Ever since Hawthorne bluntly told Yvette to mind her own business, Gwyneth’s days at the office had become noticeably easier.
Her relationship with Hawthorne was warming, too—a slow, steady thaw.
“I’m taking you to France tomorrow,” he announced one night.
Gwyneth’s heart stuttered. She remembered her promise to Connor and, for the first time, felt a pang of guilt.
“I have something tomorrow,” she said, trying to keep her tone light. “Someone commissioned a painting. I promised I’d finish it for them.”
Hawthorne’s brows knitted. “A commission? You’re taking freelance work besides your concept art here?”
Gwyneth had no choice but to double down. “Yeah, I took it before I joined your company. It’s for a client—he lost his wife and wants a portrait to remember her by. It’s almost done; the deadline’s right around the corner. I don’t want to hold him up.”
“I don’t remember you mentioning this before,” Hawthorne said, skeptical.
Gwyneth had done a commission like that, and the deadline was indeed coming up—just not for another week. She was simply moving the date forward.
“It didn’t seem like a big deal,” she replied, hoping her voice sounded casual.
Hawthorne ruffled her hair. “Alright, if you really can’t make it, I won’t go either.”
“No—!”
Panic flared in Gwyneth’s chest. If Hawthorne didn’t go to France, she’d never find time to keep her promise to Connor.
She caught herself and forced a calm smile. Lying this smoothly was new territory.
“I just mean you don’t have to put off your work for me. Besides, you’re not staying long, right?”
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