Chapter 11
Marcus was charged with fraud two weeks later.
The SEC investigation turned up more than Kade's team had found — deeper pockets of embezzlement, falsified investor reports, a trail going back three years.
He was arrested on a Thursday morning. I saw it on the news. They perp-walked him past cameras.
I didn't feel triumphant. I felt tired.
Naomi, suddenly without a benefactor, went quiet. The press stopped returning her calls once Marcus's charges became public — she'd implicated herself as a knowing participant by talking too much.
My mother called.
"Are you satisfied now?" Her voice was acid.
"Mom. I didn't do this."
"Your billionaire boyfriend did."
"My boyfriend reported financial crime. Would you prefer he'd covered it up?"
"You've torn this family apart."
"No, Mom. Naomi did that. And you helped by enabling her."
I hung up. It was the last time we spoke for a long time.
Something about cutting that cord — the final tether to a family that had always chosen my sister over me — made me feel lighter than I expected.
I threw myself into painting. Kade converted the spare room into a proper studio with gallery-grade lighting and temperature control. He didn't ask permission — just had it done while I was at the art supply store.
"You can't keep doing things like this without asking," I said, standing in the upgraded space.
"Would you have said no?"
"...No."
"Then the system works."
I rolled my eyes. But I was already setting up my easel.
Within a month, I had enough new work for a small show. The paintings were raw, emotional — the breakup, the betrayal, the rebirth. Critics would later call them "unflinching."
Kade connected me with a gallery owner — a legitimate one, not a favor — who took one look at my portfolio and offered me a solo exhibition.
"Opening night is in six weeks," the owner told me. "We'll want fifteen to twenty pieces."
I had twelve. I needed more.
The next six weeks were a blur of paint and late nights and Kade bringing me food I'd forget to eat.
He never complained. He'd sit in the corner of the studio some nights with his laptop, working silently while I painted. Just being there.
One night, at 3 a.m., I stepped back from a canvas and looked at him.
He'd fallen asleep in the armchair, laptop still open, glasses slipping down his nose.
This absurd, powerful, patient man.
I took his glasses off carefully, closed the laptop, and draped a blanket over him.
He stirred. "Finished?"
"Not yet. Sleep."
His hand caught mine as I turned away.
"Come to bed. The painting will be there tomorrow."
"I have three more days until—"
"Elena." His voice was soft but final. "Come to bed."
I went to bed.
And in the dark, with his arms around me, I realized — this was the first time in my adult life that someone was protecting my wellbeing more than my productivity.
Marcus had loved what I could do for him. Kade loved what I needed to be whole.
The SEC investigation turned up more than Kade's team had found — deeper pockets of embezzlement, falsified investor reports, a trail going back three years.
He was arrested on a Thursday morning. I saw it on the news. They perp-walked him past cameras.
I didn't feel triumphant. I felt tired.
Naomi, suddenly without a benefactor, went quiet. The press stopped returning her calls once Marcus's charges became public — she'd implicated herself as a knowing participant by talking too much.
My mother called.
"Are you satisfied now?" Her voice was acid.
"Mom. I didn't do this."
"Your billionaire boyfriend did."
"My boyfriend reported financial crime. Would you prefer he'd covered it up?"
"You've torn this family apart."
"No, Mom. Naomi did that. And you helped by enabling her."
I hung up. It was the last time we spoke for a long time.
Something about cutting that cord — the final tether to a family that had always chosen my sister over me — made me feel lighter than I expected.
I threw myself into painting. Kade converted the spare room into a proper studio with gallery-grade lighting and temperature control. He didn't ask permission — just had it done while I was at the art supply store.
"You can't keep doing things like this without asking," I said, standing in the upgraded space.
"Would you have said no?"
"...No."
"Then the system works."
I rolled my eyes. But I was already setting up my easel.
Within a month, I had enough new work for a small show. The paintings were raw, emotional — the breakup, the betrayal, the rebirth. Critics would later call them "unflinching."
Kade connected me with a gallery owner — a legitimate one, not a favor — who took one look at my portfolio and offered me a solo exhibition.
"Opening night is in six weeks," the owner told me. "We'll want fifteen to twenty pieces."
I had twelve. I needed more.
The next six weeks were a blur of paint and late nights and Kade bringing me food I'd forget to eat.
He never complained. He'd sit in the corner of the studio some nights with his laptop, working silently while I painted. Just being there.
One night, at 3 a.m., I stepped back from a canvas and looked at him.
He'd fallen asleep in the armchair, laptop still open, glasses slipping down his nose.
This absurd, powerful, patient man.
I took his glasses off carefully, closed the laptop, and draped a blanket over him.
He stirred. "Finished?"
"Not yet. Sleep."
His hand caught mine as I turned away.
"Come to bed. The painting will be there tomorrow."
"I have three more days until—"
"Elena." His voice was soft but final. "Come to bed."
I went to bed.
And in the dark, with his arms around me, I realized — this was the first time in my adult life that someone was protecting my wellbeing more than my productivity.
Marcus had loved what I could do for him. Kade loved what I needed to be whole.