Page 25 of Beautifully Deranged

"Nope."

He doesn't fight me on it. He leans back, chopsticks dangling in his hand. "Is painting what you really want to do?"

That one catches me off guard. Not because I don’t know the answer—hell, I’ve always known—but because no one’s ever asked me before.

I nod slowly, setting my food down. "My mom was a painter."

"She was brilliant," I add, softer now. "I used to just... watch her. For hours. She made it look like magic. She taught me everything I know. She’s gone now."

"I’m sorry about your mom."

"Thanks," I murmur, rolling my chopsticks between my fingers. Silence settles in. Not awkward. Just heavy.

Then he speaks again. "And your goal?"

I let out a breath. "I’m hoping this is the year. The year I finally make enough to cut ties financially. No more relying on my father."

The look he gives me is sharp. "You still depend on him?"

I shrug, a little defensive. "Not like I have much choice. Art doesn’t exactly pay the bills when you’re starting out."

Also, let’s be real, my father doesn’t bankroll me out of affection. He does it because I’m part of his image. A prop. As long as I don’t embarrass him, he keeps the cash flowing. Love? Yeah, that’s not part of the package.

"Your turn," I change the subject.

"For what?"

"For me to ask you something."

He nods…he’s giving me five minutes before shutting down again.

"Did you always want to do what you’re doing now?"

His shoulders tighten. "No."

"A pilot?" I guess, raising an eyebrow.

He nods. Straight-faced.

"Liar," I shoot back.

Mikhail just shrugs, the picture of unbothered. I laugh. "Already reached your vulnerability quota for the night, Misha?"

"Stop calling me Misha."

"But it suits you."

"It doesn’t."

"It really does."

His glare lacks any real heat. If anything, it’s amused. I smirk. "You know, this is kind of a big deal."

"What is?"

"You coming here. You always wait for me to show up. But tonight? You knocked."

His eyes flicker with something I can’t place.

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