Charlotte's POV
My phone buzzed. Mother.
"Darling, I've booked us Nevis. Thursday through Monday. Thomas Beaufort will join us—five resort chains, blockchain logistics, coastal redevelopment. You really ought to learn from him and gain some development experience—this is a new era, after all. I have already informed your secretary of your departure date, and he'll take care of arranging the driver. See you then."
The call ended before I could argue.
I stared at the phone, then at my calendar filled with her appointments, her choices, her version of my life. The pages blurred. Before I knew it, I was tearing through months of scheduled dinners and charity galas, paper cuts stinging my fingers as weeks of my future scattered across the floor.
Twenty-eight, and I was still just a doll in her curated little empire.
She's managed to provide me with a life so outrageously cushy that 99% of mums couldn't even dream of it. Who wouldn't want to be a puppet like me? I really can't think of any crazy reason to say no to her.
Nevis, The Performance
Thomas Beaufort had the kind of easy confidence that came from never being told no. He gestured toward the fishing village with genuine enthusiasm, an expensive watch catching the sunset.
"I'm not just building resorts—I'm creating memories that last lifetimes," he said, eyes bright with the thrill of the deal. "My guests in Monaco still write thank you cards."
Mother leaned forward, charmed. "How wonderful. You're quite a remarkable young man."
"That's what drives me. Yes, the margins are excellent, but seeing a family's face when they walk into paradise?" He turned that focused attention on me. "Your mother mentioned you have an artistic eye, Charlotte. I'd love your input on the design concepts."
He was smooth, confident, and it seemed that he always got what he wanted.
"What about the current residents?" I asked.
Thomas's smile didn't waver. "Progress requires sacrifice, but we're generous with relocation packages. Some locals even get resort jobs." His gaze swept past the fishermen to the prime real estate behind. "A win-win when you think about it."
The words sounded caring. But I saw how quickly his eyes moved past the people to the property. I suddenly understood: his success was built on being faster at reshaping lives than people were at holding onto them.
Nevis, The Break
"Charlotte?" Mother's voice drifted from the suite behind me. "Come inside, darling. We need to talk." I slipped the phone into my robe pocket and found her arranging fresh orchids in a crystal vase, her hands moving with the effortless grace of someone born to beauty.
"So," she said without looking up, "what did you think of Thomas this evening?"
"He seems... accomplished." The word tasted like sand.
"Accomplished?" Mother's laugh was crystalline. "Darling, the Beauforts have held maritime shipping contracts for three generations. Thomas himself graduated summa cum laude from Wharton, then founded the Marina Yacht Club at twenty-six—now the most exclusive sailing club in the Caribbean. From there, he moved into luxury resort development. His projects span from Monaco to Singapore."
She finally looked at me, eyes gleaming. "And he's unattached. Focused entirely on building his empire." I watched her arrange the orchids with the same calculated precision she applied to my life. "He mentioned you have a natural understanding of development economics," she continued.
I just asked one question about what happened to the fishing families. Thomas had smiled and called it "managed transition."
"Mother, I—"
"Thomas is exactly the sort of man who could appreciate your... unique perspective on things.
He's invited you to tour his latest project in Antigua next month." Mother said. "I've already spoken to your secretary about clearing your schedule. What do you say, darling?" Mother's smile turned playful, almost girlish. "I have a feeling you two might just spark something wonderful together."
The words hung in the air like expensive perfume—sweet on the surface, cloying underneath.
"Yes, Mother," I heard myself say. "Wonderful." Through the window, I watched the last fishing boat disappear into the darkness, its light swallowed by the horizon. Soon, there would be no boats at all—just another perfect view for perfect guests in Thomas's resort.
I wondered what Mateo would paint of a place after all the life had been carefully curated out of it. I remembered the way his shoulders moved as he painted on the beach, bronze skin catching the golden light, completely absorbed in creating something real. The way his eyes focused when he painted, intense and alive. His hands, strong and sure, covered in colors that meant something beyond profit margins.
Mateo's POV
I was cleaning my brushes when I found myself thinking about her again. Charlotte. Even her name sounded like it belonged in a museum.
It had been three days since she'd shown up at the wall, paint still under her fingernails like some kind of beautiful rebellion. Three days, and I couldn't stop thinking about the way her hand had found its rhythm—like the brush was teaching her, not the other way around.
The smart thing would be to not reply. To let this whole thing fade into one of those "remember when" stories I'd tell Diego over beers when we were forty and wondering where our lives went. Because that's how these things worked, wasn't it? Rich girl, poor boy, brief encounter, everyone moves on. Miracles don't happen that easily.
But then I remembered the way she'd looked at the mural that first day—not the polite, appreciative look people gave street art to show how cultured they were, but really looking. Like she was trying to memorize every brushstroke. And the way she'd held the paintbrush yesterday, tentative at first, then with growing confidence, red paint under her fingernails, just like a protest she wasn't ready to let go of.
She was perfect. Perfect in that untouchable way that comes with money and breeding and never having to worry about whether the electricity bill was going to bounce. But there'd been something else yesterday—something almost desperate in the way she'd painted, like she was trying to prove something to herself. She made me want things I didn't have words for. That was the dangerous part.
I set the phone down and looked around my apartment. It wasn't much—barely 400 square feet, kitchen that doubled as storage space, bathroom so small you had to close the door to use the sink. But it was mine. I'd painted every wall (three different colors before settling on the current off-white that made the light better for working). My books were scattered everywhere—poetry collections with broken spines, art history textbooks from the library, that cookbook Diego's abuela had given me that I'd never actually used.
This was my world. Diego is showing up unannounced with a terrible movie. Sunday morning soccer games in the park where everyone argued in three different languages but nobody kept score. Mrs. Rodriguez's arroz con pollo on days when she made too much. Simple. Real. Happy, mostly.
What would Charlotte make of it? Would she even fit through the door? And what would I do in her world—stand around at gallery openings making small talk about wine I couldn't pronounce while wearing clothes that cost more than my rent?
My phone buzzed from across the room. Diego, probably.
"Beach soccer tomorrow? Tommy's bringing his cousin from El Salvador."
I typed back: "Yeah, count me in."
The truth was, I wanted to see her again. Wanted to show her more walls, more colors, wanted to watch her face light up when she discovered she could create something beautiful with her own hands. But wanting something and it being a good idea were two very different things. And how would I even find her again? She'd mentioned Beverly Hills like it was another planet—which, for someone like me, it was.
I looked at the canvas I'd been working on—a street scene from yesterday, kids playing in the fountain while their mothers watched from benches, pigeons making chaos around an old man feeding them bread. Normal life. Beautiful in its way, but nothing like the world she came from.
I set the brush down and walked to the window. From here, I could just make out the curve of the ocean beyond the rooftops—Santa Monica in the distance, golden light breaking over the pier, ferris wheel turning slow like time itself had nowhere to be.
Somewhere over there, in a house with more bathrooms than I had lightbulbs, Charlotte was probably drinking something sparkling and expensive, surrounded by people who never painted anything but their futures.
And yet…
That day on the wall, she'd looked freer than any of them.
Maybe she'd already forgotten me.