Chapter 11 - The Echo of the Brushstrokes
The morning after Marcus’s visit brought a crisp, sharp autumn wind that swept across the Hudson River and rattled the floor-to-ceiling windows of my Soho penthouse. Liam was fast asleep in his nursery, swaddled in pale blue cashmere, breathing with the soft, even rhythm of a child who had never known the sound of a raised voice or a shattered glass. I stood at my massive drafting table, a cup of black coffee cooling beside me, staring at a blank canvas that spanned six feet by four feet.
My fingers traced the grain of the Belgian linen, feeling the exact tension of the weave. For months, my life had been about structure, legal defense, corporate restructuring, and survival. But survival was no longer the goal. Dominion was.
Arthur Vance stepped into the studio without knocking, his leather briefcase tucked under his arm, his silver hair neatly combed despite the wind outside. He placed a thick manila folder on the edge of the table, right beside my jars of oil paint and turpentine.
"The Vanguard Group has officially liquidated their shares in Sterling Enterprises," Arthur announced, pulling out a pair of half-moon reading glasses. "Julian Sterling is currently facing three distinct SEC investigations regarding insider trading and asset concealment. His mother’s health is failing—the stress of the social boycott has finally caught up with her heart. And Julian himself hasn’t left his private estate in Greenwich in three weeks."
I didn’t look up from the canvas. I picked up a palette knife, squeezing a dollop of titanium white and burnt sienna onto the wooden board. "Has he filed any more motions to contest the custody agreement?"
"Not since his lead counsel resigned last Tuesday," Arthur said, a dry, satisfied smile touching the corners of his mouth. "Lawyers tend to abandon sinking ships when the captain refuses to bail out the water. He still believes he can buy his way back into the public eye. Rumors are circulating that he’s planning a philanthropic gala next month to rehabilitate his image."
I stopped mixing the paint. The white and brown blended into a cold, stormy gray—the exact shade of the sky over Manhattan on the night he tore my silk dress in front of five hundred laughing socialites. A sharp, fierce energy surged through my veins, hot and electric.
"Let him try," I said quietly, dipping a wide brush into the turpentine. "A gala requires guests. And I happen to own the building where he wants to host it."
May you like
Arthur’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. "You purchased the Grand Meridian Hotel’s exhibition wing?"
"Through an anonymous shell company last Friday," I said, looking at him with a cold, absolute clarity. "Julian wants to pretend he’s a patron of the arts and a reformed family man. I’m going to give him a stage. And then, right under the chandeliers, I’m going to pull the rug out from under him one final time."
