The silence between them had grown thick—like fog crawling into every room, settling over every surface. It had been three days since the kiss neither of them acknowledged, and the cold war that followed was worse than shouting.
Grayson had vanished behind his work, behind closed doors and endless meetings. Arielle, for her part, learned quickly how to survive the mansion's oppressive elegance—by pretending it was a hotel, not a home.
She woke up early, wandered the gardens alone, took tea on the balcony, and never once saw her husband.
Until that morning.
She was walking past the grand hallway when voices rose near the foyer. Staff. Movers. Boxes being carried in.
Curious, Arielle descended the steps only to see a striking, framed painting being carried into the east wing. It was massive—almost violent in color and shape. Shades of ash and deep navy clashed against streaks of white. It looked like a storm mid-scream.
"Careful with that," Grayson's voice cut in sharply.
He stood with his back to her, arms folded, issuing orders with cold precision. He hadn't noticed her yet.
Arielle watched him quietly. Something about the way his shoulders tensed, the way his jaw clenched even when he was calm, made her stomach tighten. The kiss had been impulsive. But it had felt real. More real than anything in the sterile luxury of this house.
She stepped forward. "What's all this?"
Grayson turned, surprised.
A moment passed—too long—before he replied, "Art."
Her gaze flicked to the chaotic canvas. "Obviously."
He didn't elaborate, just turned back to the crew.
"Is it for a collection?" she pressed.
"I don't need to explain my purchases to you."
Arielle blinked. "Right. Of course."
His tone had been sharp enough to draw blood. But she didn't flinch. She simply nodded and walked away.
---
Later that day, she found herself in the sunroom, curled in the corner of a wide cream sofa, pretending to read again. She hated how easily he could push her away—and worse, how much it affected her.
A knock came at the glass door.
It slid open, and Ezra stepped in, holding a sleek black envelope.
"From Mr. Carter," he said.
She took it without a word. Ezra bowed slightly and left.
Inside was a single, embossed invitation.
> The Sinclair Gallery requests the presence of Mr. and Mrs. Grayson Carter at the Black & Crimson Charity Gala. Saturday, 7PM.
At the bottom, in Grayson's handwriting:
You'll need a dress. Ezra will arrange it.
That was it.
No request. No explanation.
Arielle felt the paper crumple slightly in her grip before she smoothed it out again.
---
That evening, she needed air.
The mansion's private garden looked like something out of a bridal magazine—rose-lined hedges, pristine fountains, marble benches—but it felt hollow. Like everything in this life.
She wandered down the stone path toward the back where the lights grew softer. There, tucked into a quieter corner of the property, was a small art pavilion.
She hadn't noticed it before.
The door was open.
Inside were canvases—some new, some half-covered. Easels stood abandoned, brushes still dipped in dry paint, like someone had once been in a rush to capture a moment... and never returned.
She stepped inside.
The largest painting at the far end caught her eye. It was unfinished. A woman, partially sketched. Her face turned away. Hair sweeping across the frame like ink in water.
Something about it struck her.
Was it Grayson's?
She reached out to touch the edge of the canvas when a voice behind her made her jolt.
"Don't," Grayson said.
He was leaning against the frame of the door, arms folded. His presence was quiet, but intense.
"I didn't know you painted," she said, lowering her hand.
"You don't know anything about me," he replied.
His words weren't angry—but they were distant. Careful.
"No one mentioned this room," she said.
"Because no one's allowed in it."
A beat of silence.
"I can leave," Arielle said, stepping back.
He didn't respond immediately. Just walked in slowly and moved to another canvas, flipping it to face the wall.
"You're curious," he said finally.
"I'm not blind," she replied. "You kiss me one night, disappear the next morning, then act like I'm the one crossing lines."
Grayson didn't answer.
The silence was his way of keeping control, she realized. He let the quiet say the things he wasn't brave enough to admit.
"You hate me," she said, trying to understand it. "Or maybe you just hate that I'm here."
"I don't hate you."
That surprised her.
He looked at the half-painted woman again. "But I don't trust you either."
"I never asked for your trust, Grayson. I just wanted honesty."
"You're not the only one pretending," he muttered under his breath.
She narrowed her eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he moved to the door. "Stay out of this room."
And then he was gone.
---
Three nights later, Arielle arrived at the Sinclair Gallery. The gala hadn't even officially started yet, but the red carpet shimmered with flashes of camera lights and glittering gowns.
She stepped out of the car in a deep burgundy satin gown, custom-fit and elegant, her hair pulled into a sleek updo. She hated how beautiful she looked—because she wasn't sure if it was for herself or for show.
Grayson met her at the steps. He wore a crisp black tuxedo, and for a brief second, she almost forgot how much she resented him.
"You clean up well," he said without emotion.
"So do you," she replied, just as flat.
They walked inside together, all eyes on them.
---
Halfway through the event, Grayson disappeared into a conversation with a senator, leaving Arielle at the edge of the gallery. That's when a man beside her said, "Not your scene either?"
She turned to see a man, late twenties, stylish but not overly dressed. His eyes sparkled with a kind of mischief she hadn't seen in weeks.
"I'm Julian," he said, holding out a hand. "Curator. And unofficial gala escape artist."
"Arielle," she replied. "Plus one."
He grinned. "Plus one or prisoner?"
She smirked. "Somewhere in between."
Julian laughed, then nodded toward a painting behind them. "That one's new. Got it from a reclusive artist. Intense, right?"
She looked at it.
Black brush strokes. Crimson centers. Like bleeding roses.
"It's haunting," she said.
"Like you know there's something more underneath it," Julian added, eyes flicking to her.
Arielle turned toward him, studying his face. For the first time in days, she felt something—something small, but real.
She didn't notice that from the second-floor balcony, a certain someone in a black tuxedo was watching the interaction closely.
And he was seething.