Poppy
The radiator in my Shoreditch studio apartment was making a sound like a dying tractor. It was a rhythmic, metallic clanking that felt like a countdown to my final eviction. I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at my paint stained hands, wondering how a single bucket of neon acrylic could weigh more than a ton of lead.
I picked up my phone. I knew I should stay away from the internet, but the morbid curiosity was too strong to ignore.
I was everywhere.
There was a video on TikTok with ten million views already. It showed the exact moment the pink bucket did its graceful somersault into the Rolls Royce. The comments were a battlefield. Half the people were laughing at the absurdity of a billionaire being turned into a pop art project. The other half were speculating on how long it would take for me to be deported or sued into oblivion.
That was the problem with London. Everything was so polite until it was suddenly, terrifyingly absolute.
A heavy knock echoed through the thin wood of my door.
I jumped, my heart leaping into my throat. I looked at the small window leading to the fire escape, wondering if I could actually make it down to the street before the police arrived. But I stayed put. I was a New Yorker. We didn't run from a fight, even when the opponent owned half the skyline.
I opened the door.
It wasn't the police. It was the man from the car, the one with the sharp suit and the eyes of a professional shark. He held a tablet like a weapon.
"Miss Miller," he said. His voice was smooth, cultured, and entirely devoid of warmth. "Mr. Solarin is expecting you. There is a car waiting downstairs."
"Now?" I asked. I looked down at my paint splattered overalls. "I look like I was caught in a blender with a bag of candy. I need to wash my face. I need ten minutes."
"Mr. Solarin does not value punctuality because he expects it as a baseline," the man replied. He stepped back into the hallway, leaving no room for negotiation. "The car leaves in sixty seconds. With or without you."
I grabbed my coat and my bag, following him down the narrow, creaking stairs.
The car waiting at the curb was a silver Mercedes with blacked out windows. As soon as I slid into the back, the noise of the city vanished. It was replaced by a sterile, expensive silence. We drove through the heart of the city, moving from the brick warehouses of the east to the gleaming glass towers of the financial district.
We stopped in front of a skyscraper that seemed to pierce the very clouds I had been painting under.
The assistant led me through a lobby of white marble and silent security guards. We went up in an elevator that moved so fast my ears popped. When the doors opened, I stepped into an office that felt like the center of the world.
Floor to ceiling glass showed the entire sprawl of London. The Thames looked like a silver ribbon. The rain was streaking against the windows, but inside, everything was still.
Zane Solarin was standing at the window with his back to me. He had changed his clothes. He was now in a black suit, his shoulders broad and straight. He looked like he had never heard of the color pink.
The assistant stepped back into the elevator, and the doors closed with a soft chime. I was alone with him.
"You have a very impressive portfolio, Poppy Miller," Zane said. He did not turn around. His voice was a low, vibrating velvet that seemed to travel across the floor and settle in my chest. "Three years in New York. A residency in London. A talent for vibrant, chaotic murals that apparently extend to my car."
"You looked me up?" I asked. My voice sounded small in the vast room.
He turned then. His eyes were just as dark as I remembered. He leaned back against a mahogany desk, crossing his ankles. He looked me up and down, his gaze lingering on the pink stains on my hands.
"I do not leave things to chance," he said. "Especially not when those things cost me forty million pounds in market confidence."
"Forty million?" I felt the blood drain from my face. "It was an accident. It was just paint."
"It was the image," Zane corrected. He stepped toward me, his movements slow and deliberate. He stopped inches away, so close I could smell the winter air and the expensive sandalwood clinging to his skin. "The world saw a man who could not control a street corner. They saw a man who was literally colored by an outsider's mistake. My investors are asking if I have lost my edge."
He reached out, his thumb catching a stray lock of my hair. His touch was cold, but it sent a spark of heat through me that made my breath hitch.
"You are going to fix it," he whispered.
"How? I do not have that kind of money."
"I do not want your money, Poppy. I want your presence." He moved his hand from my hair to my jaw, his fingers firm. "You are going to be the reason I was distracted. You are going to be the secret fiancée I was so busy thinking about that I forgot to close my sunroof."
I stared at him. The power radiating off him was intoxicating, even as it was terrifying. "You want me to lie to the whole world?"
"I want you to play a part," he said, his eyes dropping to my lips. "And in exchange, I will not destroy you. In fact, I will make you the most famous artist in this city."