The Artist and the Gay Billionaire

Genevieve’s POV

The paint on my brush had started to dry before I realized I had been staring at the same corner of the canvas for almost ten minutes.

I sighed and lowered my hand.

The woman on the canvas stared back at me with half-finished eyes. She was supposed to look peaceful. Free, even. Instead, she looked tired.

Maybe that was because I was tired.

I stepped away from the easel and rubbed my forehead with the back of my wrist, forgetting there was still blue paint on my skin until I felt the cold smear against my temple.

“Perfect,” I muttered.

The studio was quiet except for the low hum of the old standing fan in the corner. It barely worked anymore. Every few minutes, it made an ugly rattling sound like it was threatening to give up completely.

I understood the feeling.

Outside the wide front window, the street had already gone dark. Most of the shops around me were closed. The coffee shop across the road had turned off its sign almost an hour ago, and the only light still burning on this side of the street was mine.

I should have gone home.

I had told myself that at seven.

Then at eight.

Now the small clock above my desk said 9:17 p.m.

Home didn’t feel much better anyway.

At least here, surrounded by paint, brushes, unfinished canvases, and the smell of turpentine, I could pretend my life was still normal.

I could pretend Dad was going to call and complain that I worked too much.

I could pretend his office wasn’t empty.

I could pretend there weren’t unopened envelopes stacked on my kitchen table because every time I looked at them, my chest tightened.

It had been almost three months since my father died.

Three months, and somehow people expected grief to become easier because enough days had passed.

It didn’t.

Some mornings I woke up forgetting he was gone.

Then I remembered.

Those were the worst mornings.

A knock sounded against the glass door.

I jumped.

My brush slipped from my fingers and hit the floor.

“God.”

I looked toward the entrance.

A man stood outside wearing a dark suit and holding a leather briefcase.

For one stupid second, my heart leapt because he had the same slightly hunched shoulders my father had when he was tired.

Then the man stepped closer to the light.

Mr. Bennett.

My father’s lawyer.

My stomach tightened.

Nothing good came from lawyers visiting after nine at night.

I walked to the door and unlocked it.

“Mr. Bennett?”

“Genevieve.”

He gave me a tired smile.

That made everything worse.

“You’re still working.”

“I could say the same thing about you.”

“I tried calling.”

I glanced toward my phone on the table.

It had been on silent for hours.

“Sorry.”

“It’s all right.”

He looked past me into the studio, then back at me.

“May I come in?”

I wanted to say no.

I wanted to tell him whatever he had come to say could wait until tomorrow.

But something in his expression told me it couldn’t.

I stepped aside.

He entered quietly.

“Would you like coffee?” I asked.

“No, thank you.”

“Water?”

“I’m fine.”

Of course he was.

People always said they were fine right before ruining your life.

I closed the door and folded my arms.

“What happened?”

He hesitated.

That hesitation sent cold fear crawling through me.

“Is it about my father?”

“Yes.”

I swallowed.

“What about him?”

Mr. Bennett looked toward the small sofa near the back wall.

“Perhaps we should sit.”

“I’d rather stand.”

“Genevieve.”

“Please.”

My voice came out sharper than I intended.

He studied me for a moment before nodding.

“All right.”

He placed his briefcase on the table and opened it.

The moment I saw the thick folder inside, my palms went cold.

“I’ve been reviewing your father’s business accounts since his death,” he said.

“I know.”

“There are certain things I haven’t discussed with you yet.”

My jaw tightened.

“Why?”

“Because we were still trying to confirm the extent of the liabilities.”

“Liabilities.”

The word sounded harmless.

Almost polite.

I hated it immediately.

“How bad is it?”

Mr. Bennett removed several documents and placed them on the table.

“Your father’s company had been struggling for longer than you knew.”

“I knew business was bad.”

“You knew some of it.”

I stared at him.

“What does that mean?”

He exhaled slowly.

“Your father borrowed heavily over the last two years.”

“How heavily?”

His silence answered before his mouth did.

“Mr. Bennett.”

“Several million dollars.”

For a second, I genuinely thought I had heard him wrong.

I laughed.

Not because anything was funny.

It was just the only sound my body knew how to make.

“Several million?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Genevieve.”

“No, that’s impossible.”

I moved closer to the table and looked at the papers without understanding anything printed on them.

Numbers.

Company names.

Signatures.

My father’s signature.

Again.

Again.

Again.

“He didn’t have millions,” I whispered.

“That is why he borrowed.”

I looked at Mr. Bennett.

“From banks?”

“Some.”

My stomach dropped.

“Some?”

“The largest portion came through private financing.”

I didn’t like the way he said that.

“From who?”

Mr. Bennett’s eyes held mine.

“The Blackwell family.”

Everything inside me went still.

Even I knew that name.

Everyone did.

Blackwell Holdings owned pieces of almost everything. Hotels. Property. Technology. Finance. Shipping. There were Blackwell buildings across the city with their name stamped in silver letters high above the entrances like they owned the sky too.

And Adrian Blackwell was the face of it all.

Cold. Rich. Untouchable.

The kind of billionaire who appeared in business magazines looking like smiling would physically hurt him.

I looked back at the documents.

“How much?”

“Genevieve.”

“How much do we owe them?”

“Your father’s outstanding obligations, including the other creditors, are just under eight million.”

The room seemed to tilt.

I gripped the edge of the table.

Eight million.

I sold paintings for three thousand dollars on a good month.

Sometimes five.

Sometimes nothing.

Eight million might as well have been eight hundred million.

I forced myself to breathe.

“Okay.”

Mr. Bennett frowned.

“Okay?”

“I’ll pay it.”

“Genevieve.”

“I said I’ll pay it.”

“With what?”

The question cut deeper than it should have.

I looked at him.

“I have the house.”

His face changed.

My chest tightened.

“What?”

“The house is part of the estate.”

“What does that mean?”

“It was used as security against one of the loans.”

“No.”

“I am sorry.”

“No.”

My voice cracked that time.

I turned away quickly.

The house.

My house.

The white two-storey home where my mother had planted roses before she died. The stairs Dad had threatened to fix for six years but never did. The kitchen where he burned pancakes every Christmas morning and insisted they were supposed to be black.

They couldn’t take that.

“They can’t take the house.”

“If the debt is called in, they can.”

I turned back.

“What about this studio?”

Mr. Bennett didn’t answer fast enough.

My heart sank.

“No.”

“The property is still technically connected to your father’s company.”

“This is mine.”

“I know.”

“He gave it to me.”

“I know.”

“So they can’t take it.”

“There was never a formal transfer.”

I stared at him.

The urge to cry hit me so violently that I actually stopped breathing for a second.

Not here.

Not in front of him.

I pressed my lips together and looked up at the ceiling.

My eyes burned.

I blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Then I swallowed everything.

“All right.”

“Genevieve, you don’t have to pretend this isn’t frightening.”

“I’m not pretending.”

“You are.”

I looked at him.

“I said I’ll handle it.”

“There may be ways to negotiate.”

“With the Blackwells?”

“Yes.”

I almost laughed again.

Men like the Blackwells didn’t negotiate with women like me.

They swallowed people like me.

“What happens now?”

“For the moment, nothing immediate. But that could change.”

“How soon?”

“I don’t know.”

I nodded slowly.

Mr. Bennett gathered some of the documents.

“I’ll leave copies with you.”

“Wonderful.”

“Genevieve.”

I looked away.

His voice softened.

“Your father loved you.”

My throat tightened.

“Please don’t.”

“He didn’t mean to leave this behind.”

“I know.”

“He was trying to save the company.”

“I said I know.”

This time my voice broke completely.

Silence filled the studio.

I stared at the unfinished painting because looking at him felt impossible.

After a moment, I heard the briefcase close.

“I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

“Go home tonight.”

“Okay.”

He knew I was lying.

He didn’t argue.

The door clicked shut behind him.

I stood there alone.

For a long time, I didn’t move.

Then I slowly sank onto the stool beside my easel.

Eight million.

The number wouldn’t stop echoing in my head.

Eight million.

My home.

My studio.

Everything my father left.

I covered my face with both hands.

This time there was no one there to see me cry.

So I did.

Quietly at first.

Then harder.

My shoulders shook as weeks of grief, anger, and fear finally broke through the wall I had been holding up since the funeral.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Dad?” I whispered.

Of course there was no answer.

There never would be again.

My phone vibrated on the table.

I ignored it.

It vibrated again.

I wiped my face with my sleeve and reached for it, expecting Mr. Bennett.

Instead, there was an email notification.

The sender made my heart stop.

BLACKWELL HOLDINGS.

I opened it.

The message was short.

Formal.

Cold.

Miss Genevieve Clarke,

Mr. Adrian Blackwell requests your presence at Blackwell Tower tomorrow morning at 10:00 a.m. regarding the outstanding financial obligations of the Clarke estate.

This will be a private meeting.

I read it twice.

Then a third time.

Adrian Blackwell.

Not one of his lawyers.

Not an assistant.

Him.

I slowly lifted my eyes from the screen.

The man whose family could take my father’s house, my studio, and almost everything I had left wanted to see me personally.

And somehow, that frightened me more than the eight million dollars.

Genevieve’s POV

I barely slept.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the email again.

Mr. Adrian Blackwell requests your presence at Blackwell Tower tomorrow morning at 10:00 a.m.

Requests.

That was a polite word for it.

Men like Adrian Blackwell did not request things from people like me.

They summoned them.

By nine-thirty the next morning, I was standing across the street from Blackwell Tower with a paper cup of coffee I had not touched.

The building looked exactly like I imagined something belonging to the Blackwells would look.

Tall.

Cold.

Expensive.

The entire front was made of dark glass that reflected the city back at itself. The Blackwell name sat above the entrance in silver letters large enough to be seen from half the street away.

People moved in and out through the revolving doors in perfect su