Chapter 2

{"title": "Chapter 2: The New York Painting", "content": "# Chapter 2: The New York Painting\n\nI pressed my back against the cold oak door of the royal suite, my heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat. The guard outside shifted his weight, pretending he hadn't heard the Crown Prince shout my name. But I had heard it. Everyone on this floor had heard it.\n\n\"Maya!\"\n\nHis voice was raw, scraped clean by two years of silence. It cut through the morning quiet like a blade. I had been walking past with my coffee, on my way to the art studio I had been assigned, when the door flew open and two nurses stumbled out, white-faced.\n\n\"He's asking for the therapist,\" one of them gasped. \"The new one. By name.\"\n\nI took a breath that did nothing to steady my hands. I had known this moment was coming. From the second his eyes opened yesterday, I had known. But knowing and facing were two different animals.\n\nThe room smelled of antiseptic and old linen. The curtains were drawn against the pale Morovare sun, casting everything in a grey, watery light. The bed was a fortress of pillows and monitors, and in the center of it, propped up against the headboard like a man who refused to stay down, was Alexander.\n\nHe looked nothing like the prince in the official portraits. Those showed a polished, smiling heir. The man in front of me was gaunt, his cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, his skin sallow from two years without sunlight. His dark hair had grown long and tangled, falling over his forehead. But his eyes. His eyes were the same. That impossible shade of blue, like the sky over Central Park in late October, clear and cold and burning with something I couldn't name.\n\n\"Close the door,\" he said.\n\nI did. I didn't know why I obeyed him so easily. Maybe because I had spent three months being his teacher, and some habits are hard to break.\n\n\"You remember me,\" I said. It wasn't a question.\n\nHe laughed, a short, broken sound. \"Remember you? Maya. I painted a goddamn sky with you. We argued about the shade of blue for an hour. You said I was using too much ultramarine. I said you were wrong. You made me mix it eleven times until I got it right.\"\n\nMy chest tightened. That memory was so vivid I could almost feel the paint on my fingers. The small studio in SoHo, the summer sun streaming through the grimy windows, the smell of turpentine and coffee. My student, Alex, who had signed up for a beginner's watercolor class under a fake name. Who had been too quiet, too careful, too eager to please. Who had looked at me like I was the only person in the room who didn't want something from him.\n\n\"You were wrong,\" I said softly. \"It needed more cobalt.\"\n\nHe grinned, and for a second he was Alex again. The man who had made me laugh. The man who had kissed me on a rooftop in Brooklyn and then disappeared without a word. \"I knew you'd remember.\"\n\n\"Everyone remembers their worst student.\"\n\n\"Worst?\" He raised an eyebrow, and the gesture cost him. He winced, pressing a hand to his ribs. The monitors beeped faster. \"I was your best. I finished the painting.\"\n\n\"You finished it after I left. You never showed it to me.\"\n\n\"It's in my private collection. In the east wing. I had it shipped from New York three days after I got back.\"\n\nMy breath caught. \"You kept it?\"\n\n\"I kept everything.\" His voice dropped, low and intense. \"I kept the receipt from the coffee shop where you spilled latte on your sketchbook. I kept the napkin where you wrote down the phone number for the art supply store. I kept the memory of your laugh, the way you bit your lip when you were concentrating, the way your hand hovered over the canvas before you made the first stroke. I kept all of it, Maya. Through the coma. Through everything.\"\n\nI took a step back. The room suddenly felt too small, too hot. \"You were in a coma. You couldn't have kept anything.\"\n\n\"I dreamed of you.\" He said it simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. \"Every night. I dreamed of the painting. The night sky over Central Park. The way the streetlights reflected off the lake. The stars you said you could see even though the city was too bright. You taught me to paint what I imagined, not what I saw. So I painted you. Over and over. Until I woke up.\"\n\nThe monitors beeped in the silence. I could hear my own pulse in my ears, loud and traitorous.\n\n\"You need to rest,\" I said, my voice steady even though my hands were shaking. \"The doctors said your body needs time to adjust.\"\n\n\"The doctors can wait.\" He shifted, grimacing, and tried to swing his legs over the side of the bed. \"Help me up.\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Maya. Help me up.\"\n\n\"You're going to fall.\"\n\n\"Then you'll catch me.\" He looked at me, and there was something fierce in his eyes. Something desperate. \"You caught me before. In New York. You didn't know who I was, and you still caught me. You let me be Alex. You let me be a person. Do you know how rare that is?\"\n\nI didn't move. I wanted to go to him. God, I wanted to. But I could see the shadows in the corners of the room. I could feel the weight of the palace pressing down on us. And I remembered the file I had read on my first day. The assassination attempt. The fiancée who had died. The uncle who had taken the throne.\n\n\"Your uncle,\" I said. \"Konstantin. He's been running the country for two years.\"\n\n\"I know.\" Alexander's jaw tightened. \"He visited me. Every week. He sat in that chair and told me I was a disappointment. He told me I should have died with Elara. He told me he would make sure I never woke up.\"\n\nA chill ran down my spine. \"He said that?\"\n\n\"He said worse.\" Alexander's hands fisted in the thin blanket. \"He said he had the doctors in his pocket. That they would keep me under until it was too late. But he underestimated me. He underestimated you.\"\n\n\"Me?\"\n\n\"The painting, Maya.\" He leaned forward, and I saw the effort it took. His arms trembled. \"The painting we made together. It's in this palace. It's been here for two years. And I've been dreaming of it. Dreaming of you. Dreaming of the night sky over the park. And last night, when I opened my eyes, I knew. I knew you were here.\"\n\n\"I was hired three months ago,\" I said. \"I specialize in coma recovery. Art therapy. It's what I do.\"\n\n\"No.\" He shook his head, and the movement was too fast, too jerky. \"You were hired because I asked for you. Before I went under. I told my aide, if anything happens, find Maya Solis. Bring her here. Make her paint with me again.\"\n\nMy stomach dropped. \"You couldn't have. You didn't know my last name. I never told you.\"\n\n\"I found out.\" He smiled, but it was a shadow of the grin I remembered. \"I was a prince, Maya. I had resources. I had a man in New York who followed you for a week. He told me where you worked, where you lived, what coffee you ordered. I knew everything about you. And I still didn't tell you who I was. I was a coward.\"\n\n\"You were a liar.\"\n\n\"I was both.\" He reached out a hand. It trembled in the air between us. \"But I'm not lying now. The painting is real. It's in the east wing, in a room that Konstantin doesn't know about. And I need you to help me get there.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\nThe question hung between us. I watched his face, the way his jaw worked, the way his eyes flickered with something I couldn't read.\n\n\"Because it's the only thing that's mine,\" he said. \"My mother gave me that studio space in New York. She knew I needed to be someone else. She was the only one who knew about you. She died two months before I went under. And now Konstantin has everything. The palace, the throne, the army. But he doesn't have that painting. He doesn't know it exists.\"\n\n\"So what? You want to show me a painting?\"\n\n\"I want to finish it.\" His voice cracked. \"You said it wasn't done. You said the sky needed something. You said it needed a sign. A promise. Something to make it ours. And I've been dreaming of the answer for two years. I need to paint it. I need you to paint it with me.\"\n\nI took a step closer. I couldn't help myself. The pull was too strong. \"What's the answer?\"\n\nHe looked at me, and for the first time, I saw fear in his eyes. Real, raw fear. \"If I tell you, you'll run.\"\n\n\"Try me.\"\n\n\"The stars,\" he said. \"You told me the city was too bright to see them. But I saw them. The night we kissed on the rooftop. I saw them because I was looking at you. And I knew, right then, that I would love you for the rest of my life. That I would find a way back to you. That I would paint you a sky so full of stars you could never forget me.\"\n\nHis words hit me like a wave. I swayed, gripping the edge of the dresser for support. \"Alexander...\"\n\n\"I'm not asking for anything,\" he said. \"I'm not asking you to love me. I'm not asking you to forgive me. I'm asking you to help me finish what we started. Because if I die, and I might, I want that painting to be real. I want something true to exist in this world before I go.\"\n\nThe door behind me burst open. A tall man in a grey suit stood in the frame, his face a mask of cold courtesy. Prince Regent Konstantin. I recognized him from the portraits, but in person he was smaller, sharper, his eyes like chips of ice.\n\n\"Nephew,\" he said, his voice smooth as glass. \"I heard you were awake. How wonderful.\"\n\nAlexander's face went blank. The vulnerable man from a moment ago vanished, replaced by a mask of stone. \"Uncle.\"\n\nKonstantin's gaze slid to me. \"And you must be Ms. Solis. The art therapist. I've read your file. Impressive credentials. Though I'm surprised his highness is well enough for therapy already.\"\n\n\"We were just talking,\" I said. \"He needs rest.\"\n\n\"Indeed.\" Konstantin stepped into the room, and the air grew colder. \"I'll have the nurses attend to him. You're dismissed.\"\n\nI looked at Alexander. His eyes met mine, and I saw the message there. A plea. A warning. Don't leave. Don't tell him anything. Come back.\n\n\"I'll return tomorrow,\" I said, and I didn't know if I was speaking to Alexander or to myself.\n\n\"Tomorrow,\" Alexander repeated, and the word was a promise.\n\nI walked past Konstantin, my shoulders straight, my hands steady. But as I reached the door, his voice stopped me.\n\n\"Ms. Solis.\" He didn't turn around. \"I trust you understand the delicate nature of his recovery. Any... stress could be fatal.\"\n\nI paused. \"I'm here to help him heal, your highness. Not to stress him.\"\n\n\"Good.\" He smiled, and it didn't reach his eyes. \"Because if anything happens to him, I would hate to lose such a talented therapist.\"\n\nThe threat was velvet wrapped in steel. I nodded once and stepped into the hall, the door clicking shut behind me.\n\nMy hands were shaking. I walked quickly, past the guards, past the portraits of dead kings, past the tall windows that looked out over the frozen gardens. I didn't stop until I reached my studio. The small room with the easel and the shelves of supplies. My sanctuary.\n\nI locked the door. I leaned against it. And I let out a breath I had been holding since the moment I saw Alexander's eyes.\n\nHe knew the painting. He knew the sky. He knew me. And his uncle wanted him dead.\n\nI walked to the easel, where a blank canvas waited. I picked up a brush, dipped it in cobalt blue, and began to paint the night sky over Central Park.\n\nI didn't hear the footsteps outside my door. I didn't see the shadow that paused, then moved on. I only painted, my hand steady, my heart racing, as the first star appeared on the canvas.\n\nAnd in the east wing, in a room no one knew about, a painting waited for its final stroke. A painting that would change everything.\n\nTomorrow, I would go back to him. Tomorrow, I would finish what we started. And tomorrow, I might die for it.\n\nBut I couldn't stop. I didn't want to stop.\n\nThe sky was too beautiful to leave unfinished. And so was he.