Kingdom Come

“Babe,” I said, having entered the neutral zone and picked a side. I slid my arm around her waist, making it clear to the interloper who she belonged to. I gave him a winning smile. It seemed appropriate.

Lizzy had other ideas and slipped out of my hold to stand before the painting. Her positioning only brought the memory of the first night I’d found her in my bed to the forefront of my mind. She had no clue, but her ex did—even though I hadn’t captured her face on the canvas.

She spoke, bringing me back to the present. “I can have this ready to ship for you by next weekend.” As she spoke to him, the man who had been in my apartment with her appeared. “Anderson, please get the details from Hans as to where he’d like it sent.”

I stepped forward, leaving the four of us in an odd circle, or more like a square. “Don’t. I’ve already purchased this painting.”

My beautiful blond princess turned her fierce gaze on Anderson. “Is that true?”

Anderson floundered for a second and I looked at her ex, Hans. He gave Anderson a pleading look. I faced the other man and gave him a murderous glare. I figured it would break the tie.

“Y-yes,” Anderson said. “He did.”

My grin was all teeth and Anderson let out a breath he’d likely been holding.

Through clenched teeth, my now furious princess, said, “We have more in the back.”

I cut that off at the knees. “I bought those as well.”

Anderson nodded when Lizzy glared his way.

“Lizzy,” Hans said. “Let him have the paintings. I’d rather have the woman,” and he knelt.

There were gasps, and suddenly the small area in the back was filled. There was even a camera crew.

“I’ve never loved another woman the way I love you,” he said.

Lizzy looked shocked. I’d like to think she looked a little horrified, but I wouldn’t know for sure until this played out.

“Hans, please—” she said.

“I should have done this before, but I didn’t and I’m making it right. Lizzy Monroe, would you marry me?”

The room went deathly silent as everyone, including me, waited on her answer.

“No,” she said.

Collectively, the crowd sucked in a breath while I let out the one I’d been holding. I almost felt bad for the guy. He looked like a boy who’d lost his puppy.

“I mean, I can’t,” she said, faltering as the whispers were clearly not in her favor.

Hans had gone red and the cameras were still rolling. A few spectators had gone over to offer him condolences as other were glaring at her as if she was the devil. Lizzy glanced around, her pretty face in a panic as her eyes landed on me. I took it as a plea for help.

“Why can’t you?” Hans asked, bolstered by those who’d come to his side.

Lizzy’s gaze remained locked with mine. “I’m already married.”

The word passed around the crowd as if they didn’t believe her as she covered her naked ring finger.

I wasn’t about to let her be crucified by public opinion and stepped forward. “Me. She’s married to me.”

No one knew me as Connor King, so what did the lie matter? Lizzy looked equally taken aback by my statement, and not exactly thrilled.

I slid my arm around her waist. “It was spur of the moment, but when you know, you know.”

All of those who’d looked ready to burn her at the stake suddenly melted with oohs and ahhs.

“I see,” Hans said. “Your husband bought all of those paintings?”

He’d seen through the lie, but I one-upped him. “A surprise wedding gift.”

More sighs and murmurs from those now thinking how incredibly romantic our fictitious marriage was. The man had no fight in him and didn’t deserve her for that very reason.

Hans said, “You’re a lucky man,” and walked away.

The camera crew seemed confused about whether to follow him or stay with Lizzy. She made the decision easy by taking my hand and dragging us away from the crowd. Anderson, who I now understood to be her assistant of sorts, had wide fearful eyes for me.

He didn’t have a clue. The maddening woman wasn’t a threat to me. She’d see reason. I allowed her to march toward the front of the gallery with me in tow. She hung a right down a short hall and stepped inside an office. I followed.

The room was small, and I made my way to the front of the desk before turning to face her. She stiff-armed the door like a running back would do to a lineman on the football field. Fury lined her beautiful face—oddly, turning me the fuck on.

“What was that?” she asked. I didn’t answer because she wasn’t ready for one. “You don’t own me.”

Somehow, I had been expecting that. “I don’t.”

She pointed at the door—or rather through it, metaphorically speaking all the way to the spot we’d been a minute or two ago. “I was handling it.”