Page 95 of Shattered

Back at his apartment, I collapsed on his couch. He sat beside me and I immediately curled into his side.

“Thank you,” I said.

“For what?”

“For building that room. For waiting five years for me to be ready. For believing in my work before anyone else did.”

“I’ll always be your first fan.”

“I know.” I tilted my head to look at him. “Six months ago I couldn’t have imagined this. My art showing. My life has been rebuilt.”

He kissed me then. Soft and sweet and certain. Like we had all the time in the world.

And for the first time in my life, I believed we did.

Axel

Three months after the showcase, I found myself in Elena’s memorial garden with a shovel and a flat of roses.

Daniel was already there, working on clearing space for new plantings. Delia was consulting with the landscaper about placement.

This had become our routine—once a month, we came here together. Maintained the garden. Added new plants. Kept Elena’s memory alive through growth.

“These need to go along the back wall,” Delia was saying, gesturing with her hands covered in dirt. “Mom always wanted a wall of roses but Dad said it was too much maintenance.”

“So naturally we’re planting a wall of roses,” Daniel said.

“Exactly.”

We worked in comfortable silence. The kind of quiet that only existed between people who didn’t need to fill every moment with words.

An hour later, the roses were planted. We stood back to admire the work.

“Mom would love this,” Delia said.

“She’d probably have opinions about our technique,” Daniel added.

“She’d definitely have opinions.”

We stayed until the sun started setting. Then Daniel left for his shift at the hospital and Delia and I drove back to my penthouse.

She’d been staying here most nights now. Her apartment had become more studio than home. A place she went to create but not to live.

I liked having her in my space. Her paint-stained clothes mixed with my suits. I loved her art supplies taking over my dining table, the chaos she brought to my too organized life. We balanced each other. And I’d been thinking for some time now when the right moment would be to seal this—us.

It happened three months later—I woke to find her side of the bed empty.

I found her in the drawing room. Canvas set up by the windows, already painting despite the early hour.

“Couldn’t sleep?” I asked.

“Woke up with an idea. Had to get it out before I lost it.”

I made coffee while she worked. Brought her a cup. Sat on the couch and watched her create.

The painting was taking shape. A garden. A space made beautiful through remembering.

“I’m thinking of calling it ‘Built Together,’” she said without stopping her brushstrokes. “Honoring Mom building family, you building museums, and us building something new from old materials.”