Sunlight spilled through the blinds, painting golden stripes across the tangled sheets. Cora lay with her head on Jace's chest, his fingers absently tracing circles on her bare shoulder. The penthouse was quiet, save for the distant hum of the city below and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
"We should get up," Cora murmured, though she made no move to leave the warmth of his arms.
Jace kissed the top of her head. "Why? The world can wait."
As if on cue, Cora's phone rang. She groaned, reaching blindly for it on the nightstand. The caller ID made her sit bolt upright.
"Mr. Hale?" she said, scrambling to sound professional despite her bedhead.
"Cora! So glad I caught you," said the warm, gravelly voice of her former art teacher. "I've got a student you need to meet."
Jace raised an eyebrow, but Cora waved him off, her pulse quickening. Arthur Hale wasn't one for small talk—or for exaggeration.
"What kind of student?" she asked.
"The kind that'll make you believe in art again," Mr. Hale said. "Twenty-two, self-taught, and painting masterpieces in a garage. But he's got no money, no connections. Needs a patron."
Cora's grip tightened on the phone. "Send me his work."
"Already did. Check your email."
She lunged for her laptop, nearly upending a half-empty coffee cup from the night before. Jace chuckled, propping himself up on one elbow. "You're ridiculous."
"Quiet," Cora hissed, clicking open the attachment.
The painting loaded slowly—a storm of color and chaos, a cityscape crumbling into abstract shapes. But in the center, a single figure stood upright, a streak of gold cutting through the darkness.
Cora's breath caught. "Oh."
Jace peered over her shoulder. "That's… intense."
"It's brilliant," Cora whispered.
Two hours later, Cora stood in a cramped garage-turned-studio in the outskirts of the city. The air smelled of turpentine and ambition. Canvases leaned against every wall, some finished, others half-drowned in paint.
"Cora Hayes," Mr. Hale said, clapping a hand on her shoulder. "Meet Mateo Rivera."
The young man wiping his hands on a rag looked up, his gaze sharp but wary. He looked young, with paint-splattered jeans and a faded t-shirt, that she recognized as being one of her brother Michael's favorite bands.
"You're the gallery owner," Mateo said, more accusation than greeting.
"And you're the artist who doesn't believe in introductions," Cora shot back, grinning.
Mateo's lips twitched.
Mr. Hale excused himself, leaving them alone. Cora wandered the studio, her fingers hovering over a canvas of a fractured family dinner—plates cracked, faces blurred, but a single child's hand reaching for bread.
"This one," she said quietly. "It's… devastating."
Mateo shrugged, but his knuckles whitened around the rag. "It's just my life."
Cora turned to him. "Tell me."
Over bitter coffee from a dented percolator, Mateo talked. His parents had crossed the border when he was six. His mother cleaned offices; his father drove a delivery truck until his back gave out. Mateo painted at night, after shifts at a auto shop, using leftover house paint and plywood scraps.
"This one," he said, pointing to the family dinner painting, "is the night ICE came. We hid in the basement. Mom forgot the bread on the table."
Cora's throat tightened. "Why not paint something happier?"
"Because happy doesn't look real," Mateo said, his tone brittle. "Painting this"—he gestured to the chaos around them—"is the only thing that doesn't make me feel like I'm drowning."
Cora stared at the painting again, the child's hand reaching for something just out of grasp. She saw herself at twenty, failing art school for refusing to paint "marketable" landscapes. Saw her brothers' skepticism, her father's dismiss.
"I'll sponsor you," she said abruptly.
Mateo froze. "What?"
"My gallery's first exhibition," Cora said, her voice firm. "You'll be the centerpiece."
Mateo laughed, a harsh, disbelieving sound. "Why? Because you feel sorry for me?"
"Because you're good," Cora snapped. "And the art world's full of people who'll tell you you're not. Don't prove them right by being stubborn."
Mateo studied her, then nodded once. "Okay."
Cora returned to the penthouse just after sunset. Jace was at the kitchen island, scrolling through emails, but he looked up when she entered.
"Well?" he asked.
"He's incredible," Cora said, dumping her bag on the counter. "And angry. And scared. And… God, Jace, his work hurts to look at."
Jace stood, circling the island to pull her into his arms. "Sounds like he's perfect for you."
Cora buried her face in his shirt, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne. "What if I mess this up?"
Jace tilted her chin up, his gaze steady. "You won't."
"How do you know?"
"Because you're just as stubborn as he is," Jace said, kissing her forehead.
Cora laughed, the sound watery but real. "God! I really like you."
The words slipped out, sharp and sudden as a brushstroke. Jace stilled, his arms tightening around her.
"Say that again," he murmured.
Cora met his eyes. "I like you."
Jace kissed her, slow and deep, until the fear faded and all that was left was the truth.
Later, as they lay in bed, Cora's phone buzzed with a text from Mateo: "Gallery's got a name yet?"
Cora typed back: "The Unfiltered."
Jace peered over her shoulder. "Cheesy."
"Says the man who named his company 'Hart Industries,'" Cora retorted.
"Touché," Jace said, snatching her phone to add: "P.S. My husband's paying for the champagne."
Cora elbowed him, but she was smiling. For the first time, the future didn't feel like a gamble—it felt like a canvas, vast and blank and terrifyingly alive.