Sterling’s Fortune

Chapter 13

The library in the penthouse was magnificent. It had mahogany shelves that reached twenty feet high, a rolling ladder, and floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a panoramic view of the Hudson River.

Alistair had cleared the center of the room. He had bought a French easel that cost more than Elodie’s first car. He had laid down a drop cloth made of heavy, pristine canvas.

"It’s perfect," Alistair had said, presenting it to her like a trophy.

And that was the problem. It was too perfect.

Elodie stood in front of a blank canvas, a brush in her hand. She had been standing there for two hours.

She dipped the brush in blue paint. She looked at the canvas. She looked at the Persian rug just inches away from the drop cloth. She looked at the housemaid, Maria, who came in every fifteen minutes to offer her iced tea, snacks, or a hot towel.

"I can't do this," Elodie groaned, dropping the brush.

It landed on the drop cloth with a wet splat. Maria immediately rushed over with a stain remover stick.

"I'll get that, Miss Rose!"

"No, Maria, it’s fine! It’s supposed to get messy!" Elodie sighed, rubbing her temples.

The art wasn't flowing. The "Met Challenge" submission was due in three weeks, and everything she tried to paint here looked... polite. Sterile. It looked like hotel art.

She stripped off her smock and marched toward the study.

Alistair was on a call, pacing behind his glass desk. When she walked in, he held up a finger to the person on the line.

"I have to go. The Asset has entered the room." He hung up and smiled at her. "How is the masterpiece coming?"

"It’s not," Elodie said flatly. "I hate it."

Alistair’s smile faltered. "You hate the easel? I can get the Italian one. Or the titanium one."

"I hate the cleanliness, Alistair. I can't paint in a museum. I’m afraid to breathe wrong in there." She crossed her arms. "I need to go back to Queens."

Alistair stiffened. "To live?"

"To work," she clarified. "You bought the building, right? So Unit 4B is mine?"

"Yes."

"Good. Grab your keys. And maybe change out of that suit. We have heavy lifting to do."

An hour later, the Bentley was parked somewhat conspicuously on the street in Astoria.

Alistair had compromised on his outfit. He was wearing dark designer jeans (stiff, clearly never worn) and a black cashmere sweater. He looked like a model pretending to be a regular person.

"I don't understand," Alistair grunted as they walked up the four flights of stairs. "Why do we need to move furniture? I can hire movers."

"Because I need to feel the space change," Elodie said, unlocking the door to Unit 4B. "I need to reclaim it."

They stepped inside.

It was cold, dusty, and smelled of old paint and radiator steam. To Elodie, it smelled like freedom.

"Okay," she said, looking around the cramped studio apartment. "The bed goes. The dresser goes. The table goes."

"And we sleep... on the floor?" Alistair asked, eyeing a suspicious stain on the carpet.

"We sleep at the penthouse," Elodie said, tying her hair back. "This isn't a home anymore, Alistair. It’s a studio. A factory."

She walked over to the mattress. "Grab a corner."

For the next three hours, the Billionaire and the Artist engaged in manual labor.

They dragged the mattress down the hall to the donation pick-up zone. They disassembled the cheap particle-board dresser (which fell apart mostly on its own). They moved the wobbly kitchen table to the curb.

When the last piece of furniture was gone, Elodie stood in the center of the room.

It was transformed.

Without the bed dominating the space, the room felt cavernous. The northern light from the window, which had always been blocked by her dresser, now spilled across the floor in a long, unbroken rectangle.

The floors were scuffed wood. The walls had nail holes. But the energy was different. It was raw.

"Better?" Alistair asked. He was leaning against the doorframe, covered in dust. There was a smudge of dirt on his cheek. He looked surprisingly comfortable in the grit.

"Much," Elodie breathed. She walked to the center of the empty room and spun around. "Look at the light, Alistair. Look how it hits the dust motes."

She ran to her stack of supplies in the corner. She grabbed her easel, the old, splintered one, not the French one, and set it up in the middle of the empty space.

She grabbed a charcoal stick.

She didn't hesitate. She didn't worry about the rug. She attacked the canvas.

Scritch. Scratch. Swipe.

Alistair watched her. He didn't speak. He didn't offer her tea. He just watched the way her body moved, fluid, aggressive, confident.

The bracelet on her wrist began to glow.

It wasn't the polite hum of the penthouse. It was a crackling energy. As she drew, the radiator clanked in a rhythmic beat, like a metronome. The light outside seemed to hang in the sky longer than physics should allow, giving her extra hours of daylight.

"You're amazing," Alistair said softly from the doorway.

Elodie didn't stop drawing. "I'm inspired."

She worked for hours. She lost track of time. She was covered in charcoal and paint.

When she finally stepped back, the sun had set. The streetlights outside cast orange shadows into the empty room.

On the canvas was a portrait. It wasn't Alistair. It was the two of them. Not as people, but as forces. A storm cloud and a lightning rod. Chaos and Order colliding to create a spark.

Elodie wiped her hands on her jeans and turned around. Alistair was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, scrolling on his phone. He looked up.

"Hungry?" he asked.

"Starving."

"I ordered pizza," he said. "It’s sitting on the floor in the hallway because there are no tables."

Elodie laughed. She walked over and sat on the floor next to him, leaning her head on his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around her. The cashmere was soft, but his arm was hard muscle.

"Thank you," she said. "For helping. For sweating. For not calling the movers."

"I like this place," Alistair admitted, looking around the empty, shadowed room. "It’s honest. The penthouse... the penthouse is a stage set. This is a workshop."

He kissed the top of her head.

"So," he said, checking his watch. "Now that you have your factory, we have a scheduling conflict."

"Oh?"

"Your mother called."

Elodie froze. The warm, fuzzy feeling of artistic triumph evaporated instantly.

"My mother called you?"

"She called the main line at Sterling Industries," Alistair said, a hint of amusement in his voice. "She bullied my executive assistant, bypassed three secretaries, and somehow got put through to my private line. She is a terrifying woman."

"She’s a force of nature," Elodie groaned, burying her face in her hands. "What did she want?"

"She wants to inspect the merchandise," Alistair said. "She doesn't believe the press release about the 'Representation Agreement.' She thinks I'm taking advantage of you."

"Oh god."

"She demanded dinner. Tomorrow night. Somewhere 'neutral'."

Elodie looked at him with wide eyes. "Alistair, you don't understand. My mother is a union rep for the Transit Authority. She hates billionaires. She thinks capitalism is a disease. If she meets you, she will eat you alive."

Alistair smirked. He wiped the smudge of dirt from his cheek.

"I faced down the Board of Directors yesterday, Elodie. I think I can handle one mother."

"You have no idea," Elodie whispered. "The Board cares about money. My mother cares about my soul. That is a much higher stake."

Alistair stood up and pulled her to her feet. The bracelet hummed, sensing the coming conflict.

"Let’s go home," he said. "We need to shower. And then... we need to strategize."