He Made Me His Wedding Painter, I Save Our Kid

Seven years ago, Lucien Mercer loved me enough to throw everything away for me. He cut ties with his powerful family, grabbed my hand, and fled overseas without looking back. Back then, we were so broke we could barely survive. Lucien worked himself to the bone washing dishes at a restaurant. One night, after standing in freezing water all day and scrubbing over a thousand plates, he came home coughing blood up from exhaustion. That same night, I took the three million his parents offered me. Then I stood there and watched as their men forced him onto a helicopter bound for home. He clung desperately to the cabin door, his fingers splitting open one by one from the strain, blood smearing across the metal. Even then, he was still begging me. Begging me not to leave him. And I? I dumped all the money he'd earned into the sink right in front of him. Then I smiled and told him coldly that it wasn't enough to buy me a decent set of paints. "A broke loser like you has no future to offer me." That was the last thing I said before walking away. ***** Seven years later, I saw him again at a high-profile charity gala packed with billionaires and social elites. This time, I was the one begging him for money. And Lucien agreed. But only if I became the live wedding painter for his ceremony. He wanted me there in person—to stand beside him and watch him marry another woman. I accepted immediately. He didn't know the truth. The money wasn't for me. It was for a little girl. A girl connected to him by blood... a daughter he didn't even know existed. "Deal." "As long as Mr. Mercer keeps your promise." In the shadowed corner of the ballroom, I lowered my head respectfully and finally allowed myself to breathe again. Compared to what I'd expected, the condition was almost laughably simple. If enduring this humiliation could save Ellie, then it was worth it. More than worth it. But Lucien said nothing. He just stared at me. No—more precisely, he stared at the top of my bowed head as if trying to carve straight through it. After a long silence, he let out a low, mocking laugh. "So the three million disappeared already?" His voice dripped with sarcasm. "What was it spent on this time? More paint?" The words hit like a knife twisting into old wounds. I quietly dug my nails into my palm until it hurt, then forced myself to raise my head and smile at him. The kind of smile people used when begging for scraps. "Yeah," I said lightly. "Ran out a long time ago." "That's why I need someone important like you to help me." Seven years had changed him completely. The man who once washed dishes until his hands bled had become someone untouchable now—a corporate titan standing high above people like me. The disgust in Lucien's eyes deepened. He released my wrist abruptly, as if touching me for even one second longer would stain him. "Lucien, what are you doing hiding back here?" A few men approached with drinks in hand, laughing casually. "Got yourself some female company?" "Dude, you're getting married tomorrow. If your fiancée sees—" The teasing stopped instantly. "Mara Ellwood?!" The expressions on their faces changed on the spot. Shock quickly turned into hostility. One of them immediately stepped in front of Lucien as if afraid he might lose his mind again. "Lucien, don't be stupid," he warned in a lowered voice. "Have you forgotten what she did to you back then?" "She lied to you. She destroyed you. You can't trust her again." I lowered my eyes without defending myself, because none of it was wrong. Everyone there remembered how crazily Lucien had loved me. For me, he'd jumped from the third floor of his family estate just to escape his bodyguards, shattering his leg in the fall. Even after we landed overseas, he still refused to go to the hospital until he settled me down first. For me, he worked six jobs at once so I could keep painting. He coughed blood from exhaustion but still refused to buy proper medicine for himself. And after all of that... I abandoned him in less than a second. So honestly, I couldn't blame his friends for hating me. If looks could kill, I would've died several times already. "Relax," Lucien said flatly. "I only hired her as the wedding painter." "She'll be painting portraits for Estelle and me." Estelle Arden. I silently repeated the name in my mind. It was a beautiful name. I could already picture someone graceful and refined enough to stand naturally at Lucien's side. I looked back up and smiled shamelessly at the group. "As long as the pay is good, I'll do anything." "What would you all like to drink? I can grab it for you." No one bothered hiding their contempt anymore. They surrounded Lucien while openly criticizing me, warning him over and over not to fall into my trap again. And I simply stood there nodding obediently, accepting every insult with a smile. Then I noticed the floor supervisor across the ballroom frantically waving me over with an irritated expression. I immediately grew anxious. Lucien followed my line of sight. His face remained unreadable. Without another word, he pulled out a checkbook, signed something quickly, and flicked the check toward me. It landed near my feet. "You start tomorrow," he said indifferently. "That's your advance." Then he waved dismissively, making it painfully clear he didn't want to see my face anymore. I bent down quickly and grabbed the check with both hands. The moment I saw the amount written on it, my chest tightened. Ellie's hospital fees... they could finally be paid. For the first time in weeks, I almost cried from relief. So later that night, when the supervisor forced me to stay behind and wash dishes for another two hours, I didn't even complain. The cheap rubber gloves split open not long after. The skin on my fingers had already peeled raw from soaking in water all day, pale and swollen like decaying wood. But strangely, I couldn't feel the pain anymore. Instead, I suddenly remembered Lucien from years ago. Back then, after long shifts washing dishes, he'd come home with cracked, bleeding hands. I used to sit beside him and carefully apply ointment to his fingers. The medicine was cheap and barely useful, but he never let me use too much. "I'm fine," he'd mutter stubbornly while hiding his frostbitten hands from me. Then he'd gently wrap my fingers in his warm palms instead. "The artist's hands are worth more than mine." The memory hit me so suddenly that my mind drifted for a moment. Before I realized it, the plate slipped from my hands and shattered against the floor beside my feet. My heart clenched instantly. There goes more of this month's paycheck, I thought bitterly. I hurriedly bent down to pick up the broken pieces— But before I could touch them, someone suddenly grabbed my arm and yanked me upright. "Mara Ellwood, are you trying to ruin your hands?!"