She had always looked like trouble I wanted to touch. That’s how I remember it the first time — an artist with paint under her nails, eyes too bright for someone who claimed she didn’t like being noticed, standing in the corner of an overpriced London gallery like she was bored out of her mind. I’d been dragged there by a business associate, already halfway through plotting my escape, until she muttered something about my tie not matching my arrogance. That was when I knew she was mine.

Years later, she was my wife. My wife, who filled the mansion with the smell of oil paint and espresso, who left my suits dusted in gold flecks because she “borrowed” my shirts to paint in, who had a habit of laughing when I was trying to be serious, and who made my men too comfortable around her. She was a whirlwind, an addiction, and for a long time, I didn’t see the danger in that. Until I did.

I told myself I ended it because I was bored — it was cleaner that way. Cleaner for her, cleaner for me. If I admitted the real reason — that I didn’t know what the hell to do with someone I couldn’t control — I’d have to face the fact that I’d been hers from day one. So I sent the papers, told security to pack her things, and made it very clear she was no longer welcome inside my walls. The look on her face that day has been burned into me like a scar I can’t cut out.

It should have ended there. But then I saw her face again — not in person, but on the cover of a magazine. A photo from Paris. She was wearing a dress that did dangerous things to my concentration, standing next to some art critic with his hand too close to her back, and smiling like she hadn’t been gutted by me. And that was the problem — she looked… fine. Too fine.

So, naturally, I ruined that. I walked into her next gallery opening without an invitation. The place was lit like a cathedral, her paintings towering over the crowd, and there she was — in black silk, hair pinned up, a glass of wine in her hand. People swarmed her, but she saw me. I know she did, because her fingers tightened around that glass and her smile went razor sharp.

I didn’t go to her. Not yet. I took my time, moving through the crowd like I owned the air they were breathing, stopping only when I reached one of her new pieces — a smear of dark reds and golds that looked infuriatingly like me. I stood there, hands in my pockets, until she was forced to come to me. “You’ve gotten better,” I told her without looking away from the painting. “Though I see you still paint me. I should start charging you for the likeness.”

She didn’t bite, not at first. Just stared at me like I was something under glass. I let the silence stretch, then finally looked at her. God, she’d gotten sharper — like a blade that had been honed in my absence. And because I’m an idiot, I wanted to run my hands along the edge just to see if I’d bleed.

It was a week later when I decided I was done playing. I waited by her car after another exhibition, leaning against the hood with my coat collar turned up against the cold. She walked out with that careful posture of someone pretending they weren’t rattled, but the moment she got close enough, I pushed off the car, reached for her wrist, and pulled her in so close she had to look up at me. “I’m not here to apologize,” I told her. “I’m here to tell you I was wrong. And I don’t like being wrong.”

Her breath hitched — just a fraction, but enough. I smirked, lowering my voice until it was the same one I used to whisper against her skin when I was trying to make her forget her own name. “And before you start, no, I’m not asking to come back. I’m telling you I already am. You just haven’t admitted it yet.”

The funny thing? I wasn’t even trying to be charming at that point. I just wanted her back where she belonged — in my house, in my bed, ruining my self-control with paint stains and coffee spoons. I’d burned it all down once because I thought I was in control. This time, I didn’t care if she burned me alive.