Chapter 4: The Ghosts of Paper and Ink
572 Words
By the next morning, Lena’s art supplies had arrived. She unpacked them like sacred relics—carefully unwrapping each brush, each tube of paint, laying them out across the built-in marble table of her new studio. The room felt sterile, perfect. It made her nervous.
Still, her fingers itched for the feel of paint on canvas.
She started sketching—loose strokes, nothing committed. Just color and movement. It felt… right. Almost like home.
Almost.
A knock pulled her out of her thoughts. Genevieve stood in the doorway holding a phone.
“Your father’s hospital called. He had a rough night. He’s stable now, but they suggested you visit soon.”
Lena’s chest tightened. “Thanks. I’ll go tomorrow.”
As Genevieve left, she noticed a shadow further down the hall.
Damien.
He hadn’t knocked. He just stood there, silent, watching. Dressed in dark slacks and a black shirt, sleeves rolled up. He looked like sin dressed in Armani.
“You paint?” he asked, nodding toward the easel.
“It’s not in the contract,” she said, guarded.
“I’m not criticizing.” He took a step closer. “You’re good.”
She blinked, stunned at the compliment. “You’ve seen it?”
He didn’t answer. Just turned and walked away.
---
Later that day, Damien’s driver dropped Lena off at Hart & Co.—well, what remained of it. The storefront was shuttered, dusty, the lights inside dark. She let herself in through the side entrance, the old security code still working.
The place smelled like memories—wood shavings, oil paints, her father’s cologne.
She walked through the aisles, running her hand along the empty shelves. It wasn’t just a*****e. It was a legacy. Her childhood. Her father’s pride. And it was all almost gone.
She found the old office and sat at the desk, flipping through invoices and final notices. Her stomach turned. Even with Damien’s help, it would take months to rebuild.
A folder tucked under a stack of files caught her eye. A photo. Of her parents. Her mom laughing, paint on her cheek. Her father behind her, arms wrapped around her waist.
Lena swallowed hard.
She couldn’t let this place die. Fake marriage or not, she had to make it count.
---
That evening, she returned home to find Damien in the library, reading near a fire like some Regency-era villain. His laptop was open, papers scattered across a glass table.
“I went to Hart & Co. today,” she said, hovering near the door.
He glanced up. “How bad?”
“Worse than I thought.”
He nodded. “I’ll have my business team begin reorganization next week.”
She stared at him, unsure whether to be grateful or furious. “Why are you really helping me?”
He met her gaze. “Because I need this marriage. And I don’t like to fail. Not in business. Not in anything.”
“Are you ever not in control?” she asked.
Something flickered in his eyes. Then it was gone. “No.”
She tilted her head. “Must be exhausting.”
He smirked, the faintest curve of his lips. “You get used to it.”
---
That night, back in her room, Lena painted for hours.
Not for money.
Not for him.
For herself.
For her family.
For the pieces of her life she was trying to keep alive.
- Writer
