Charlotte's POV
I woke to sunlight streaming through silk curtains, the taste of regret coating my tongue like last night's bitter wine, acrid and overwhelming.
The memories crashed over me in waves—Thomas's calculating smile, the suffocating charity gala, my desperate escape to the streets of East LA. And Mateo. Always Mateo, standing under that flickering streetlight like salvation wrapped in danger.
My fingertips found my lips, still tender with the warmth of his kiss. The memory ignited heat in my chest, followed immediately by an icy wave of panic. What had I done?
I caught my reflection in the vanity mirror as I reached for my robe. My hair was still disheveled from last night's storm, but it was my ears that made my heart stop. The left one bore my grandmother's Cartier earring—but the right was bare, the skin pale where platinum and diamonds should have gleamed.
Gone. The earring was gone.
I touched the empty earlobe, and suddenly I was back against that brick wall, Mateo's mouth on mine, something tugging gently at my ear in the heat of the moment. I'd been too lost to notice, too consumed by the fire between us to care about anything as trivial as jewellery.
Now, staring at the evidence of my recklessness, I felt a strange mix of panic and... pride? That empty ear was proof I'd lost control—but also proof I'd finally felt truly alive.
A sharp knock interrupted my spiral.
"Charlotte, darling?" Mother's voice carried that familiar edge, meaning I was already in trouble. "We need to talk."
I quickly turned my head, letting my hair fall to cover the missing earring, and opened the door.
Mother appeared in her signature Chanel armor, her face still wearing that familiar mask of disappointment and control. Her gaze was like a deep lake, quietly watching me yet reflecting all my secrets, as if with an all-seeing eye scrutinizing every detail of me.
"You left rather abruptly last night." Her eyes lingered on my face, then traveled downward. "Where did you go?"
"I wasn't feeling well. I needed air."
"Air?" Her tone was arctic. "In East Los Angeles? Because that's where the photographers found you, darling. Walking the streets in a ten-thousand-dollar gown like some—"
"Like some what?" The words came out sharper than intended.
Mother's smile was as thin as a blade. "Like someone who's forgotten her place." She stepped closer, and I instinctively tilted my head to keep my hair covering the missing earring. "Do you have any idea what the Beaufort family will think? What will Thomas think when he sees those photos?"
"I don't care what Thomas thinks."
"Well, you should because Thomas has been very patient with your... eccentricities. He'd hoped to discuss the engagement announcement last night."
My blood turned to ice. "What engagement announcement?"
"Don't play coy, darling. The merger of Morgan Industries and the Beaufort family enterprise has been in development for several months. Thomas is quite taken with you, and it's an ideal match." Her eyes narrowed suddenly, focusing on something that made my stomach drop. "Charlotte, look at me properly."
I had no choice but to lift my chin, meeting her gaze directly.
Her hand shot out faster than I could react, brushing my hair back from my ear. The bare earlobe was exposed, vulnerable under her sharp scrutiny.
"Where is your grandmother's earring?"
The question hung in the air like a death sentence. I could lie, make up some story about it falling off at the gala, but Mother's eyes already held a terrible knowing.
"I... I must have lost it when I—"
"When you were cavorting with that man in the photographs?" Her voice was dangerously quiet now. "How do you think your grandmother would feel, knowing her diamonds ended up in some East LA gutter because her granddaughter couldn't control herself?"
The shame hit me like a physical blow, but underneath it, something else was rising—defiance.
"I won't marry Thomas."
The words cut through the silence between us like an arrow finding its mark.
After a moment, she smoothed her already-flawless hair and gave me that cold smile I'd learned to fear as a child.
"We'll discuss this when you're thinking more clearly. For now, Thomas has invited you to lunch at the club. One o'clock. " Her smile turned predatory. "And Charlotte? Find the other one. Cartier doesn't replace family heirlooms, and neither do I."
The door closed with a soft "click"—quiet as a whisper, final as a prison lock.
Mateo's POV
I found the earring at sunrise, glinting like a fallen star on the stone steps outside my studio.
Cartier. Probably worth more than I'd make selling paintings for the next two years.
I should have left it there, or turned it in to the police. Instead, I picked it up, held it to the morning light, and saw her again—the way she'd looked in that flickering streetlight, fierce and vulnerable and so beautiful it hurt.
Back in my studio, I couldn't paint. Every time I lifted a brush, my mind filled with her—the curve of her neck, the way she'd trembled against me, the soft sound she'd made when I kissed her. I found myself sketching her profile instead, trying to capture something that couldn't be captured, trying to make permanent something that felt like a dream.
"You look like you didn't sleep, hermano." Carlos appeared in the doorway with two cups of coffee, studying my exhausted face. As my gallerist and closest friend, he'd seen me through plenty of creative obsessions, but this was different.
If only he knew. After she left last night, I sat before my easel for hours, but couldn't make a single meaningful mark. My mind was full of her—every detail seared into memory like a photograph I'd never develop.
"Rough night," I admitted, accepting the coffee gratefully.
"Want to talk about it?" He settled into the old armchair I'd salvaged from a thrift store, the one that had witnessed countless conversations about art, life, and the impossible dream of making it as a painter in LA.
I shook my head, trying to refocus on the canvas before me—a commission piece that suddenly felt lifeless compared to the fire she'd ignited in my chest.
"Mateo." Carlos's tone had changed, become heavy with concern.
I looked up to find him staring at his phone, his expression darker than I'd ever seen it.
"What?"
"You need to see this."
He handed me the phone. The screen showed a local gossip blog—Beverly Hills Insider—with a headline that made my blood freeze:
MORGAN HEIRESS SPOTTED IN ROUGH NEIGHBORHOOD?!
Below was a photo of Charlotte in her evening gown walking down the street near my neighborhood, and another image—blurry but suffocatingly clear—of us kissing against the brick wall.
The caption read: Charlotte Morgan was spotted last night leaving a charity gala and later photographed in East LA, appearing emotionally distressed and behaving erratically. The unidentified male companion appears to be a local street artist of unknown background.
"Mierda." The word slipped out like a prayer.
"Is that her? The girl you've been sketching without realizing it?"
I looked down at my hands, at the drawing I'd been working on unconsciously. Her face stared back at me from the paper—every line I'd memorized in those precious moments under the streetlight.
"Yeah. It's her."
Carlos set down his coffee, leaned forward with the intensity he usually reserved for discussing gallery politics. "Mateo, man. She's a Morgan. You understand what that means?"
"Of course I know."
"No, you don't. Not really." He gestured toward the phone. "These people don't just have money—they have power. The kind that can blacklist you from every gallery in the city with a single phone call. They could make sure you never sell another painting, never get another show, never—"
"She's not like them." The words came out fierce, protective.
"Maybe not. But her world won't care whether she's like them or not. And judging by these photos, they already see you as a threat."
He was right. I knew he was right. But knowing and accepting were two different things.
I walked to the window, looking out at the street where I'd first seen her—really seen her, not just as another lost tourist but as someone drowning in the same suffocating expectations I'd escaped years ago. The earring felt heavy in my pocket, a tangible connection to a night that already felt like fiction.
"What are you going to do?" Carlos asked quietly.
I didn't answer immediately. Instead, I pulled out the earring, letting it catch the morning light. Such a small thing to hold so much weight—her family's legacy, her rebellion, the bridge between two worlds that were never meant to touch.
"I'm going to give it back to her," I said finally.
Carlos was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was gentler. "And then?"
I thought of her eyes in the streetlight, the way she'd looked at me like I was the answer to a question she'd been afraid to ask. I thought of the way she'd kissed me back, desperate and hungry and real in a way that made my chest ache.
"Then I guess we'll see if love does bear the name of rebellion."
Outside, the city hummed with its usual chaos, but in my studio, holding her earring like a promise, I felt the strange calm that comes before a storm. Some things were worth the risk. Some people were worth fighting for, even when the odds were impossible.
Especially then.
I set the earring carefully on my easel and picked up my brush. For the first time since last night, I knew exactly what I needed to paint.