Chapter 3 - The Yellow Suns of NashvilleThe silence that followed was absolute.
Clara stood frozen, her small hand holding a cheap plastic paintbrush dripping with bright yellow watercolor. Her other hand held a small, cracked plastic palette containing circles of blue, orange, and purple paint. Her fingers were stained a deep, messy cerulean.
When she saw Ethan’s sharp blue eyes open, her own eyes widened, but she didn't run. She didn't drop the brush. She simply looked at him, her lower lip tucked slightly under her teeth, waiting for the giant to speak.
Before Ethan could say a word, the door swung open fully, and Maria stepped into the room carrying a laundry basket. The moment her eyes landed on her daughter standing over the billionaire with a paintbrush, the basket slipped from her hands, sheets tumbling onto the polished floor.
“Clara!” Maria gasped, her face turning a terrifying, bloodless white. She rushed forward, falling to her knees on the rug and pulling her daughter back so quickly the plastic palette clattered to the floor, spilling bright blue and orange droplets onto the expensive silk fibers.
“Mr. Cole,” Maria sobbed, her voice shaking so violently she could barely form the words. “I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry. I turned my back for one minute to fold the linens in the hall closet. She... she must have slipped out. Please, don't call the agency. Please, don't call the police. I will pay for the rug. I will pay for whatever she ruined.”
Ethan slowly sat up, his limbs stiff, his mind struggling to process the scene. He ignored the silver Rolex sitting completely untouched on the glass table. He reached out and touched his forehead, his fingers coming away wet with sticky, bright yellow paint.
He turned his head toward the heavy, gold-leaf antique mirror hanging over the fireplace.
Staring back at him was the cold, disciplined boy king of American real estate. But his face was no longer a blank fortress.
Across his right cheek, a row of crooked yellow suns marched toward his ear. His left cheek was covered in tiny, uneven purple flowers with bright orange centers. A cluster of orange freckles was dotted across his nose, and right in the dead center of his forehead, a large, wobbly blue butterfly sat with its wings spread wide, its wobbly antennae reaching toward his hairline.
He looked absolutely ridiculous.
He looked... human.
“Mr. Cole,” Maria whispered, her hands shaking as she tried to use her clean apron to wipe the paint from Clara’s fingers, her own tears dripping onto the floorboards. “We will leave right now. You won't have to fire us. I’ll pack our things.”
Ethan stared at his reflection for a long, agonizing moment. For the first time in nine years, the tight, suffocating knot in his chest loosened, just a fraction of an inch. A strange, unfamiliar sensation tickled his throat.
He didn't yell. He didn't summon Carol Brant to have them escorted from the property.
Instead, he let out a dry, rusty sound. It was rough, like an engine that hadn't been started in a decade, but as it echoed off the high, cold ceilings of the sitting room, it turned into a genuine, quiet laugh.
“You have terrible technique, Clara,” Ethan said, his voice gravelly from sleep as he looked down at the little girl. “The butterfly’s wings are completely asymmetrical.”
Clara blinked, then a bright, gap-toothed smile broke across her small face. “He was lonely,” she said, pointing a blue-stained finger at his forehead. “He needed a friend.”
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Maria stared at her employer as if he had just spoken in a language she had never heard. She looked at his painted face, then at the laughter in his eyes, her own tears freezing on her cheeks in sheer disbelief.
“Mrs. Delgado,” Ethan said, standing up and reaching for a linen napkin from the tea tray. He carefully wiped his fingers, though he made no move to clean his face. “Get the cleaning kit for the rug. And buy the girl some decent brushes. Those plastic ones are split at the ends.”
