Page 78 of Valentine’s Billionaire Auction

“Mhm,” she mumbled, already half-asleep.

I pulled the blanket over her, shaking my head at the soft giggle she let out before passing out. I leaned down and brushed a kiss against her temple.

I walked out, closing her door behind me. I loosened my tie and removed my cufflinks as I walked down the hall. The house was quiet as usual.

When I reached the double doors to the room I told her to stay out of, I hesitated. The urge to keep walking was strong, but something pulled me back. I turned the knob and stepped inside.

The room smelled faintly of oil paint and varnish, though it had been years since any work had been done here. Moonlight filtered through the stained-glass window, casting fragmented patterns of color and shadow across the floor.

There was a feeling in my chest. The same feeling I always got when I stepped inside. It was a form of self-torture.

I reached over and flipped on the light. Canvases were scattered throughout the space—some finished, others abandoned midway. At the far end of the room, the largest canvas leaned against the wall.

I approached it slowly, my chest tightening as the image came into focus. It wasn’t like I didn’t know what it was, but there was always this feeling of shock, longing, and pain when I saw it. It was a family portrait, or at least it was supposed to be. The background was richly detailed, as were the clothes. But the faces were incomplete, their features left as shapeless nubs of paint.

My mother had started this painting the summer before she and my father died. She never got the chance to finish it.

I closed my eyes, and the memory washed over me like a tide.

I was eleven, running into the room with the carefree joy only a child could muster. The space was alive with color, sunlight streaming through the stained glass and painting rainbows on the walls. It was a gorgeous summer day but my mother was inside.

“Mom!” I called, skidding to a stop near her easel.

She turned, her smile so warm it could have melted glaciers. “There you are! I thought you’d gotten lost.”

She looked at me like she hadn’t seen me in ages. She bent down and kissed my forehead before leaning back, both of us turning to look at the painting.

“What do you think?” she asked, tilting her head.

“Why are the faces funny?” I asked, frowning.

She gasped, mock offended. “That’s what you look like!”

“None of us have mouths! Or eyes!”

She clamped a hand over my mouth and eyes, laughing. “There, now you match!”

I laughed so hard I could barely breathe, her giggles mixing with mine.

“Mom! I have a face.”

She released me and ruffled my hair. “Of course you do, my love. And such a handsome one at that.” She turned back to the canvas, her brush poised delicately between her fingers. “These faces will have to wait, though. They need to be perfect, and perfection needs patience.”

I watched as she dipped her brush into a swirl of colors, and with gentle strokes, she filled in more of the background.

The memory faded, leaving me standing in the silence of the studio.

I opened my eyes and stared at the unfinished painting. The laughter, the warmth, the safety—it was all gone, replaced by a cold, hollow ache. I always wondered what the faces would have looked like had she finished them. She said they needed to be perfect, but what was her idea of perfect? Would she have painted us smiling or maybe looking at each other.

I would never know.

Running a hand through my hair, I turned and left the room, closing the door behind me. Some spaces weren’t meant to be shared, even with someone like Kaira.

29

KAIRA

The sunlight streaming through the café window was not my friend this morning. I squinted against it, nursing my coffee like it was a lifeline while Carla smirked at me from across the table. She looked entirely too put together for me.