The Billionaire's Doll Walks Away Forever

Elek rolled off her body. The heavy mattress shifted under his weight as he turned his back to her. His breathing was already slow and steady. He pulled the thick duvet over his shoulder, treating the last twenty minutes of physical exertion as nothing more than a routine task checked off his schedule.

Dayami stared at the ceiling. The massive crystal chandelier hung directly above the bed, catching the faint light from the city outside. She felt exactly like that chandelier. An expensive, cold decoration purchased to fill an empty space in this penthouse.

Her chest rose and fell, but she felt no urge to cry. Her tear ducts were completely dry. There was no humiliation left in her stomach, only a deep, bone-chilling exhaustion that settled into her joints.

She sat up. The cold air of the bedroom hit her bare skin, raising goosebumps along her arms. She moved slowly, her limbs feeling heavy and disconnected from her brain.

She reached the floor and picked up her silk robe. She slid her arms into the sleeves, tying the belt tightly around her waist in a mechanical motion.

"Stay in bed."

Elek's voice was low and raspy, thick with sleep. He did not turn around to look at her. It was a command, not a request.

Dayami ignored him. She walked away from the bed, her bare feet silent against the hardwood floor. She stopped in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. The sleepless skyline of New York City stretched out below her, a sea of lights that offered no warmth.

Her reflection stared back at her from the thick glass. Her face was pale. Her eyes looked hollow. She did not recognize the woman in the window.

She took a slow breath, filling her lungs with the conditioned air.

"Elek, I want a divorce."

Her voice was incredibly calm. The words left her mouth without a single tremor.

The steady sound of Elek's breathing stopped. The mattress shifted violently. He sat up, the duvet falling to his waist. His broad chest and shoulders blocked out the light from the bedside lamp. His physical presence filled the room, heavy and suffocating.

He let out a short, harsh sound from the back of his throat. A scoff.

"Don't be ridiculous, Dayami."

He rubbed the back of his neck, his tone dripping with impatience.

"What is it this time? A new car? A charity gala you want to chair? Just tell my assistant tomorrow."

Dayami did not turn around. She kept her eyes on her own pale reflection.

"I am serious. I want out."

The silence in the room became thick. She heard the rustle of the sheets. Heavy footsteps crossed the floor.

Before she could brace herself, a large hand clamped down on her upper arm.

Elek spun her around. His grip was like a steel vise, his fingers digging into her skin through the thin silk of her robe.

"We have a contract." His voice was a low rumble in his chest, entirely devoid of warmth. "You seem to forget your place."

Dayami finally looked up at him. She stared directly into his dark eyes. There was no anger in her gaze. There was no affection. There was only a vast, empty desert.

"Your contract did not specify I had to be your living doll."

The muscle in Elek's jaw ticked. Her empty expression seemed to hit a nerve. His grip tightened, and he shoved her backward. Her shoulder blades hit the cold glass of the window with a hard thud.

He leaned in close, his face inches from hers.

"Do not test my patience. Go to sleep."

He released her arm abruptly. He turned on his heel and walked straight to the master bathroom. The heavy oak door slammed shut behind him. The sound echoed off the high ceiling.

Dayami's knees gave out. She slid down the cold glass until she hit the floor. Her hands shook slightly as the adrenaline left her bloodstream.

She pulled her knees to her chest. A small, dry laugh escaped her lips. This marriage was a joke.

The sound of running water came from the bathroom. He was taking a shower. He would not come back out to check on her.

She pushed herself off the floor. She smoothed the wrinkles out of her silk robe. She walked to the bedroom door, turned the handle, and stepped out into the hallway.

Mrs. Martha Higgins stood at the end of the hall. The head housekeeper wore her pristine uniform, her hands clasped in front of her. Her eyes slid over Dayami with complete indifference.

Mrs. Higgins only answered to Elek. To her, Dayami was just another piece of furniture.

Dayami walked past her without a word. She headed straight for the spiral staircase.

She needed to go to the art room on the first floor. It was a small space near the back of the apartment, the only room in this massive penthouse that actually belonged to her.

As she placed her foot on the first step, a sharp ringing sound came from the bedroom she had just left. It was Elek's private cell phone.

He did not answer it. The water kept running.

Dayami paused for a fraction of a second. Another call from that woman, perhaps. The thought crossed her mind, but her chest remained completely flat. She did not care anymore.

She continued down the stairs. She walked into the empty, dark living room. The shadows swallowed her, but her mind was clearer than it had ever been. She was going to leave him.

The door to the art room clicked shut behind her, a soft sound in the vast, silent penthouse. The familiar scent of turpentine and oil paint filled her lungs, a stark contrast to the sterile, expensive perfume that permeated the rest of the apartment. It was the only room that smelled like her.

She did not turn on the lights. She walked to the large canvas in the center of the room, her fingers tracing the outline of an unfinished landscape. She had not touched a brush in weeks. The turmoil inside her was a storm too chaotic to be captured on canvas.

Sleep never came. She spent the night in the worn-out armchair in the corner, watching the city lights outside her window slowly fade as dawn broke. The decision she had made felt like a heavy stone in her stomach, both terrifying and liberating.

When the first rays of sun hit the floor, Dayami knew she had to get out. The penthouse felt like a gilded cage, and its walls were closing in. She changed out of her silk robe and into a simple pair of jeans and a cashmere sweater, forgoing the designer clothes Elek insisted she wear. She slipped out of the apartment, ignoring Mrs. Higgins' questioning gaze from the end of the hallway.

The mid-morning sun hit her face as she stepped onto the street, bright and harsh. She pulled a pair of dark sunglasses from her purse and slid them over her eyes, hiding the dark circles and the exhaustion that weighed down her eyelids.

She walked down the sidewalk. She had no destination. The rhythmic clicking of her heels against the concrete was the only sound in her ears. *Find something that brings you peace,* Dr. Hanson's voice echoed in her memory from last week's session. A bitter laugh almost escaped her lips. Peace felt like a foreign country she had no visa for.

She turned a corner and stopped. The large glass windows of Galerie Glass took up the entire ground floor of the corner building.

A painting in the center window caught her attention. It was a landscape. The colors were muted, capturing the heavy, still air right before a massive storm. The brushstrokes were aggressive yet controlled.

Her fingers twitched at her sides. She felt a phantom sensation of a wooden brush handle pressing into her palm.

She pushed the heavy glass door open and stepped inside. The air conditioning cooled the sweat on the back of her neck. The gallery was completely silent.

She walked straight to the painting. She read the small plaque next to it. The artist's name was unfamiliar to her.

She stood there, letting her eyes trace the dark clouds on the canvas. The storm in the painting matched the heavy, suffocating feeling in her own stomach.

"Walter, look. This is the one I was talking about."

A sharp, nasal voice shattered the quiet.

Dayami stiffened. She turned her head slightly. A woman in a tailored designer suit and a man in a polo shirt walked up to the painting.

The woman, Helen Mercer, stopped next to Dayami. Helen looked Dayami up and down. Her eyes lingered on Dayami's simple beige trench coat, her lips curling into a visible sneer.

Dayami felt the hostility. She took a step to the left, putting distance between them. She just wanted to look at the art.

Helen turned to the gallery assistant who was hurrying over.

"We will take this one. Wrap it up." Helen's tone was loud and commanding.

The assistant stopped, looking uncomfortable. He glanced at Dayami.

"I am sorry, Ms. Mercer, but this lady was looking at it first. According to gallery policy, we should ask her if she intends to purchase it."

Helen let out a short, ugly laugh. Her face flushed with irritation. She pointed a manicured finger at Dayami.

"Her? Can she even afford the frame?"

Walter Chandler placed a hand on Helen's arm.

"Helen, be nice."

Dayami felt a sudden, sharp heat rise in her chest. She had spent the entire night being pushed around, ignored, and treated like an object in her own home. She came here for five minutes of silence, and now this stranger was treating her like dirt on the bottom of a shoe.

She reached up and pulled her sunglasses off her face. She looked directly at the gallery assistant. Her voice was flat and steady.

"How much is the painting?"

The assistant swallowed hard. He stated a number in the low six figures.

Helen let out an exaggerated gasp, clearly waiting for Dayami to run out of the store in shame.

Dayami did not blink. She reached into her purse. Her fingers bypassed her own debit card and pulled out the heavy, black titanium card Elek had given her on their wedding day.

She held it out to the assistant.

"I will take it."

Her tone was as casual as if she were buying a bottle of water.

Helen's mouth dropped open. The smug smile vanished from Walter's face.

The gallery assistant stared at the black card for a full second before his professional training kicked in. He took the card with both hands.

Dayami turned her head and looked right at Helen.

"I do not actually want the painting. I just want to buy five minutes of quiet. You can tell your staff I will resell it to them at the original price after I leave."

She spoke clearly, ensuring her voice carried across the quiet room.

Helen's face turned a dark, mottled red. Her hands balled into fists at her sides. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. She had just been completely humiliated, crushed by the exact thing she worshipped.

The gallery assistant returned. He handed the heavy black card back to Dayami along with a thick receipt.

Dayami slid the card back into her purse. The satisfying click of the clasp closing echoed in the tense air.

Helen Mercer spun around, her heels digging into the polished floor. She grabbed Walter Chandler's arm and dragged him toward the exit. The heavy glass door slammed shut behind them.

Dayami let out a slow breath. The tight band around her ribs loosened. She looked at the assistant.

"Please put the painting back on the wall."

She turned around, ready to walk out and find a taxi.

"Ms. Cantrell? Or should I say, Nora Aron?"

A smooth, deep voice came from behind her.

Dayami's spine locked. Her heart slammed against her ribs. Nora Aron was the name she used when she dealt with art suppliers and obscure gallery owners. It was the shield she used to keep the Hamilton name away from her work.

She turned around slowly.

A man in a perfectly tailored navy suit walked toward her. His expression was warm, his eyes intelligent and observant.

"I recognized you," he said, stopping a polite distance away. "I am Iaan Glass. The curator here. You attended our pre-opening four years ago. Your insights on Rothko were unforgettable."

Dayami's shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch. He was an old acquaintance. He did not know her real secret.

She offered a small, polite nod. "Mr. Glass. It has been a while."

Iaan waved the assistant away. He looked at the empty space where Helen had been standing.

"That was quite a performance. But I suspect you are not as ruthless as you appear." He pointed to the painting. "You could have kept it."

Dayami rubbed her thumb over her bare ring finger, a habit she could not break.

"I just needed some quiet. I am glad they got what they wanted in the end."

Iaan's eyes softened. He looked at her face, really looked at her, and Dayami felt exposed.

"Art should bring peace, not conflict. I am sorry you had to experience that here."

He gestured toward a small, semi-private seating area in the corner of the gallery.

"Please, sit for a moment."

Dayami followed him. She sank into the plush leather chair. Iaan poured a glass of water from a glass pitcher and handed it to her.

She took a sip. The cold water soothed her dry throat. She looked up and her eyes locked onto a different painting hanging on the far wall.

"The use of light there is incredible," she murmured, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

Iaan smiled. "You have a great eye. That is a piece by The Canvas Ghost."

Dayami's fingers tightened around the glass. The water rippled. The Canvas Ghost. That was her.

She forced her facial muscles to remain perfectly still. She swallowed the lump in her throat.

"A very mysterious artist. No one knows who he or she is."

Iaan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"Indeed. Their work is nearly impossible to acquire. They sell on their own terms, through a blind trust. We have been trying to get in touch for years."

Dayami's pulse beat rapidly in her ears. She had no idea her work was so highly valued here.

"What is so special about them?" she asked, keeping her voice flat.

Iaan looked at the painting. His expression turned serious, almost reverent.

"The Canvas Ghost does not just paint landscapes. They paint solitude. They paint the quiet dignity of enduring a storm. Their work has soul."

Dayami's stomach flipped. A sudden tremor went through her, a feeling she had not experienced in years. It was not sadness, but a painful, shocking sense of being seen. For three years, she had lived in a penthouse with a man who looked right through her. Now, a stranger was looking at a canvas and seeing her exact soul.

Her breath hitched in her throat. She had to clench her fists tightly under the table to keep her composure.

Iaan watched her. He did not ask why she looked like she was about to cry.

"Nora," he said softly. "You look like you are going through something. I do not mean to pry, but if you ever need a friend to talk to..."

Dayami looked up. The genuine concern in his eyes made her chest ache.

"Thank you, Iaan."

Iaan checked his watch. "I was about to go for dinner. Would you care to join me? We can talk more about art. Or anything else."

Dayami hesitated. She had never had dinner with another man since she married Elek. Her entire life was dictated by Elek's schedule.

Then she remembered Elek's cold back this morning. She remembered his hand shoving her against the glass.

She set the water glass down on the table.

"I would love to."