Scrolling through the texts and emails on his personal phone, Matty didn’t feel as entertained as usual. The movie projected on the wall opposite his bed hardly thrilled him either, but normally a few angry texts would brighten his day considerably. A couple of days ago he would’ve found it hilarious to see his ex-girlfriends trying to get in contact with him, his brother complaining about his divorce, and his old employees begging for their jobs back.

After Christina, he just felt like an asshole. These were people who wanted him, needed him even, and he was treating them horribly. At least she had an excuse. She had a job. He wasn’t all that important to her. These were people who had, at one time, mattered to him. And now he used their suffering for idle entertainment. To distract himself from the fact that his own life, however free of drama, was hollow and boring.

Then he saw it. An email notification from Miss Christina F. Smith.

Her name stood out like a neon sign, shining beautifully, and just inviting him to click on it. His heartbeat sped up at the thought that she was trying to get in contact with him. His mind was suddenly overwhelmed by a desire to read her words.

He fantasized briefly about what she’d say. Was she begging to get back in touch with him? Was she apologizing for how she’d behaved, leaving him for another client? Was she asking about his art? Another date? He grinned. Perhaps she wanted another night in his bed? Of course she did. Who wouldn’t?

Most likely it was strictly professional. Arranging the schedule for the next day, or telling him off for being so disorganized. But a man could hope. Even so, he found himself incredibly eager to just see some words she’d put together for his attention.

He slumped against the pillow when he noticed it was a CC email, not one for him personally. He nearly deleted it without reading. But, it could still be important. Even if she was treating him like he was just some other guy, he should open it.

He lay back on the bed. “Mia, pause the film.”

The film paused.

“Read email.”

“To whom it may concern,

I’m sorry but I won’t be available to work for the foreseeable future. I need to go home to the U.S. to deal with a family emergency. I’ve attached a list of colleagues who may be able to see to your immediate needs.

I apologize for any inconvenience this may cause, and will refund pre-paid appointments when I return.

Kindest regards,

Christina Francesca Smith.”

For a moment the content of the email refused to sink in. The only thing he could think of was how she was, in fact, American, but not South American, as he’d assumed. She was North American, though probably not a descendant of immigrants.

He shrugged. She’d integrated well into the UK. Though he’d found something off about her accent. Her mannerisms were very British, and her knowledge of their customs and geography very precise. She’d been as meticulous about integrating as she was about everything else. It shouldn’t have surprised him, but it did. Despite his business, he’d actually never been to America. Only watched the movies and shows on television. She did kind of sound like them.

But that email—what a pile of bullshit. If she didn’t want to work for him or see him any longer, she should’ve just told him. She wasn’t normally such a pussy about things. She might’ve fooled the other idiots she sent it to, but he knew better. There was no family emergency. There was no trip back to America. She was just making an excuse. Perhaps because she was ashamed of what’d happened last night. Perhaps because she had too much work and couldn’t keep up with the steady demand. Whatever the case, she was trying to inconspicuously get rid of some contacts.

It wasn't like he hadn't done this to other people before, of course, but this was different. He liked Christina. He’d showed her some respect—showed her his damn art for God’s sake. Nobody else was privileged enough to see it. He’d thought that they shared something special, something different. At the very least, something that would require her to be honest about her intentions. Apparently, that was not the case. She was perfectly happy to send him a fucking CC email lying about her life, just to get rid of him.

What a total bitch.

Normally, he would let something like this slide. He would just not talk to her. He’d wait until she came back asking for his time and energy and ignore her like everyone else on his phone. But this was personal. He wanted to confront her about lying to him.

* * *

He’d tried to sleep, unsuccessfully, all night long. He stared over at where he’d woken to Christina the day before.

Fucking hell. I’m a mess.

He felt incredibly empty, and some of his initial anger had subsided. Maybe he’d overreacted some.

He didn't feel like working. For some reason, the feelings she aroused in him had returned. He wanted to finish that painting. He wanted to fill it with the colors of his heart and soul, to make sure it properly represented her. He made his way to the studio, ignoring Mr. Johannes' greeting and the sound of the post arriving. He just needed a few minutes of painting to clear his head before he dealt with anyone else.

Walking into his studio, he looked at her portrait. The same painting she didn't even know was her. She’d appreciated it. Seemed more interested in his work than he’d shown in hers. She may not have understood it at all. She may have complained about the mess in his room and been confused about how comfortable he was with the lack of cleanliness. But she hadn’t tried to change it.

It was odd how her desire for order seemed to make her respect chaos. She was able to do so many things he was not able to do, and yet she respected when he did the opposite. Meanwhile, he admired only himself, only his own work, and sneered at those who tried to place some order in his life, as though they were the problem. However cold Christina had seemed, she had a sort of humanity, a sort of dignity about her that he could only dream of possessing.

But for all those abilities, she was unable to draw on people like he did, to make a friend, to hold down a relationship. For all the wealthy people in her life, none were her friends. He decided he should at least call her.

“Mia, call—fuck it, I’ll do it myself.”

Mia attempted to find a contact for “fuck it, I’ll do it myself.”

“Worthless piece of shit.” He scoffed at the screen on the wall as he scrolled through the numbers in his phone and took a deep breath before tapping on hers.

The phone purred in his ear, and she didn’t answer. Straight to voicemail.

He’d get to the bottom of this. He knew people.

* * *

Five hours later, he’d received a call and felt like an even bigger asshole. Not only was Christina’s father basically terminal, the insurance company refused to pay his bills. Because he’d had the cancer before, the insurance had deemed it was a pre-existing condition and refused to cover his treatment.

The man Matty had called on was quite skilled. He’d hacked into Christina’s accounts and done some online sleuthing. What he came back with hadn’t surprised him. The medical bills were around forty thousand pounds. It was nothing to Matty. But, Christina had nobody with which she could call on for help. The amount would take all her savings to cover. It was merely a drop in the bucket to him, but she would be far too proud to ask him for help.

He knew Christina was capable of interacting with humans. She was just too proud or too stubborn to do it. Deep inside her eyes, he could tell that she wanted to be loved, and wanted a companion.

She was just really bad at accepting it.

Meanwhile, he craved order and structure. He needed it. He needed it so much that he’d tried to finish his father's design that would organize someone’s entire life. He’d called in a professional to show him what he was doing wrong.

He wanted to follow schedules, to control his passions. He wanted to be orderly and disciplined.

He was just equally as bad at it.

Matty wanted to help her. And he would. It was his money, his life. Forty thousand pounds was nothing at all to him. It wasn't about passion, or emotion, or getting anything back. It was about the raw fact that he had more money than he needed, and she didn’t.

If she was actively working at being passionate, the least he could do was try and be a bit more disciplined.