Matty wasn't sure how or why she’d come to his studio. Normally, he hated anyone being in there. On one occasion he’d kicked Mr. Johannes out just for bringing his tea too far into the room. Everything was too frail, too personal, too private. Not to mention he’d gone there purposely to escape her. Give her time to work and for him to sort out these feelings he was experiencing. But no, she’d crashed right through another one of his walls, with no regard for his personal space.

He loved his art. Deeply and passionately. It was just something that made perfect sense to him when the world did not. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t understand how most people could stick to deadlines, follow time without losing track of it, or do the same thing every hour of every day without going mad. It was part of the reason he’d created Mia, so he would have something to do all that dull work for him.

But even Mia made no sense at all. She got things wrong, communicated awkwardly, and created schedules that didn’t suit him at all.

Only art made sense. And art was how he pushed the rest of the world away. Art could be messy and chaotic. It could be left and resumed with ease. Art was his little haven from reality. A person so used to order, so used to cleanliness and organization as Christina most certainly did not belong in there.

And yet, he liked having her there. He liked her watching him intently. Like all structured people without any artistic inclinations, she was in complete and utter awe of how his hands made the canvas come to life. Those people would never understand. They were the sort of person who painted by numbers and drew on a grid in art school. They could never experience what it was to feel art, any more than he could understand what it was to experience natural order.

But she seemed to appreciate it—see the beauty in all he did. And that was what counted.

She could stay. Just a little while, but she could stay. As he continued painting the woman's figure from his mind's eye, he realized that he was painting her. Stretched out, hands above her head, outlined in the reds, blues, and grays of her last three suits, her beautiful figure exposed, legs open, one side of the outline sharp and structured, the other half wild and flowing.

It was everything he saw in her, all her beauty. He felt fairly satisfied. But, it needed a nice deep brown too. Like her dark hair and eyes. Something to highlight her subtly warm soul, her strictness, her hidden passions.

He walked between a couple of sculptures, knowing exactly where he would find a warm mahogany paint, picking it up from the floor and swiftly marching back to the canvas.

“You can actually find your way around in this mess, can’t you?”

“I know where everything is.” He opened the small tin and dipped a fresh brush into it, wondering whether to leave it bold or stir some red glitter into it before painting her eyes and hair.

“How? There’s shit everywhere. How do you find anything?”

“I suppose I just feel it.” He snickered. “I know it sounds like bullshit, but I just know where something is going to be in here. In nature, nothing is alphabetized or put on shelves, and animals find their food and water just fine. I find my paints the same way.”

“So, you're telling me you can sense where a can of paint is when it's halfway across this room, but you can't find a check on your desk?” She eyed him suspiciously.

“That’s exactly what I just told you.” He stirred some glitter into the brown paint, seeing the warmth and light bring it to life.

“You’re a creative soul. What the hell are you doing as head of an IT company that’s goal is to organize people’s lives?”

“It's not like I chose it. I inherited the business from my father when he passed away. I suppose I want to do what he would have wanted from me.”

“Why don’t your two brothers take the business?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You really have done your homework.” Matty nodded lightly. “I do have two brothers. But surely from your detective work, you’d have read that Ewan inherited another business that he’d rather be working on, and Stephen spent all his inheritance on cocaine. He just came out of prison two years ago and is not to be trusted.”

She looked away. “I-I didn’t know that.”

“It's not something we talk about much to the press.” He began to paint her hair in thick, curved strokes.

“But why not have Ewan take over? Or sell the business and focus on your art? Why keep working on new computer projects that ultimately fail because you’re not passionate about it? It makes no sense.”

“I like the money.” He smirked at her.

“But you don't need the money.” She looked around at the room once more, seemingly in total awe of her surroundings. “Nobody needs this much money.”

“I didn't say need, I said like. I know I don't need it. I just feel pleased when I see my bank account going up every month.”

She paused. “Wouldn’t selling the company make your bank account go up?”

“I already calculated that. I stand to make more if I just keep working with the company. Long-term investment.” He sighed in frustration. What was it to her if he wanted to keep investing his time and energy into a company he hated? She wasn't there to psychoanalyze him, or fix his business. She was just there to make sure he was organized enough to not miss meetings. He stared at her over his shoulder.

“You’re going to run out of money if you keep making products that ruin people's lives like that fucking Mia.” Her eyes met his.

“Mia was my father's pet project. He wanted to make a house that could look after itself, and all its inhabitants. I would at least like to see that project to its conclusion.”

“Your dad ordered Mia?”

“No, my father designed Mia.”

“Was your dad as bad at IT as you are?”

Matty whipped around, clearly annoyed at this point. “No, he was a genius. He just never completely finished her. We're having to iron out the kinks without him.”

Christina nodded. “So, Mia was left unfinished? That makes sense, actually.”

“Whatever did she do to you?” Matty’s eyes went to the floor. He didn’t enjoy hearing her rip apart his father’s work.

“Well, I tried to call you and Mr. Johannes but she wouldn't let me, and then she played Leonard Cohen at me while I looked for you. I can't even remember the last time I heard Leonard Cohen before today. Probably at my grandpa's house. And it wouldn’t go away until your music took over when I got to this room. That’s how I figured out you were back here and found the place.”

He laughed. “That's actually kind of funny.”

“I’m sure it is when it’s not happening to you.” She couldn’t keep her smile suppressed.

“She’ll work out in the end. It always works out in the end.”

“It doesn't for people who aren’t loaded. Most people's mistakes cost them their business. Relationships, hobbies, even their lives.”

“Mine don't. That's what matters.”

“Until someone won't take your money, or it runs out.”

He wanted to be angry at her. But she had a point. It only ever really worked out because he could afford to pay someone else to get the job done, or to lie for him. If the business truly went under, or they were sued for everything they owned, or someone wouldn't fix a problem for him, no matter how much he paid them, he’d be screwed.

He continued painting the thick waves of hair cascading down the gray woman's shoulders, the red glitter shining in the light the same way Christina's hair had shone when let loose.

He glanced over at her to admire her hair once more, wondering if she had worked out that he was painting her.

She was staring at her phone. Looking up, she made eye contact with him. She didn’t seem as relaxed or as entertained as before. “I have to go. Another client’s having trouble with his latest secretary and he needs me to help them out.”

“Another client?” Matty’s jaw flexed, and his fingers tightened on the paintbrush. “You have other clients?”

She nodded. “Uhh, yeah. This is a business, not a marriage. I try and give sixty or seventy percent of my attention to my newest client, to make sure they get the help they need, but I still go back to my old clients from time to time and make sure everything is in order.”

“I thought you were only working for me today.”

“I was. But Mr. Emery needs me more. I need to help him.” She stood up and dropped her phone into her handbag.

“How are his needs more urgent than mine? You've seen what a mess everything is for me.” He suddenly realized how desperate he sounded and straightened up. “Besides, you already began your work day for me. I'm not about to pay you to walk away, you know?”

“We’ll pick this up tomorrow, but I need to hurry. I have to get changed before I get there. Can’t show up in this.”

He paused and looked at her dress, a bit confused. “It looks fine.”

“It's covered in paint. I can’t go to work covered in paint. Look, I will see you tomorrow. Thank you for understanding.”

She walked off before he could say anything else, stepping over the still-creeping puddle of yellow paint. She disappeared into the maze of sculptures and canvasses. A few seconds later he heard the door open and shut. And he was alone in the studio again.

He stared at the painting before drawing a large brush stroke through the middle of the figure. Fuck that bitch. She’d completely ruined his inspiration. And he’d been on a roll too. It was looking so good and now he had no clue how to finish it. She’d just sat there getting paid to watch him paint, even if she said it was her lunch break. Bullshit. She’d eat something when she got to her house. He was sure of it.

He also wasn't sure why, but he’d thought they shared something special, something unique. He’d thought that her feelings for him were deep and meaningful. But apparently it was all just business. Apparently, last night hadn’t impressed her, nor affected her, as much as he’d thought.

Wiping himself down roughly with a towel to remove some of the paint, he slipped out of his painting clothes and into a pair of plain jeans and a clean t-shirt. He couldn't do any more painting today. The whole artistic flow was nothing but muddled shit now. He may as well go to the office and see if he could do any work. If she was going to walk off like that, then he needed to know how to handle his own business. He didn’t need her, or anyone else to tell him how to run his own damn life.

But he wanted her attention again. He hated her for that. Not actually hated, but she frustrated him to no end.

He sighed and decided to send her a bonus. It was how all problems were fixed, after all, wasn't it? Just send enough money through and she would have to come back. She herself had admitted to it. Everyone had a price.

Or had she meant that she was not going to be bought with money? Walking into the office and closing the door behind himself, he froze. What if that had been her subtle way of telling him that he had no power over her? She could not be bought. She would always have other clients, and she was not his own personal toy to play with.

And he damn sure wanted to own her. Now, more than ever.

He didn't want to marry. He never had. It hadn't worked for his father, or his brothers, or any of his friends. They’d all tried marriage, and all come out of it paying child support, losing a house, or just being bitter and miserable bastards with blue balls. He’d been put off that sort of contract for good reason.

But a long-term relationship was another matter. He’d dated a few beautiful women, almost monogamously, for a year or more. The experience hadn’t exactly thrilled him. For all the fun of a long-term relationship with frequent sex, and for all the social merits of having a stunning woman on his arm, he always found the experience stressful. Most of these models and actresses and socialites were just in it to get a ring on their finger, swiftly followed by a divorce and a hefty payment. As soon as they found out that marriage was not an option, they’d magically vanish. And he’d grown so tired of the game that he hadn’t dated seriously in a few years. It was easier that way.

Now, he felt tempted to give it another try. Not with a model, or someone whose main goal was to trick him into marriage for the sake of money. Just with a woman who was on the same page as he was. A woman who wanted a long, stable, happy romance without involving the government. Perhaps that was a good idea? Especially with a woman like Christina.

Someone who looked after herself. Who was smart and calm. Who did not complain about things she didn’t understand, like his art. A nice independent woman, who could get by on her own and not complain about him needing to take business trips, or be late at the office.

But if she didn't see their relationship as anything more than business, then what odds did it make? He had to see the arrangement for what it was. Just like she had not complained much about his art, he could not complain much about her work, her organization, her straightforward attitude.

He sat back at his desk and looked at the piles of paper she’d been sorting. He couldn't deny that she was doing an amazing job. And that was what he had paid her to do.