The morning stretched itself lazily across the Velasco estate, pale sunlight filtering through gauzy curtains that never quite kept the heat out. Althea sat by the wide open window of her borrowed room, a jar of paintbrushes at her side and a makeshift easel balanced in front of her. Her fingers were already smeared in shades of blue and violet, the colors streaked across the canvas like whispers of the early sky.
Painting had always been the one thing that anchored her, the quiet ritual where her heart slowed and the noise in her mind dulled to a hum. Today, she wanted to capture the sky; not the sky as it was, but the way it felt. Vast. Heavy with summer light. A little too golden at the edges.
The heat, however, was merciless. She tugged her hair back into a loose knot with an irritated huff.
"This sun is plotting my murder," she muttered under her breath, glaring up at the wide-open window.
And then, without warning, a voice came from behind her. "Should I call the police, then? Report the sun for attempted homicide?"
Althea startled so violently that her paintbrush dragged a thick, unplanned streak across the sky. "Max!" Althea pressed a hand over her chest. "Do you want me to die from a heart attack?!"
He had the audacity to shrug, completely unbothered. "Wouldn't be the worst way to go. At least you'd die in the presence of greatness."
She glared. "Greatness in what?"
"In everything," he said smoothly, reaching out before she could protest. He picked up her brush, twirling it between his fingers like he had any right to. "So, what are we painting here? A sad sky? The end of days? Or is this one of those deep metaphorical pieces about your inner turmoil?"
"It's a skyscape," she said flatly, snatching the brush back. "And it was peaceful until you arrived."
He chuckled and sat down beside her, not even asking if he could. His long legs stretched out across the rug, dangerously close to the jars of water. "It looks nice. Almost…real."
"Almost?"
He leaned back on his palms, eyeing her work with exaggerated seriousness. "Well, the colors are good. But that cloud looks like an awkward potato. Not very sky-like."
Her jaw dropped. "It's mist, you hypocrite."
"Oh, excuse me, mist." He raised his hands in mock surrender. "But if it's mist, shouldn't it look…mystical? Right now it just looks like my breakfast omelet gone wrong."
She groaned, covering her face with her paint-streaked fingers. "Why am I even letting you look at this? You don't deserve art. You deserve stick figures."
Max chuckled, enjoying himself far too much. "Stick figures can be art too, you know. Minimalism. But seriously, it's good. You're talented, Althea."
The unexpected sincerity in his voice cracked her usual wall. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, wondering if he was teasing. But he wasn't. He was watching the painting as if the colors had caught him in their gravity. She quickly turned back to the canvas before he could notice.
Max, of course, wasn't done. He reached into the small tray he'd been carrying. She hadn't noticed it before; he'd come bearing offerings. Neatly cut slices of mango and watermelon, cool and glistening.
"You've been holed up here all morning," he said, lifting a piece of mango between his fingers. "Eat. Or I'll feed you myself, and you'll regret that level of embarrassment."
Althea blinked. "You're ridiculous."
"Hungry ridiculous," he countered, bringing the mango closer. "Say ah."
Her eyes narrowed. "If you even—"
But Max only arched a brow, holding steady. There was no mockery in his gaze, just quiet patience. Finally, with an exaggerated sigh, she leaned forward and took the piece of fruit from his hand. The sweetness burst on her tongue, cooling against the relentless summer heat.
"Good girl," Max said under his breath.
Her cheeks flushed instantly. "Excuse me?"
"I said good sky," he corrected smoothly, though the smirk curling at the edges of his mouth betrayed him.
"See? You like me," he teased. "I tolerate you," she corrected. "There's a difference."
"But you laughed," he pointed out, leaning just a little closer. "And that means you enjoy my company, even if you'll never admit it out loud."
Her pulse stuttered, but she forced herself to roll her eyes. "Don't flatter yourself."
They spent the next half-hour like that; painting, bickering, sharing fruit. Max made fun of her concentration face, she accused him of breathing too loudly, he retaliated by threatening to dip his finger in her paint water. It was ridiculous, chaotic, and light.
For a while, it almost felt like the world outside didn't exist. The air between them softened. The estate's garden outside was alive with the hum of cicadas, but in this room, it felt like a bubble, a suspended moment where time stretched slow.
For once, Althea didn't feel like a temporary guest or an interloper in someone else's world. She felt…present. And that terrified her just as much as it soothed her.
Max, meanwhile, tried to hide the way his chest was tightening. He'd never seen her so at ease, so absorbed in something purely hers. The usual guardedness in her shoulders had melted into focus and quiet joy. Watching her paint felt like discovering a part of her he wasn't meant to see, something sacred.
He wanted to say that. He wanted to tell her she looked beautiful when she was lost in her world. But before he could gather the courage, a sharp buzz cut through the fragile calm. Althea's phone buzzed. She ignored it at first, lost in adding a final streak of peach to the sky. But the buzzing continued, insistent. With a sigh, she wiped her hands on a rag and reached for it.
The message preview lit up the screen.
Lawyer: I have everything ready for the divorce. Just need your final confirmation to proceed.
The words punched the air from her lungs.
Beside her, Max had gone still. He didn't say anything, he didn't even look at her, but she knew he'd seen it.
"Max—" she began, panic rising.
But he cut her off, voice too calm, too careful. "You should finish your painting. The colors are drying."
Her heart twisted. He didn't look at her, didn't let her see the expression in his eyes. It was as if he'd pulled a wall between them in the span of a second.
"Max, it's not what you think," she tried again, her throat tight.
He gave a small smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I didn't say I was thinking anything." That hurt more than if he'd shouted.
Althea's chest ached. She didn't even know what she wanted to explain. That she hadn't told the lawyer to stop? That part of her had forgotten this whole arrangement wasn't forever? That she'd been stupid enough to let this moment with him feel real?
This was temporary.
Whatever this fragile, precious thing between them was, it wasn't meant to last. She couldn't be a burden on him forever. He deserved freedom, not chains.
And she hated that, even as her heart screamed otherwise, the thought felt inevitable.
End of Chapter 54.