chapter 4

Elara's POV:

The words hit me like a physical blow.

I stared at him, my mind racing to catch up, to make sense of what he was saying. "What?"

"The sketch in your book." His voice was carefully neutral, but I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw had tightened. "That was my son, Cassian."

Understanding crashed over me in a cold wave—no wonder he'd paused when he saw the sketch. But shock followed immediately after: I'd drawn that face from grief and imagination, a child who'd never drawn breath, and somehow it had aligned with reality.

"How old is your son?" The question escaped before I could stop it.

"Four."

The word hit me like a physical blow. Four years old. The same age mine would have been.

I must have gone pale, because his voice cut through my daze, sharp and questioning.

"Miss Ashford?"

I blinked, forcing myself back to the present. "I'm sorry, I just—" I gestured helplessly at the sketchbook. "That drawing, it wasn't based on anything real. I just... imagined it. I had no idea—"

His eyes narrowed slightly, skepticism clear in his expression.

He was silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on some point past my shoulder. When he finally looked back at me, his eyes held a vulnerability I hadn't expected, a rawness that made my chest ache.

"Vivienne mentioned you're starting at Thornfield next week."

"Yes. Artist-in-residence." My mind was racing, trying to understand where this conversation was going, what he wanted from me.

"Cassian will be enrolled there. He has..." He paused, and I could see him choosing his words carefully. "Issues. Selective mutism. Attachment disorder. "

The bitter edge to his words suggested a story there, something that had gone wrong in ways that still haunted him.

I thought of those lonely eyes in my dream, and felt a flicker of sympathy—both for the tension radiating from the man before me and for the child caught in whatever storm surrounded him.

But I pushed the feeling aside, keeping my expression neutral. This wasn't about emotion; it was about professional boundaries.

"Mr. Hale, I'm not a licensed therapist. I'm just an artist who works with children. I use art as a way to help them express things they can't or won't say out loud. But I don't have the credentials to treat actual psychological disorders."

"Good." The word came out harsh, and I blinked in surprise.

He stepped closer, close enough that I could see the fine lines around his eyes, the muscle jumping in his jaw.

"He doesn't need another therapist trying to fix him like he's broken. He needs someone who will actually see him. Who will let him be who he is instead of trying to force him into some neurotypical box."

The passion in his voice, the fierce protectiveness, made my throat tight.

This wasn't the cold businessman who'd dismissed me earlier, wasn't the art collector who moved through galleries like he owned them. This was a father, desperate and afraid and trying so hard not to show it.

"I can't promise anything," I said quietly. "Every child is different. What works for one might not work for another. And if he has selective mutism, he might not respond to art therapy at all."

"But you'll try."

It wasn't quite a question, but I nodded anyway, feeling the weight of that agreement settle onto my shoulders like a physical thing.

"I'll try. But you need to understand—I work slowly. I don't push. If Cassian doesn't want to engage, I won't force him. That's not how I do things."

"That's exactly how I want you to do things." He pulled a card from his pocket—not a business card, I noticed, but something simpler, just a phone number embossed on heavy cardstock. "My private number. Text me when you're ready to start. I'll arrange everything."

I took the card, my fingers brushing his in a brief contact that sent an unexpected jolt through my system.

I pulled back quickly, tucking the card into my pocket, and tried to ignore the way my heart was racing. "I should get back upstairs. My grandmother will be looking for me."

"Of course." But he didn't move, didn't step back to let me pass. Instead, he studied my face with that same intense focus, as if he were trying to memorize my features, catalogue every detail for future reference. "One more thing, Miss Ashford."

"Yes?"

"Don't let them change you." He gestured vaguely upward, toward the main gallery and its well-dressed crowd.

Before I could respond, he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing in the empty corridor.

I stood frozen, my hand pressed against the pocket where his card rested, trying to make sense of everything that had just happened.

The collision, the conversation, the unexpected job offer—it all felt surreal, like something that had happened to someone else.

I made my way back upstairs on unsteady legs, my mind still churning. The main gallery felt too bright, too loud after the quiet intensity of that lower corridor, and I found myself searching the crowd for Vivienne's familiar figure.

I needed to leave, needed space to think and process and figure out what I'd just agreed to.

But before I could locate my grandmother, a hand touched my elbow.

I turned to find Marcus—the older man who'd helped gather my scattered supplies—standing beside me.

His expression was serious, almost grave. "Miss Ashford, I've worked for Mr. Hale for ten years. I've never seen him ask for help. "

The words settled heavily in the space between us. I looked down at the card, at the simple string of numbers that represented a direct line to one of the most powerful men in London. "What are you trying to say?"

"Cassian is everything to him." His voice dropped even lower, and I had to lean in to hear him over the gallery noise.

"If you take this job, don't do it half-heartedly. And don't..." He paused, his weathered face creasing with something that might have been concern. "Don't hurt that boy. He's been through enough."

The warning was clear, as was the threat implicit beneath it.

I met his eyes and saw the fierce loyalty there, the willingness to do whatever it took to protect his employer's son. "I won't," I said quietly. "I promise."

He nodded, seeming satisfied.

Then he was gone, melting back into the crowd with the practiced ease of someone who'd spent years being invisible.

I stood alone, clutching two identical cards, and felt the weight of the afternoon pressing down on me like a physical force.

I'd come here hoping to make connections, to maybe sell a piece or two, to please my grandmother and justify the faith she'd placed in me. Instead, I'd assaulted a billionaire with art supplies, been offered a job I wasn't qualified for, and received what amounted to a veiled threat from a man who looked like he could break me in half without breaking a sweat.