His Mistress Stole My Paintings and My Life

The Pinot Noir dripped from my chin, staining the white carpet like a fresh crime scene. The metallic tang of vintage grapes mixed with the bile rising in my throat. Ares stood above me, waiting for my knees to hit the floor, his face a mask of bored expectation. The man I had nursed through phantom pains, the man whose hands I had kissed to soothe tremors that never existed, was gone. In his place stood a stranger in a bespoke suit, wielding humiliation like a gavel.

"I said, clean it up," Ares repeated, his voice devoid of the warmth that had once been my shelter.

My hands clenched into fists at my sides, nails digging into my palms until the sharp sting grounded me. "No."

The single syllable hung in the silent penthouse, heavier than the crystal chandelier above us. Lyla’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second. Ares merely raised an eyebrow, amused.

"No?" he echoed softly.

"I am not your maid. And I am not your charity case." I turned my back on him, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I needed to leave. Now. But not without Mochi.

Lyla had insisted I bring him—*"Ares loves that cat, it'll make the surprise perfect!"*—and I had left his carrier in the guest room down the hall. I bolted toward the corridor, my sodden sneakers squeaking on the marble.

"Going somewhere?" Ares’s voice was right behind me.

I reached the doorway, spotting the plastic carrier on the bed. Mochi mewled, sensing the tension. I lunged for the handle, but a hand shot out, gripping the plastic cage before I could secure it.

Ares yanked the carrier from my grip. He held it aloft, swinging it casually as Mochi hissed inside. "You know, I never liked this thing. It sheds on everything. Just like its owner."

"Give him to me!" I screamed, lunging for the carrier.

Ares sidestepped, laughing—a cold, jagged sound that scraped against my soul. He strode toward the floor-to-ceiling glass doors that led to the terrace. Outside, a winter storm was battering the city, rain lashing against the glass in gray sheets.

"You want your baggage, Selene?" He slid the door open. The wind howled into the room, freezing and violent. "Fetch."

With a callous flick of his wrist, he tossed the carrier into the storm.

I didn't think. I didn't breathe. I ran. I burst through the open door, the icy rain instantly soaking through my uniform, stinging my skin like needles. The carrier had skidded across the slick stone tiles, coming to rest dangerously close to the railing.

I scrambled over the wet stone, falling to my knees beside the crate. "Mochi!"

Behind me, the mechanical *whir-click* of the lock sliding home was louder than the thunder.

I spun around. Ares stood on the other side of the glass, dry and warm. He lifted his wine glass in a mock toast, his eyes dead. Lyla stood beside him, resting her head on his shoulder, looking at me as if I were a stray dog begging for scraps. They turned away, the heavy curtains sliding shut, erasing me from their world.

I was alone.

I looked down at the carrier. Mochi was wailing, a high-pitched sound of agony. I fumbled with the latch, my fingers numb and shaking. When I finally got it open, I saw the unnatural angle of his front leg.

"I'm so sorry," I sobbed, the tears hot against the freezing rain. I scooped him into my arms, shielding him with my body. I couldn't stay here. I found the service stairwell door in the corner of the terrace—the exit for the help. It opened with a heavy groan, spilling me out into the back alley of the high-rise.

***

Thirty minutes later, I was a ghost haunting the Upper East Side.

My waitress uniform was plastered to my skin, stained purple with wine and gray with street water. Mochi shivered violently against my chest, his whimpers growing fainter. I had no phone. No wallet. No dignity left to lose.

The golden revolving doors of The Pierre Hotel spun ahead of me, a beacon of a world I was barred from. I just needed to sit. Just for a moment. My legs gave out, and I slid down the rough brick wall of the adjacent building, curling around my cat.

"Selene?"

The voice was deep, laced with disbelief.

I flinched, expecting another insult, another cruelty. Through the curtain of wet hair, I saw a pair of polished oxfords stop in front of me. My gaze traveled up—past the sharp crease of dress pants, the charcoal wool coat—to a face I hadn't seen in years.

Graham Henry.

He looked different than the boy who used to let me copy his calculus homework. His jaw was sharper, his presence commanding, but his eyes—warm, honey-brown—were the same. He was holding a black umbrella, but he dropped it the moment he saw my face.

"My god," he breathed, crouching down on the wet pavement, ignoring the slush seeping into his expensive suit. "Selene, what happened? Is that blood?"

"Wine," I croaked, my teeth chattering. "And Mochi... his leg..."

Graham didn't ask questions. He didn't recoil from the smell of sour wine or the grime of the alley. He stripped off his heavy wool coat and wrapped it around my shoulders, the silk lining retaining his body heat.

"I've got you," he said, his voice a low rumble of promise. He signaled to a sleek black limousine idling at the curb. "We're getting you out of here."

***

The silence in Graham’s penthouse was soft, not heavy. It smelled of cedar and rain, not deception.

A private veterinarian, a woman with gentle hands, was finishing wrapping Mochi’s leg in the corner of the expansive living room. "It’s a clean break," she whispered to Graham. "He’ll heal, but he needs rest."

I sat on a plush beige sofa, wrapped in a cashmere blanket, a mug of tea warming my frozen fingers. Graham sat across from me on the coffee table, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. He had listened to every word of my story without interrupting, his expression darkening with a terrifying, quiet fury as I described the crate, the wine, the terrace.

"He threw the cat," Graham repeated, his voice tight. It wasn't a question.

I nodded, staring into the tea. "He wanted to see if I would break."

"You didn't break, Selene," Graham said firmly. He reached out, his hand hovering over mine before gently covering it. His skin was warm. "You survived."

He stood up, pacing to the window that overlooked the same skyline Ares used as a backdrop for his cruelty.

"I’ve been looking for you," he admitted, turning back to me. "Since I sold the startup. I saw your portfolio online last month. The charcoal series. It was brilliant."

I flinched. "Lyla... she has the files. She has everything."

"We'll get it back," he said, the steel in his voice leaving no room for doubt. "But first, you need a place to land. The guest suite is yours for as long as you need. And I have an opening in the design department. Senior graphic lead. I don't want to hire you because I feel sorry for you, Selene. I want to hire you because you're the best artist I know."

I looked at him, searching for the catch, the trap, the hidden camera. But all I saw was the boy who used to share his lunch with me when I forgot mine.

"Why?" I whispered.

Graham smiled, a sad, genuine curve of his lips. "Because real loyalty isn't a test, Selene. It's a choice."