Chapter 13
I pulled the cloth away.
It was a painting. But not one of mine.
It was a portrait — of me. Sitting on the campus quad, a sketchbook in my lap, sunlight in my hair. The brushwork was precise and achingly tender.
I turned to Kade, confused.
"You said you couldn't paint."
"I didn't. I commissioned this. From a photo."
He pulled out his phone and showed me the original — a slightly blurry snapshot taken from across a lawn. Me at twenty, unaware, absorbed in drawing.
"You took this?"
"In my third year. Your second. You were sitting under the big oak tree outside the fine arts building."
"I'd decided that day that I was going to talk to you. Ask you to coffee. Something simple."
He slid the phone away.
"But you looked so peaceful. So completely in your own world. And I thought — I don't want to disturb that. I'll do it tomorrow."
"And then tomorrow became next week. Next week became next month. And then you were with Marcus."
I stared at the portrait. At the girl I'd been — innocent, focused, full of potential.
"Kade. That's the saddest thing I've ever heard."
"It used to be. It's not anymore."
He reached into his jacket.
"Elena. I've carried that photo for eight years. I've built a company, acquired a fortune, and waited through your entire marriage."
"I was prepared to wait forever."
He pulled out a small velvet box.
My breath caught.
"But since you're here, and you love me, and I'm not willing to test my patience any further—"
He went down on one knee in the empty back room of the gallery, with my paintings on every wall and that portrait of the girl I'd been watching us from the canvas.
He opened the box. A ring — emerald cut, flawless, catching the gallery lights like a star.
"Elena Voss. Will you marry me?"
Tears spilled over before I could stop them. I laughed through them.
"You're proposing in a gallery back room."
"I'm proposing surrounded by your art. Seems right."
"Kade."
"Yes or no, Elena. My knee's not as young as it used to be."
I pulled him up by his lapels and kissed him — hard, fierce, tear-salted.
"Yes. Obviously yes."
He slid the ring onto my finger. It fit perfectly. Of course it did. He'd probably had my ring size for years.
"You're insane," I told him.
"For you. Always for you."
We stood there in the quiet gallery, holding each other, and I thought about the woman I'd been one year ago — bleeding in the rain outside a hotel, humiliated, invisible, broken.
And the woman I was now — painting again, loved wholly, choosing herself.
"Kade."
"Hmm?"
"Thank you for being there that night. In the rain."
His arms tightened around me.
"Thank you for letting me stay."
It was a painting. But not one of mine.
It was a portrait — of me. Sitting on the campus quad, a sketchbook in my lap, sunlight in my hair. The brushwork was precise and achingly tender.
I turned to Kade, confused.
"You said you couldn't paint."
"I didn't. I commissioned this. From a photo."
He pulled out his phone and showed me the original — a slightly blurry snapshot taken from across a lawn. Me at twenty, unaware, absorbed in drawing.
"You took this?"
"In my third year. Your second. You were sitting under the big oak tree outside the fine arts building."
"I'd decided that day that I was going to talk to you. Ask you to coffee. Something simple."
He slid the phone away.
"But you looked so peaceful. So completely in your own world. And I thought — I don't want to disturb that. I'll do it tomorrow."
"And then tomorrow became next week. Next week became next month. And then you were with Marcus."
I stared at the portrait. At the girl I'd been — innocent, focused, full of potential.
"Kade. That's the saddest thing I've ever heard."
"It used to be. It's not anymore."
He reached into his jacket.
"Elena. I've carried that photo for eight years. I've built a company, acquired a fortune, and waited through your entire marriage."
"I was prepared to wait forever."
He pulled out a small velvet box.
My breath caught.
"But since you're here, and you love me, and I'm not willing to test my patience any further—"
He went down on one knee in the empty back room of the gallery, with my paintings on every wall and that portrait of the girl I'd been watching us from the canvas.
He opened the box. A ring — emerald cut, flawless, catching the gallery lights like a star.
"Elena Voss. Will you marry me?"
Tears spilled over before I could stop them. I laughed through them.
"You're proposing in a gallery back room."
"I'm proposing surrounded by your art. Seems right."
"Kade."
"Yes or no, Elena. My knee's not as young as it used to be."
I pulled him up by his lapels and kissed him — hard, fierce, tear-salted.
"Yes. Obviously yes."
He slid the ring onto my finger. It fit perfectly. Of course it did. He'd probably had my ring size for years.
"You're insane," I told him.
"For you. Always for you."
We stood there in the quiet gallery, holding each other, and I thought about the woman I'd been one year ago — bleeding in the rain outside a hotel, humiliated, invisible, broken.
And the woman I was now — painting again, loved wholly, choosing herself.
"Kade."
"Hmm?"
"Thank you for being there that night. In the rain."
His arms tightened around me.
"Thank you for letting me stay."