“I know,” he said softly. “But she wants to strip away everything that makes me Jonathan Vance.”

He took a slow step toward me, then stopped, respecting the distance I had kept between us.

“I told her to do her worst,” he said.

“You went to war with her,” I said.

“I had to,” Jonathan said. “I couldn’t let her hold this over us anymore.”

The radiator in the corner hissed, releasing a puff of steam that smelled of rust.

“You brought that war to my doorstep,” I said, gesturing to the window.

“Benjamin’s man is outside,” Jonathan said quickly. “You are safe here.”

“A man in an SUV doesn’t make me feel safe,” I said.

Jonathan looked down at his shoes, the anger slowly draining from his face, leaving only fatigue.

“I know,” he whispered. “I am sorry, Mariana.”

He looked at my workbench, at the small jars of pigment and the delicate brushes lined up in a row.

“You built something beautiful here,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. “Without me.”

“I had to,” I said.