The Mayfield Inheritance

e soft hum of the lift and the sound of Emma's own breathing. The transition from the public spectacle of "The Mayfields" back to the reality of two strangers tied by a contract felt like

lips were inches from the hair waves at her shoulder. "To have had this... to have had you, and to think anything else in the world mattered." Emma turned in his arms, her heart drumming a frantic rhythm. She was still half-contained by the dress, her hands coming up to rest on his crisp white shirt. "Simon..." He looked down at her, the usual calculated coldness in his eyes replaced by something dark and turbulent. For a moment, the billionaire was gone, replaced by a man who looked like he was starving and Emma was the only thing that could save him. But then, the mask snapped back into place. He stepped back abruptly, his hands dropping as if he'd been burned. "Your studio is ready," he said, his voice suddenly formal, almost clipped. "I had the supplies delivered today. Top-tier oils, Belgian linen. Everything you requested." The sudden shift made Emma's head spin. "Now? It's two in the morning." "Painting has always been your escape, hasn't it?" Simon walked toward the hall, not looking back. "I find that when the mind is cluttered, work is the only cure. Sleep if you wish, but the space is yours." Emma watched him disappear into his own wing of the penthouse. She felt a surge of frustration. One moment he was marking her as his in front of the world, and the next, he was treating her like a tenant he barely tolerated. Determined to shake the feeling, Emma changed into an oversized shirt and leggings, scrubbed the makeup from her face, and headed toward the room Simon had designated as her studio. It was magnificent. A massive corner room with vaulted ceilings and north-facing windows. In the center stood a professional-grade easel, surrounded by crates of the finest paints she had ever seen. She didn't sleep. Instead, she began to paint. She didn't paint the city, or the gala, or the betrayal. She painted a storm-deep indigos, flashes of gold, and a central figure that was more shadow than man. She lost herself in the movement of the brush, the scent of linseed oil grounding her. As the sun began to peek over the horizon, casting a pale, pearlescent glow over Seattle, the door to the studio