Updated Oct 27, 2025 • ~13 min read
Natalie woke to sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows and Grant’s arm draped across her waist. For one blissful moment before full consciousness hit, she let herself believe this was real.
Then reality crashed in. Today was Saturday. Tomorrow she’d meet Julian. Monday, Scarlett had promised to fix everything.
But this morning—this morning she had a few more hours of pretending.
Grant stirred beside her, pulling her closer. “Morning,” he mumbled against her neck. “What time is it?”
“Almost nine.” Natalie turned in his arms to face him. His hair was adorably mussed, eyes still heavy with sleep. “You slept in. That’s new.”
“Had a reason to stay in bed.” His smile was lazy, content. Then his expression shifted. “Hey, I have an idea. What are you doing today?”
Panicking about meeting a loan shark. Trying to figure out how to save you from my sister’s mess. The usual.
“Nothing planned,” Natalie said.
“Good. Come with me.” Grant was already getting out of bed, energy suddenly flooding through him. “I want to show you something.”
Forty minutes later, they pulled up to a warehouse in the arts district. The neighborhood was familiar—Natalie’s own studio apartment was only a few blocks away. She’d walked these streets hundreds of times, past galleries and artist co-ops and coffee shops filled with creative types.
This was her world. Not Scarlett’s.
“What is this place?” Natalie asked as Grant led her to a side entrance.
“You’ll see.” He punched in a code, and the door clicked open.
Inside, the warehouse had been converted into an enormous studio space. Natural light poured in through skylights. One corner held a pottery wheel and kiln. Another had a woodworking setup. But the largest area was clearly dedicated to painting—easels, canvases, a wall of supplies that made Natalie’s fingers itch with want.
“Grant.” She turned to him, confusion and wonder warring on her face. “What is this?”
“It’s mine. Well, ours now, I guess.” He looked almost shy, rubbing the back of his neck. “I bought it six months ago. Been fixing it up little by little.”
“I don’t understand. You paint?”
“I used to. Before business school, before the company.” He walked toward the painting area, running his hand along an easel. “My dad always said art was a hobby, not a career. So I put it away, focused on things that mattered.” He turned back to her. “But lately I’ve been thinking about what actually matters. And I keep coming back to this.”
Natalie’s chest tightened. She’d never known this about him. Scarlett had never mentioned it—probably because Scarlett had never asked.
“Why haven’t you told me?” The question came out before she could stop it.
Grant’s expression flickered with something that looked like old hurt. “I tried. A few months ago. You said you had too much on your plate to deal with my mid-life crisis hobbies.” He said it lightly, but Natalie could hear the wound underneath.
Of course Scarlett had said that. Of course she’d dismissed the one thing that made Grant vulnerable, that connected them.
“I’m sorry,” Natalie said. “I shouldn’t have—that was wrong of me to say.”
Grant looked surprised. “It’s okay. You were stressed about wedding planning, and I was probably being dramatic about it anyway—”
“No.” Natalie crossed the space between them. “It’s not okay. If something matters to you, it matters. Period.” She looked around the studio with new eyes. “This is beautiful. Show me what you’ve been working on.”
The smile that broke across Grant’s face was worth every lie she’d told to get here.
He led her to a covered canvas in the corner. “Promise you won’t laugh?”
“Promise.”
He pulled off the cloth.
Natalie’s breath caught.
It was a cityscape—their city—but rendered in colors that shouldn’t work together and somehow did. Deep purples bleeding into burnt orange, electric blue cutting through shadow. The buildings were recognizable but dreamlike, as if seen through memory or longing.
“Grant.” She stepped closer, studying the brushwork. “This is incredible.”
“You’re just being nice—”
“I’m not.” Natalie turned to him, and something in her expression must have convinced him she was serious. “I mean it. The way you’ve played with light here, and the composition—” She pointed to the way he’d used the river to lead the eye through the piece. “This is really good.”
Grant’s eyes were fixed on her face with an intensity that made her skin flush. “You really think so?”
“I know so.” She turned back to the painting. “I paint too. Did you know that?”
A pause. “No. You never mentioned it.”
Because Scarlett didn’t paint. Scarlett thought art was “fine for people with trust funds and no ambition.”
Natalie had stepped in it. But Grant was looking at her with such open curiosity that she couldn’t stop herself from continuing.
“I’m not as good as you,” she said. “But I love it. The way color can make you feel something you don’t have words for. The way a good painting can crack you open and show you something true.”
“Yes.” Grant’s voice was soft. “Exactly that.”
They stood there, looking at each other, and Natalie felt something shift between them. This wasn’t about attraction or chemistry. This was recognition. Two people seeing each other clearly for the first time.
“Paint with me,” Grant said suddenly.
“What?”
“Right now. Paint with me.” He was already moving toward the supply wall, pulling out brushes and paints with the enthusiasm of a kid on Christmas morning. “I want to see what you create.”
Natalie should say no. She should maintain the boundaries between Scarlett’s life and her own. Should keep this wall up that was already crumbling.
But she’d been denying herself all week. Denying what she felt, what she wanted, who she really was.
Just for today, she wanted to be herself.
“Okay,” she said.
Two hours later, they stood side by side at their easels, covered in paint, laughing at something Grant had said about his first art teacher. Natalie’s canvas was half-finished—an abstract piece in shades of blue and silver that felt like longing, like reaching for something just out of grasp.
Grant had abandoned his own canvas to watch her work.
“What?” Natalie asked, suddenly self-conscious.
“Nothing. Just—you have this expression when you’re painting. Like the rest of the world disappears.”
“It does,” Natalie admitted. “When I’m painting, I’m not thinking about anything else. I’m just… here.”
“I’ve never seen you like this.” Grant moved closer, studying her canvas. “This is beautiful. The way you’ve layered the colors—it’s like water and light at the same time.”
“It’s what I see when I think about—” She stopped herself.
“About what?”
About you. About these stolen moments that feel more real than anything in my actual life.
“About possibility,” she finished. “Things that could be but aren’t.”
Grant’s hand found hers, fingers intertwining despite the paint covering both their hands. “Show me more.”
So she did. She showed him how to blend colors directly on the canvas, creating transitions that felt organic instead of forced. Showed him the difference between painting what you see and painting what you feel. They worked together on a piece, taking turns adding layers, building something neither of them could have created alone.
Natalie lost track of time. For hours, there was nothing but color and conversation and the easy rhythm of creating beside someone who understood.
It wasn’t until her phone alarm went off—the one she’d set to remind herself to eat lunch—that she remembered the world outside this studio existed.
“It’s almost two,” Grant said, checking his watch. “We should get food.”
Natalie’s stomach dropped. Two o’clock. Tomorrow at two, she’d be meeting Julian.
The thought crashed through her perfect morning like a wrecking ball.
“Hey.” Grant touched her face, turning her toward him. “Where’d you go just now?”
“Nowhere. Just hungry.”
“Liar.” But he said it gently, with affection. “You do this thing when you’re worried. Your shoulders tense up and you get this tiny line between your eyebrows.” He traced it with his thumb. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”
Everything. I’m not who you think I am. Your fiancée never loved you. Tomorrow I’m meeting a dangerous man to try to fix her mistakes. I’m falling for you and it’s the worst possible thing that could happen.
“Wedding stress,” Natalie said. The lie burned.
Grant pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her despite the paint. “The wedding is supposed to be happy. If you’re stressed about it, we can scale it back. Make it smaller. Hell, we could elope if you wanted.”
The casual way he said it—like he’d marry her tomorrow, like the specifics didn’t matter as long as they ended up together—made Natalie want to cry.
“I don’t want to elope,” she managed. “I want—” What did she want? “I want it to be right. Real.”
“It is real.” Grant’s voice was fierce. “This—us—this is the realest thing I’ve ever felt.”
He kissed her then. Not the careful kisses from earlier in the week. Not the restrained affection of a man trying to be respectful.
This kiss was hungry. Desperate. Like he was trying to prove something or hold onto something that was slipping away.
Natalie kissed him back with everything she had. All the longing, all the guilt, all the impossible feelings she had no right to feel. Her hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, wanting to climb inside this moment and live there forever.
Grant backed her against the wall between their easels, his body pressing against hers, one hand tangled in her hair. “God,” he breathed against her mouth. “What are you doing to me?”
Making you fall for the wrong person. Destroying everything before it even starts.
“Grant—” Her voice cracked.
He pulled back just enough to look at her, and what she saw in his eyes nearly broke her. Want. Yes. But also tenderness. Trust. The kind of open vulnerability that would shatter when he learned the truth.
“I know I said I wanted to wait until the wedding,” Grant said, his thumb tracing her bottom lip. “But Scarlett, I—” He stopped, shook his head. “I don’t want to wait anymore. I don’t want to be careful or respectful or patient. I just want you.”
This was it. The moment where she could stop this before it went too far. Before she took something from her sister that she could never give back.
But Scarlett had taken from her first. Had taken Grant’s honesty, his vulnerability, his genuine heart, and treated it like currency.
And Grant was looking at Natalie—really her, not the version Scarlett had been playing—with something that felt like love.
“I want you too,” Natalie whispered.
Grant’s kiss was answer enough. His hands found the hem of her shirt, fingers skating across her skin, and Natalie’s brain shut off completely. There was only sensation—his mouth on her neck, her hands in his hair, the solid weight of him against her.
They stumbled backward toward the couch in the corner, shedding paint-stained clothes, lost in each other.
And then Natalie’s phone rang.
The shrill sound cut through the haze. Grant groaned, but he didn’t stop kissing her neck.
“Ignore it,” he murmured against her skin.
The phone kept ringing.
Something in Natalie’s gut twisted. She pulled back, reaching for her phone on the nearby table.
Unknown number.
Ice flooded her veins.
“I have to—” She answered it. “Hello?”
“Scarlett.” A man’s voice. Smooth, controlled, terrifying in its calmness. “This is Julian.”
Natalie’s whole body went rigid. Grant noticed immediately, sitting up, concern flooding his features.
“I’m calling to confirm our meeting tomorrow,” Julian continued. “2 PM, Monroe Hotel, Room 412. I trust you’ll be alone.”
“Yes,” Natalie managed. “I’ll be there.”
“Good. And Scarlett?” His voice dropped. “Don’t think about running. I know where you live. I know your routines. I know that right now, you’re at the warehouse on Morrison Street with your fiancé.” A pause. “Room 412. Don’t be late.”
The line went dead.
Natalie stared at the phone, her hands shaking.
“Who was that?” Grant asked. “Scarlett, you’re white as a sheet.”
He knew where they were. Julian had been watching them. Was probably watching them right now.
“Just—wedding vendor,” Natalie lied. “Having a crisis about flowers.”
“At two o’clock on a Saturday?” Grant didn’t sound convinced.
Natalie stood, suddenly desperate to get out of this space, to put distance between herself and the man she’d almost just slept with while lying about her identity.
“I should go,” she said, reaching for her discarded shirt. “I need to—I have a call scheduled with my sister. I forgot about it.”
Grant stood too, catching her hand. “Hey. What just happened?”
“Nothing. I just—I need to go.”
“Scarlett.” He turned her to face him. “Something’s wrong. You’ve been off all week, and I’ve been trying to give you space, but whatever this is, you can tell me. Let me help.”
The earnestness in his voice nearly broke her. He wanted to help. Of course he did. Because he was good and honest and everything Scarlett didn’t deserve.
Everything Natalie didn’t deserve either.
“I’m fine,” she said, pulling away. “Really. Just wedding stress. I’ll see you at home?”
She was out the door before he could respond, practically running to her car.
Only when she was safely locked inside did she let herself fall apart.
Julian had been watching them. Had seen them painting together, laughing together, kissing against the wall. Had probably seen every moment of this perfect morning that Natalie would never get back.
Tomorrow she’d meet him. Tomorrow she’d figure out how to protect Grant from the nightmare Scarlett had created.
But tonight, she’d go back to the penthouse and pretend everything was fine. Would smile and make conversation and lie to the man who’d just told her he didn’t want to wait anymore.
The man who wanted her—the real her—and didn’t even know it.
Natalie started the car and drove toward the penthouse, leaving Grant and the studio and the best morning of her life behind.
Some things were too good to keep.
Some things were never hers to begin with.
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