The city was beginning to sink into that orange tone of late afternoon, that hour when the day’s exhaustion mixes with the rush to get back home. I followed the GPS to the address of the daycare where Grace worked. It was a colorful building, with drawings of suns and clouds painted on the walls—a nearly poetic contrast to the darkness I knew existed on the canvases she painted in the secrecy of her bedroom.
As I pulled the car over, I saw Grace at the gate. She was crouched down at the height of a small child carrying a rolling backpack. The little girl wrapped her arms tightly around Grace’s neck and shouted, “Bye, Auntie Grace!” before running into her mother’s arms. Grace stood up with a sweet smile, brushing crayon marks off her apron, but the moment her eyes landed on my car, her expression shifted to cautious curiosity.
She walked over to the vehicle and opened the passenger door, bringing with her that scent of childhood—a mix of talcum powder, crepe paper, and a faint hint of sweat from honest work.
“Punctual as a clock, Luke,” she said as she settled into the leather seat, offering me a tired but genuine smile.
“I said I’d come, didn’t I?” I replied, returning the smile as I started the engine and pulled away from the curb.
“You did. And you left me intrigued all day. What’s so important that it couldn’t wait until I got home?” she asked, turning slightly in her seat to look at me.
I kept my eyes on the traffic, but my tone grew more serious, preparing the ground.
“Grace, before anything else… do you know Ezequiel? Does his name sound familiar to you in the art world?”
The effect was instant. Grace’s eyes widened, and she let out a sharp breath, as if I had just mentioned an Olympian god.
“Do I know him? Luke, Ezequiel is the pinnacle! He has his own museum, he’s the biggest reference in the country. Anyone who works with art and doesn’t know Ezequiel is in the wrong world. I’m a fan of his work, his curatorship… he has an eye for discovering talent that no one else has. Why are you asking? Do you know someone who works for him?”
I took a deep breath, feeling the adrenaline of someone about to drop a bomb.
“Actually, I was at your apartment earlier today. I went to talk to Emily about the piece, and I asked her not to tell you anything if you two spoke during the day, because I wanted this to come from me.”
Grace frowned, confusion beginning to cloud her face.
“At my apartment? But I wasn’t there…”
“I know. But I went into your studio, Grace,” I said all at once, feeling the tension rise beside me. “I looked at your paintings again. And this time, I took photos of some of them. I took those photos with me and went to meet Ezequiel this afternoon. I showed him your work.”
Time seemed to freeze inside the car. Grace stopped breathing for a second, her eyes locked on mine, wavering between absolute shock and a panic that bordered on fear. Her hand, which had been resting loosely on her lap, gripped the strap of her bag tightly, her knuckles turning white.
“You… what did you do?” her voice came out broken, a whisper heavy with shock. “You took pictures of my sanctuary and showed them to the most important man in art without telling me? Luke, do you have any idea what you’ve just done?”
“I’m sorry for going behind your back, Grace,” I said, keeping my voice calm as I merged onto a busy avenue. “But I had to do it this way. I couldn’t tell you and create huge expectations without knowing what he’d say. It was the only way not to give you false hope if he didn’t like it.”
Grace stared at me, lost, her lips slightly parted.
“And what… what did he say?” she asked, her voice almost disappearing.
“He loved it, Grace. He was fascinated by your technique. Ezequiel is willing to exhibit your paintings at the next official event at his museum.”
The silence that followed was heavy. Grace looked like she’d taken a physical shock; she leaned back against the seat, her eyes unfocused on the dashboard, processing the fact that her greatest idol now knew her art.
“I did this because I believe in your talent,” I continued, pressing the advantage. “I believe you’re capable, and I want to help you fulfill your dream of becoming a professional artist. In the past, you didn’t have a choice—you had to sacrifice everything for your sister. But now you do have a choice. Everything depends on you.”
At that moment, Grace’s barriers collapsed. The first tears began to fall, washing over her tired face after a long day of work. It was an explosive mix of pure happiness and paralyzing fear.
“I don’t know what to say, Luke… I’m terrified. What if I’m not good enough? What if people hate it?”
“Hey, look at me,” I said, stopping at a red light. “Ezequiel is one of the most arrogant and demanding men I know. He would never put art in his museum if he didn’t see absurd potential. He doesn’t do charity with his name.”
I knew the truth behind it: Ezequiel was doing the favor because of my family, but he only accepted so enthusiastically because the paintings truly delivered what he was looking for.
“It’s up to you whether you want this or not. And if you do, I’ll be by your side every step of the way,” I finished.
Grace wiped her tears with the backs of her hands and, with a firm nod, accepted the challenge. I smiled and gently parked the car just ahead. Only then did she look out the window and realize we weren’t on her street. We were on the opposite side of the city, right in front of a designer boutique famous for its gala dresses.
“Luke? Why did we stop here?” she asked, confused, staring at the luxurious display window.
“On Friday you’re going to meet Ezequiel in person to settle the details,” I replied, unfastening my seatbelt. “And to enter his world, you need a new dress—worthy of the artist you are. I knew you’d accept, so I came straight here. Now let’s go, the store closes at 6:00 p.m. and we don’t have much time.”
Grace stepped out of the car still in a daze, staring at the storefront as if she were stepping into a dream she might wake up from at any moment. We entered the store, and the atmosphere exuded quiet luxury. Grace stopped right at the entrance, visibly uncomfortable. Her work clothes and daycare apron seemed to scream against the immaculate marble floor.
“Luke, I… I feel ridiculous here,” she whispered, her hands restless.
“Relax,” I replied with calm naturalness. I acted as if I were walking into a bakery; for me, that environment was familiar. I’d seen my father do this countless times with my stepmother and with Bianca, treating luxury not with arrogance, but with the familiarity of someone who belongs. “If everything goes well, soon you’ll have your own income to shop wherever you want. But today, leave it to me. Just relax.”
A saleswoman approached, gliding over the carpet with a trained smile. I saw her eyes scan Grace, a quick judgment labeling her as someone “out of place” accompanying a man who would pay the bill. I didn’t respond with superiority; I simply ignored her prejudice with the indifference of someone who knew exactly what he wanted.
“Good afternoon,” I said calmly but decisively. “She’ll need three dresses.”
The saleswoman’s posture changed immediately, noticing my confidence.
“I want two more casual dresses, but with a sexy cut that enhances her beauty without being vulgar,” I continued, gesturing lightly. “And the third needs to be elegant. The kind of dress high-society women wear to museums, operas, or upscale events. Absolute class.”
I spoke with authority. I drew from memory—the choices of my stepmother and the impeccable outfits I’d seen Bianca wear at past events. I knew exactly which fabrics commanded respect and which cuts enhanced curves without sacrificing sophistication.
Grace remained silent, almost in a trance. She watched me like a layperson listening to a specialist. For her, that world was a mystery; for me, it was simply the standard I’d known since childhood.
“As for the colors…” I turned to her, giving her the space she needed. “You’re the artist, Grace. You understand color and light better than any of us. Choose the tones you want.”
Grace followed the saleswoman through the racks, but her gaze still carried clear hesitation. She touched the fabrics—silks, crepes, Italian lace—as if she were handling fragile relics in a museum. At one point, she tilted her head to peek at the price tag on one of the dresses, and her eyes nearly popped out.
“Luke…” she whispered, pulling me by the arm, her voice filled with genuine concern. “Did you see the price? This is absurd. I can’t let you spend that much, I don’t even know how I’d repay you…”
I cut her off with a gentle but firm gesture. I wasn’t going to let numbers ruin the moment.
“Forget the price, Grace. That doesn’t matter here. I said I’d take care of everything, and I will.”
I leaned in closer, enough for only her to hear, a corner smile appearing on my face. I decided it was the perfect moment to return the “blow” she’d dealt me on Saturday.
“But if you’re really that worried about repayment…” I whispered provocatively, playing with the words, “you can always just agree to be the mother of my children. Consider the debt settled.”
The effect was immediate. Grace’s face ignited into a shade of red that rivaled the dresses in the window. She opened her mouth to retort, but the words vanished, and she simply looked away, completely disarmed by my audacity.
Trying to regain her composure, she turned back to the clothes. Not wanting to be demanding or abuse my generosity, she chose the classic and safe route. She picked an ivory white, a deep black, and a closed red. Standard colors—but in that store, even “basic” was designed to be unforgettable.
“Go try them on,” I encouraged. “I want to see if the cut is as good as the fabric.”
I sat down in a velvet armchair in the fitting room hallway. Grace went in, and minutes later, the curtain opened for the first time.
Each time she stepped out, I admired her in a different way. In white, she looked ethereal, almost like one of her canvases before the dark paint—there was a purity that contrasted with the strength in her gaze. In black, she transformed. The sexy cut I’d requested revealed the curves the daycare apron hid, giving her an air of mystery and authority that perfectly matched the future “museum star.” Both were sensual without being vulgar.
But it was in red that time seemed to stop. The dress embraced her body with lethal elegance, and the color made her black hair vibrate in an almost hypnotic way. Grace stared at herself in the large mirror, her hands tracing her own waist, beginning to recognize the stunning woman I’d seen since our first meeting.
I stood still for a moment, just watching Grace in the mirror wearing the red dress. The sincerity in my voice was sharp:
“You look absolutely incredible, Grace. This is your place now.”
I called the saleswoman over with a discreet gesture. Without drama or fuss, I handed over the card and asked her to finalize the purchase of all three dresses. While Grace went back into the fitting room to change into her everyday work clothes, the saleswoman—now showing renewed respect—prepared the luxury boxes with tissue paper and satin ribbons.
When Grace returned, she looked like she’d stepped back into the daycare reality, but the light in her eyes was no longer the same. We took the bags and headed for the car. The drive to her building was silent, but it was a silence charged with electricity.
I parked in front of the building.
“I’ll message Ezequiel now and let you know the place and time for Friday,” I said, looking at her.
Grace looked at me for a few seconds, her hands gripping the straps of her bag. Suddenly, she leaned in. I felt her soft, warm hand on my cheek, pulling me closer, and she kissed me. It was a gentle kiss—a physical “thank you”—but it still carried the hesitation of someone discovering new ground.
As she began to pull away, I held her face, stopping the distance from growing.
“Do you remember what you said? That I’d have to work hard to get you into bed…” I whispered, my voice rough. “All this effort today requires proper payment, Grace.”
I didn’t wait for an answer. I pulled her into a second kiss, but this one was anything but gentle. It was an intense, hungry kiss, where I claimed the space I was conquering in her life. I felt her body tremble against mine, her hands now gripping my shoulders as our breath slipped away.
We broke apart when air became necessary. Grace was breathless, her face completely flushed and her lips swollen. She looked at me in shock, but without anger.
“I’ll see you on Friday,” I said with a corner smile.
She nodded, grabbed the bags, and got out of the car without a word, hurrying up the stairs. I smiled as I watched her disappear and started the engine.
My mind was already changing frequency. I drove for a few minutes until I reached a building I knew well. I parked, went up, and stopped in front of the familiar door. I knocked twice—the usual rhythm.
The door opened, and Sofia appeared, curious eyes and a relaxed body leaning against the doorway.
“Luke?” she said, surprised to see me there.
“I couldn’t sleep here last night,” I said, stepping into the apartment without needing an invitation, feeling her scent and the weight of the day finally settling in. “But I came today.”
