“I’m willing to give you your five minutes.” I dodged his accusation.

“Ten,” he argued. Even after all this time.

“Eight,” I retorted. It was all a game. I’d have given him as many hours as he needed to explain everything to me.

“Terrible negotiator,” he said in a tsking tone. “I would’ve taken five in a heartbeat. Good night, Em.”

Em. A tentative smile curved my lips. I knew it would stay there for long hours afterward.

He called me Em.

On Thursday, I wore a white and gold floor-length dress to the exhibition, letting my thick wavy hair fall against my bare back. Brent rented me this dress—rented!—knowing how important the exhibition was for me. I couldn’t sleep all night thinking about it. I tried to convince myself that it wouldn’t be a big deal if no one bought my painting. It was going to be the first time a painting of mine would be on display and for sale in a gallery—a prestigious one too—and I was with some of the best artists in New York. I should’ve just been happy with the fact that my painting was there.

On the pristine white wall.

Looking at me. Smiling at me. Demanding my attention.

I couldn’t focus on anything but that painting.

This afternoon, I’d spoken to my parents on the phone. They were already in Los Angeles and were living in an apartment in the same building as Vicious’s penthouse in Los Feliz. I didn’t want to know how many apartments the HotHoles had purchased over the years.

Mama was still upset about what happened at the Spencer mansion. “The worst part”—her voice shook again—“was that they think what caused the fire was our stove. I never leave my stove on. You know that. I check it three times before I go to bed every night. I’m telling you, Millie, it wasn’t us.”

“I know,” I said, brushing my hair in front of the mirror, minutes before Brent picked me up. “It wasn’t you. I know that. But who knows? Maybe Josephine came in? Maybe one of the other people who worked for her?”

I left Vicious’s name out for obvious reasons.

Mama sighed. “What if they think we left it on purpose because she fired us?”

“Well, does anyone actually know that she fired you?”

“No.”

“Let’s try and keep it that way,” I said.

“Your boyfriend said the same thing.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.” I was getting a little tired of repeating this to everybody, mainly because I wanted the opposite to be true.

“Well, I have to go, Millie. Dean is taking us to buy some things for our apartment. It’s really nice. Big. But all the neighbors are so young. It’s really weird to live here.”

Dean was helping them out? I bit my inner cheek but didn’t say a word. That was the main thing about the HotHoles. They were such assholes, but deep down, they had great hearts.

“Enjoy, Mama.”

And now, here I was, living my dream, or what was supposed to be my dream. I stared at my painting again, clutching a tall glass of champagne and taking a deep breath. Rosie should’ve been here, but she’d taken a double shift at the café. She didn’t want to do it, but she was covering for a sick co-worker, and Rosie knew how it felt to get screwed over by illness. She didn’t want the girl, Elle, to get in trouble.

It was fine. I didn’t need anyone to celebrate with me. Besides, I had Brent.

A tall, beautiful woman in her early fifties approached me, wearing a black cocktail dress, a pearl necklace, and red lipstick. She smiled as she studied my painting on the wall.

“Nature or love?” she mused. She just wanted to start a conversation and had no idea I was the ELB who’d signed the bottom of the painting. Emilia LeBlanc.

“Definitely love. I mean, isn’t it obvious?” I quirked an eyebrow.

She laughed breathlessly, like what I’d said was utterly funny, and took a sip of her wine. “To you, maybe. Why do you think it’s love?”

“Because the person who painted it is obviously in love with the subject.”

“Why not the other way around?” She turned to me with a cunning smile. “See his face.” She trailed her manicured finger close to the canvas. “He looks happy. Content. Maybe he is the one who’s in love with the person who painted him. Or maybe they’re in love with each other.”

I blushed. “Perhaps.”

“I’m Sandy Richards.” She extended her hand to me, and I shook it.

Sandy looked like a rich woman, and not necessarily because of her outfit. There was an air about her. In that sense, she reminded me of the man in my painting.

“Emilia LeBlanc.”

“I knew it.” Then she pointed at the initials at the bottom of the painting.

There was no point denying it. Besides, I was proud of this painting. It was the canvas I painted on Christmas Eve. I’d thought about keeping it and making something else for the exhibition, but the truth was, I didn’t want Vicious’s face staring back at me every day. Every time I closed my eyes, he was there. I didn’t need another reminder of my obsession with him.

“Are you sure you want to sell it?” Sandy pressed the cold glass against her cheek, her eyes moving to the painting again.

I nodded. “Never been so sure of anything in my entire life.”

“He’s beautiful.”

“All beautiful things pass on,” I said. My own personal cherry blossom.

“I’ll buy it, then,” she said, hitching one shoulder up.

My mouth dried, and I blinked away my shock. “You will?”

“Sure. There’s something about him. Not in a model type of way. Just…interesting looking. But what I really like about this is that you captured the storm in his eyes. He’s smiling happily, but his eyes…they look tortured. So troubled. I love this. I bet this guy has a good story.”

“Nah, he’s an asshole.”

I heard the voice behind me and twisted immediately. Vicious was standing there, in one of his navy blue suits that made my heart thump and sparked a nagging ache between my thighs.

Disbelief washed through me. He’d made it to my exhibition. And…what on earth was he holding in his hand? It looked like some sort of a ticket.

I didn’t know how to react. I wanted to jump on him, to kiss him hard, to thank him for being there, but that’s not who we were. Not at this point, and maybe not ever. I reminded myself that last time I’d asked him what he wanted from me, his answer was to fuck me. I needed to be cautious with my heart this time.

Vicious walked over to us, ignoring Sandy, pushing his hand into my styled lavender hair, his lips ridiculously close to mine. The chatter around us stopped. I felt Brent’s eyes on us. Sandy’s eyes on us. Everyone’s eyes on us.

So this is what he had planned for Thursday. He knew. He wanted to be here all along.

“Ask me what I want,” Vicious murmured into my face.

The public display of affection from him—not sexual, not bullying, but pure, naked affection—filled my chest with warmth, but I tried to swallow down my hope.

“What do you want?” I turned my gaze to meet his, and suddenly, we weren’t in New York, in a gallery full of people. We were in my old room. Ignoring the party and the world around us, a world that we constantly disregarded when we were together.

“I want you,” he said simply. “Just you. Nothing else. Only ever you,” he breathed out in pain, closing his eyes. “Fuck, Emilia. You.”

I wanted to kiss him hard like in the movies, but this was reality, and I was an employee and an artist who still had to carry herself in a certain way. But I hugged him close to me and inhaled his unique scent, allowing myself to get drunk on it. I held back all the emotions that flooded me. The relief. The happiness. Wariness and love. So much love.

When we finally pulled away, I looked down to his clutched hand. “What’s that in your hand, Vic?”

“This? I saw something I liked so I bought it when I got here.” He opened his fist and showed it to me.

It was a receipt for my painting. My heart stuttered.

He squeezed my hand in his and smiled. “It’s gonna look so fucking epic in my bedroom, don’t you think? I could fuck you and stare at myself as I do it. That’s some Napoleon shit right there.”

It was the best night of my life.

Because Vicious not only stayed the whole night, but because he also allowed me to soak in the recognition I had received. He stood beside me most of the time, cradling his tumbler of whiskey, messed on his phone, and occasionally took a picture of me when I was smiling or laughing with someone. He acted like a boyfriend. But not just any boyfriend. The boyfriend Vicious was supposed to be and never was.

And when the night ended, and I turned around, about to tell him that I wanted to take it slow, that I couldn’t give him only my body anymore, because it came as a single package with my heart and soul, he beat me to it.

Vicious ushered me to a taxi, planted a soft kiss on my forehead, and slammed the cab’s door shut, motioning for me to roll down the window. I did.

“I thought you’d try to take me home.” I arched a playful eyebrow.

“You thought wrong. Your pussy doesn’t interest me right now. Your heart does.”