Chapter 16
The subsequent days were characterized by a tense, heavily fortified peace across the city. The total destruction of the Thorne strike force and the capture of Dominic Thorne sent a terrifying message across the national syndicate network. Roland Ashcroft was not a man who negotiated; he was an absolute, unyielding force of nature.
Mavis immersed herself in her new studio. She traded the stiff, black-and-white maid's uniform for soft, comfortable clothes, her fair skin finally regaining its healthy, rosy glow. She painted furiously, pouring years of repressed emotion and captive observation onto the canvases.
Roland rarely disturbed her during the daylight hours, busy managing the fallout of the broken alliance and consolidating the newly acquired northern shipping routes. However, every evening, just as the sun began to set, he would visit the east wing.
Mavis was putting the finishing touches on a massive, sweeping landscape when the heavy oak doors opened softly. Roland stepped into the studio, shedding his tailored suit jacket.
"It is stunning," Roland murmured, walking slowly toward the easel, his hands resting casually in his pockets.
"It's the view from my old room," Mavis admitted quietly, stepping back and wiping her paint-stained hands on a clean cloth. "The small window in the basement. I used to imagine what the rest of the world looked like."
Roland’s jaw tightened at the mention of her captivity. He hated Camellia with a renewed, cold fury. "You will never see that basement again."
Mavis looked at him, her beautiful, movie-star features softening. "I know, Roland. I feel safe here."
May you like
Roland closed the distance between them. He reached out, his tattooed fingers gently brushing a smudge of charcoal from her cheek. The touch sent an electric jolt through her system.
"I have arranged a new exhibition," Roland stated, his voice a low, mesmerizing hum. "In Paris. Under your real name. The world is going to know exactly who Mavis Fairbourne is."
