task of breaking up with a billionaire. “Still tortured.”
“What is it you say about struggling?” Jamal asks.
“No struggle, no strength. I’ll be fine.”
He steps between me and my pile of canvases. “I’ve known you a long time. You were always a terrible liar. Your face gives you away before you open your mouth, and dammit, just let yourself be happy. Struggle will find you. You don’t have to go looking.”
“What about Alistair?” The anxiety in my voice is obvious.
Jamal snatches the palette covered in white paint from my hand. “Oh, yeah, that’s gonna be a bitch. But when it’s over, you go cry into the arms of your man… those strong,strongarms.”
Ash’s arms are dependable enough to make that sound almost plausible.
“It’s happening so fast,” I say.
“Let it happen,” Jamal scolds, smiling.
“Knock, knock!” Ash calls from the studio hall, holding a bouquet of flowers.
