Page 8 of Painter's Obsession

“Good for her,” I say, meaning it. If anyone deserved their happy ending, it’s Sandra.

But my mind keeps drifting back to the suit. His presence lingers like a shadow in the corner of my eye. I glance over my shoulder again, catching the faintest trace of a smirk on his face as Gab hands his phone back.

There’s something about him—too calm, too polished, like he doesn’t belong here but owns the place anyway.

I scoff, shaking it off, and focus again on Theresa, letting her fill me in on everything I’ve missed these past two years. But in the back of my head, the image of the suit sticks, and I can’t shake the feeling that he’s something more than just another stranger in a diner.

Chapter Five

Ren

Life has a funny way of delivering what I want—when I need it most. Inspiration. A muse to harvest. And today, the seedling of opportunity finally broke ground. It was all thanks to a coffee spill on a Marc Jacobs suit.

A smile tugs at my lips as I watch her type her number into my phone. Gabriela. Her name is as delicate as the petals of a rose, and just as alluring. I can feelhimwatching—the Thorn. Every rose has one, doesn’t it? But to sever the Thorn, I must first pluck the rose. Perhaps I could skip the game and go straight forhim,but where’s the fun in that? Watching him squirm as I take what he cherishes will be far more entertaining.

“Here. Again, sorry for the stain,” Gabriela says with a shy smile, handing me my phone. Her fingers linger for a moment, brushing mine.

“Stop,” I say, feigning warmth I don’t feel. “It’s really okay. It’ll be a nice memory.” My words are practiced, measured—justenough to let her believe this moment means something. But my attention is split. The Thorn’s gaze bores into me from across the diner, though I doubt he’ll act. Not yet. Soon, though, he’ll fall into the trap I’ve carefully set.

“Well, I’ll be texting you,” I add with a smile, slipping my phone into my pocket.

She laughs softly, a small dimple appearing in her cheek. “I guess I’ll be waiting then. Go free your clients.”

I nod and dip my head, as though her words carry weight. “Will do.”

As I turn to leave, I glance back at her, offering a small wave and a practiced smile—the kind that lingers. She waves back, her face still lit with that disarming smile, before she turns to sit beside her Thorn. My exit is like a scene from a movie, perfectly timed and deliberate.

Once outside, I pull out my phone and open the app connected to my studio’s cameras. My gaze flickers to the screen, where my current muse sits in shadow. The flower I once admired has withered, its petals dull and lifeless. She no longer inspires me. But I still need her—for now. She curves the craving, dulls the ache until I find my next spark. Turning off the app, I shove the phone back into my pocket as I approach my car.

The beep of the alarm echoes through the parking lot. Sliding into the leather seat, I glance at my phone again. It buzzes with a call from Flores, my assistant. I already know what this is about.

“Mr. Sato, a client at the downtown office needs to schedule a consultation,” she says, her voice punctuated by the snap of gum.

I hate when she does that. I can picture her now perched at her desk, red wine lipstick smudged on the rim of her coffee cup, her nails clicking on the counter. Waiting for an opening. She’s predictable. Desperate.

“You know my schedule, Flores,” I say flatly. “Figure it out. Schedule something that works for both of us.”

The gum snaps again, sharp and deliberate. “Ren…” she begins, but I cut her off before she can finish.

“Not in the mood,” I reply curtly, ending the call before she can say anything else.

Her desperation bores me. Like the others, she’s a pawn—useful only until she’s not. And when her time is up, she’ll be discarded. Just like the withered flower in my studio.

The day at the courthouse is full of assholes and people handing out posters of the missing woman.Mary Jane Taylor.Blonde hair, green eyes, a smile that could warm the coldest heart.Too bad it had no effect on me.Not her tears, not her pleas.

But watching her bleed for me? Now thataffectsme in more ways than one.

I lean back in my seat, half-listening to the prosecutor, Jamie Curtis—a recent divorcée who loves sucking me off after hours. She’s droning on about my client’s case, her words bleeding together with the rhythmic hum of a ceiling fan overhead. I’m a great lawyer. The best. But days like this? When I have to work harder to keep the worst of humanity out of a cage they’ll end up back in soon enough—it feels like a goddamn chore.

“You’re client should take the deal. Fifty-five months is more than fair,” she drawls, tossing the file across the table.

I smile, licking my teeth. She’s right. Fifty-five months and three years of probation would be a gift for the kind of shit this guy pulled. But appearances matter, and I’ve got a role to sell. The caring, relentless defender. “How about thirty months and four years probation?”

She bites her bottom lip, her smile curling into something between amusement and interest. “Maybe we should talk about this over dinner.”

The deal’s already mine—I know it, and so does she. “Tell you what, Curtis,” I say smoothly, leaning in just enough to let her hand brush over my chest as she pretends to fix my tie. “Type up the deal. I’ll make sure to pencil you in.”

“Always a pleasure, Sato,” she purrs, flashing that overly eager grin.

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