When I woke up, he was lying inches away from me, his head turned toward me, watching me, the trace of a smile on his lips.

“Did you mean what you said?” he asked, and I nodded.

That was all he needed to jump up, take my hand, and tell me, “Get dressed; it’s time.”

But when I asked what it was time for, he only shook his head.

Once we were both dressed, he took my hand again and led me back into the house, back through Monet, Renoir, then Degas, and into the last room, which was empty. It was empty of art, but had one door.

The door led outside, where, waiting for us, there were two helmets and a motorcycle. Laughing, I surveyed Carter incredulously.

“Exactly how many surprises do you have, Carter?”

Nearing me, brushing a stray hair out of my face, he said, “Oh, Donna, if I told you, I’d have to kiss you.”

Which I wasn’t at all against, except he was already lifting me up and placing me on the slick, black leather seat.

As he got on, Carter gave me the lowdown. “Put your feet on the back pedals, not the front. Wear this”—he brought over a glossy blue helmet, putting on the other one himself—“and hold on tight.”

After I’d put on my helmet, he turned the key. As the engine roared to life, I did as I was told, putting my hands around his chest, reveling in his hard muscles. Then, we were off, shooting out into the lavender fields.

It was surreal. All this—these beautiful flowers, this handsome, caring billionaire in my arms, the whole scene—happening to me, Donna Whitburn, was almost too good to be true. As we motored on, amid the noise, my mom’s old quote sounded in my ears: “If it’s too good to be true, it probably is.” Suddenly, I felt dizzy, like I was going to collapse.

As if he knew, Carter revved up the engine so we were flying ahead so fast the fields were whipping under our wheels, the wind in our faces. It was icy cold and exhilarating, and so fast that the fear was whipped out of me, too.

All I felt as I sailed along—to who knew where, with the man I might have known a bit or not at all—was jubilation, thankfulness for all my wild, unbelievable experiences these past few weeks, for the unbelievable experience I was having now, and, most of all, for the surprising, charming paragon of a man I was holding on to.

After a while, the fields gave way to dirt roads. A little later, the dirt roads changed to asphalt. We were soon gliding past one insanely big mansion after another, until, finally, we pulled up to an intimidating house that seemed vaguely familiar. Once in the driveway, Carter turned off the engine.

“It’s like my building,” he said, by way of explanation.

I nodded, suddenly understanding my apprehension before this impressive, black glass structure. Carter walked up the driveway and put his hand on a keypad, which, lighting up, beeped. The driveway door creaked open. The sight filled me with even more foreboding: an empty concrete box for the high-powered motorbike.

Next, we were walking back outside to the front door, and I was afraid. Carter seemed to have transformed. He walked at a fast clip without waiting for me. He hardly seemed to remember me at all.

At the black door, his hand pressed another keypad, and this time it was his front door that opened instantaneously. Inside was more black glass, more emptiness. There wasn’t a thing out of place. Hell, there was hardly any furniture to speak of at all. Grasping my hand like the leash of a dog, Carter led me through a hallway of echoing steps and more emptiness. The floor was black marble, the walls opaque glass.

I didn’t say anything because I wasn’t supposed to. I wasn’t here for myself; I was here to fill a need, to meet a purpose. There was no doubt what would happen as soon as his bedroom door closed. Harnesses, restraints, blindfolds, his naked, demanding flesh—those were how he would extract what he needed from me.

The whole idea of me coming here to see his art was bogus, a joke. This was the grand finale. This was what was expected of me, pure bodily satisfaction, dark desire sated. This was what I was intended for, and this was what I would be used for—unwillingly and yet, secretly, it would be pleasurable. That was the worst part. As Carter Ray led me to his bedroom to be used and tossed aside, as the realization that he cared nothing for me sank in with every cold, echoing footfall, all I felt was a twisted, horrible sort of want.

And yet, as we stopped in Carter’s bedroom, as the door closed with an efficient click behind me, Carter disappeared into his walk-in closet, and what he returned with was a stack of papers.

As I looked at them, I didn’t feel relief or gratitude for Carter, that he had actually meant what he had said, that he had actually wanted me to see his art. No, instead, as I looked from one drawing to another, I felt awe and…sadness.

For these scraps of paper (and that was what they were really—napkins, lined paper, memos) were scribbled with exquisite charcoal renditions—beautiful, and chilling. Men, people, buildings, all drawn with the same hard, concise lines, the same perfect form, as if the artist knew what to expect from each, as if each followed the same unremarkable laws.

It was a world that was accurate, sure, accurate to the last skillful line on each building’s exterior, and yet, it was a world without beauty, without wonder.

“Is this how you see things? How you see the world?” I asked Carter softly.

His face was turned away from me, but when he turned to me, it had that mask-like appearance I’d seen so long ago.

“Yes.”

As I studied his face, it didn’t change. He didn’t look upset by his admission; nor did he look angry or even concerned. No, he looked resigned.

I rose and touched him on the shoulder.

“You know, it doesn’t have to be that way.”

“No?”

“No,” I said, and I kissed him to show him how.

But, after a minute, he ripped himself away. As I stood there, my heart falling to the floor, he disappeared into the walk-in closet.

I waited. My cheeks burning, eyes watering, wanting to stomp after him and slap him or storm off and never return, I waited. I waited without knowing what I’d do if he didn’t come back, if he just stayed in there indefinitely, tormenting me just because he could.

But, a minute or so later, he emerged, his hands clasping a set of pastels and some drawings.

“Show me,” he said, his eyes burning. “Show me a different way.”

I nodded dumbly, and he led me back down the hallway, back through the entranceway and to another room. Another empty room except for a table with some charcoal drawings.

Carter flicked on a light and gestured to the small wooden chair set before the table. His face was still impassive. I accepted the pastels and drawings without a word.

Placing on the table the darkest one yet—a blank-faced man staring bleakly at the viewer—I looked over my shoulder at Carter.

“Are you sure?”

He nodded, and, turning back to the sketch of desolation before me, I got to work.

At first, I was stumped. How could anyone transform what was single-handedly the most desolate sketch I had ever seen? And who was I to say that it should be transformed, that there wasn’t a sad sort of truth to it, that it didn’t have value just the way it was?

The answer came as my hand clasped a yellow pastel stick. It had value, sure, but how many more images of misery did our world need? Wasn’t there already enough unhappiness nowadays? Couldn’t something that brought joy do so much more than another image reminding us of how empty this life could be?

Soon, my mind was humming with these thoughts and my hand was flitting along—yellow and orange, teal and green, a bit of purple. I forgot Carter was behind me. I forgot I was here at all in this cell-like room. All there was was the art. My hand moved of its own accord, fused with the pastel until I was it, the yellow swooping along so joyously, the orange its bright companion, until my hand ached, and yet, I was not finished.

No, I was only finished when, exhausted, the last green pastel fell to the table and, finally looking at the sketch, finally really seeing it, I let out a low gasp. It was done.

Whether Carter would like it, however, was another story.

I turned around, almost expecting him to be gone. But I found him in much the same position as I’d left him, standing with his arms folded and his face in that same mask-like expression.

“Here,” I said softly, lifting the sketch to him.

He accepted it without a word and regarded it with the same wordless neutrality. Then, after a minute, a smile began trembling onto his face, and, looking down at me, tears in his eyes, he nodded.

I stood up beside him, clasping his hand, regarding our creation, the beautiful fusion of color and shade, meaning and mystery. As I considered it, the meaning we’d instilled returned to me: the black, harshly-drawn man with the empty eyes was still there, sure, but he was amid a triumphant surge of trees and birds and swirls of colors that flowed into each other and him a little.

Looking at it, I was left with the same impression I’d had before. The color, the joy of life, had been there all along. It had been there behind him, only he hadn’t been able to see it with his eyes so black and narrowed at the scene ahead. And that meant that no matter the time, place, or circumstance, the same was true for all of us. The same potential for seeing the colors, the joy, the hope, was there, only it was a choice, a choice of what to view, of how to see the world. And in that, there was always hope; there always would be hope, because it was always a choice.

Just like now, how the man sweeping me up with new life in his eyes and pressing his lips to mine was suddenly freed, could suddenly see it as easily as I did, the colors everywhere, the happiness.

We flowed together once more, this fusion of want and need, adoration and worship. And it only made sense that we returned to his bed, where we had been bound since the start.

Words and movements, touch and taste slipped between us as easily as breath, and love was a word in every twitch of our bodies, the whole wonderful, marvelous celebration of love, him in me and me in him, united once again, finally.