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Remorse shivers through me, doubling in intensity when I spot the most thoughtful of all his gestures, resting on the bench at the foot of the bed.
Breakfast.
My stomach growls at the sight—and what a sight it really is. Meticulously plated on a wooden tray meant for bed, bacon, sausage, hash browns, and a glass of orange juice complement the main dish. An omelet. Stuffed with chopped peppers and seasoned with parsley flakes, the eggy, cheesy goodness is not only cooked but folded so perfectly, I know it was Hayden's doing.
What a surprise it was, learning a billionaire's son—who no doubt splurges on Michelin-star meals—is an impressive cook himself. Hayden prepares most of his own meals and intentionally cooks in moderate amounts, leaving little to no leftovers.
I had the pleasure of tasting his first dish two weeks ago, a few nights after the derby. Steak, lobster risotto, and roasted Brussels sprouts out on the terrace as the sun dipped below the horizon—
No. Stop that. Am I a masochist all of a sudden?
Pushing the memory away, I crawl across the sheets before settling back under them, positioning the tray over my lap on its two legs. Cutting a wedge off the omelet, I groan on my first bite, then stifle the sound, stubbornly. Then do it all over again with the next taste. I would've never thought it possible to chew defiantly, but I do, until only crumbs remain.
I stare at them, then at the imprint on the bed and the Advil on my nightstand, effectively flaring the guilt in me. I heave a sigh. Drunk and taken against my will or not, I should apologize for last night. I was quite an unpleasant abductee.
After a quick shower, I patter my bare feet out of my room, pass through the kitchen and attached dining room, all while trying not to think about how accustomed I've become to the penthouse, until I end up outside Hayden's door.
Nerves trickle through me—only to dissipate when I open the door and find the grand bedroom empty. Same with his bathroom, as well as the main living room and the terrace. For ten minutes or so, I search and search throughout the penthouse, flinging open doors—gosh, there are a lot of them—just for the rooms to turn up empty.
And with every knob I twist, something strange yet still predictable happens...
I grow angrier.
Why am I the one on the hunt for him? Why am I even looking for him? So what if he nursed me back to health for one night? He conspired with his father to ruin. My. Life. And last night, sure, I went off the handles, but he could've at least said the word sorry. For anything.
Perhaps he knew you didn't want to hear it, a little angel suggests.
I flick her off my shoulder, at the exact moment my irritation proves clarifying. I know where he is. Why didn't I think of it sooner? I breeze through the penthouse, letting muscle memory do the work, while my brain's too busy conjuring up the next nasty thing I'll say when I find him.
It brews and it brews, some hateful concoction on my journey through the main living room, up the floating staircase, through the ballroom and into the server's wing, until I'm bounding like a lethal tempest down the hallway.
Toward his studio.
I should just leave and not make things any worse, but the retribution is too tempting. Even an ounce of it. That's all I can afford, really—hurling atrocities his way, so maybe he'll know just a fraction of what it felt like standing by that stage, at the summit of all you've worked for, only to witness your future slip between your fingers like sand.
Hastening my steps, the studio door draws near, until I graze that final knob and instantly whip it back, as the past month replays in my mind like a dreadful slideshow. A chain-reaction of events, beginning with Hayden's disgruntled signature across a meaningless contract, culminating on that fateful day he handed me a flash drive, beaming a smile, despite knowing the device would incinerate my world to ashes and—
The door swings open, ever-so slowly on its hinges, and what I see stops my heart completely.
In the middle of the studio, perched on a colossal easel amid a sea of canvases, rests a half-completed portrait of a woman. Frozen in the doorway, I squint in disbelief, because... gosh, that can't be right. That woman... she sure looks like me.
I approach on languid steps, unblinking, as I hold my breath and admire the canvas that towers over all the others around it. Where vibrant paint doesn't shine, pencil lightly sketches the rest of the masterpiece, immortalizing a moment in time left in the past.
His pool party.
A lump forms in my throat. Has he been working on this for that long?
It appears so. The delicacy of those strokes, bringing my appearance that day to life, sparing no detail—that doesn't happen overnight. He really didn't miss anything. It's like he snapped a photo of me with his mind for reference.
The fishnet cover-up, flaring at the sleeves, drapes over my body with its meticulous square cutouts, all atop my exact red bikini, down to the little ties dangling off my hips. The curious thing, though, for a man like Hayden? He opted for an almost blurred effect, softly obscuring my midriff, as if not wanting to draw attention away from what appears to be the painting's focal point—my face.
And God, it's so detailed. Although only half complete and split vertically down the center, it's like staring into a mirror that day. Wispy bangs. Hoop earrings. Hair looped through an elastic, positioned high on my head. He even remembered my lip shade and how I swapped my glasses for contacts.
Wow...
Enchanted by wonder, I inch closer, daring to brush a finger against my eye and its distinct shade of green, half expecting to feel the silkiness of my lashes instead of dried paint.
I cover my lips and stare, hands trembling and knees locking me into place, as my emotions catch the wind in my throat. Why would he...? A sad shudder rattles me to the bone at the thought of how very wrong I've been about DreamScape and the hell I've put Hayden through. All I've done is point blame his way. If he really is the monster my mind's deemed him to be these past days, then why would this be here?
