I tiptoe over to the peephole, peering out into the dark, and see Oliver standing there under the outside light, dressed casually in a cream sweater and dark pants. He’s not in his usual suit, which throws me off. This relaxed version of him is harder to resist.
I open the door a crack. “It must be something important if you’ve called me twice and now showed up at my work.”
“It is,” he says simply.
My stomach drops. Whatever annoyance I felt dissolves into concern. I pull the door open wider. “Come in. It’s cold out there, and I’d like to go home before midnight.”
It’s an exaggeration. I could finish up here in fifteen minutes, but I want him to hurry up, tell me what he wants, and leave. As he steps inside, the familiar scent of his cologne hits me. I tell myself to ignore it, to push down the warmth creeping up my chest, but it’s impossible not to inhale just a bit deeper.
He doesn’t ask where to sit. He strides toward one of the empty chairs and looks around the studio. He’s never been here before. There’s a slight frown on his face, and I suddenly feel self-conscious, as if he’s judging this small, messy space I call work. I imagine him comparing it to his sterile office, with modern art, glass walls, and everything in its place. Deep down, a flicker of resentment rises in me at the fact he had two loving parents who supported him, who gave him a head start in life, while I bounced between foster homes after my parents’ addiction took priority over raising children. No safety net, no inheritance, no connections… just survival with nothing but my stubbornness keeping me going. Until I was adopted by Amber and Wren.
I start putting away the easels, feeling his eyes on me the whole time, which only makes my body tense.
“I need to ask you a favor,” he says, breaking the silence.
I pause, glance over my shoulder, then turn to face him fully, one eyebrow lifting. “You needmyhelp?” I ask, surprised. He’s usually the one who has everything under control.
“Yes.” He runs a hand through his hair, something I’ve rarely seen him do. “That’s why I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“Well, I’m sorry, I was working.”
He runs his hand down the back of his head. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just… a little urgent.”
I continue picking up the easels, deliberately avoiding his gaze. Why am I still tidying up when he clearly has something important to say? It’s to keep a distance between us and to keep control in my space. When I reach the one closest to him, his hand closes over mine, stopping me. A jolt of electricity rushes through me. I try to ignore it, looking down at his hand, then back up, keeping a blank face. “What do you need, Oliver?”
Standing over him, I notice how different he seems, almost vulnerable, without the usual power he exudes. And I hate how a small part of me still finds it endearing, being in the same room with him, even after everything.
“I need you to marry me.”
“What the fuck, Oliver?” I spit out, the words escaping before I can stop them. My mind floods with questions. Is this some kind of sick joke? A bet with my brother? A prank?
“I’m serious.”
I yank my hand back, my mind struggling to process his words. This is fucking crazy. I actually start laughing because there’s no way he means it. “No.”
Marriage isn't even on my mind right now. Maybe in the future, but certainly not now.
“I’ll pay you,” he pleads.
The suggestion hits me like a slap. Heat floods my face as anger rises in my throat.
“I’m not a whore, Oliver,” I snap, crossing my arms over my chest, hating that he confirms that the powerful always take advantage of the weak.
He grimaces. “Shit. No, Karley. Clearly, I’m not explaining this well. I didn’t mean it like that.”
I shake my head vehemently, trying to process what’s happening. Part of me wants to laugh, but the other part is insulted that he thought I’d agree. “I don’t want to get married.”
“What do you want?” he whispers with uncertainty in his eyes. Oliver Lincoln unsure of himself is unsettling.
I point to the wooden door. “For you to leave. Like I said, it’s been a long day.”
He stands and waves his hands around the room. “I’m offering to pay you enough so you don’t have to work here anymore.”
My chest tightens as his words confirm his dislike of my work. “I like this job, and I have no intention of quitting.”
His blue eyes flare, clearly taken aback, as if he never considered that someone could actually enjoy this kind of work. But there’s a freedom in teaching, in watching people create, that I can’t give up, not for any amount of money. And more importantly, not for him.
“Your brother said it would be okay,” he adds.
