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But the true centerpiece of the room isn’t the furniture or the clock.

It’s the walls.

They’re nothing short of scandalous, adorned with life-sized paintings of the same faceless woman in intricate forms of bondage.

The provocative imagery isn’t what stops me cold. It’s the devastation that follows, stealing my breath, because I’d recognize that beautiful, exotic style anywhere.

“Sebastian painted these.” It’s not a question. His signature, SAS, haunts the bottom right corner of each canvas, etched as permanently as the scars he left on my soul.

“Yes,” Oliver answers, matter-of-fact, as if he doesn’t notice how the sight of those paintings tears me apart. “As artists go, he was the best.”

I stumble after him, exhaling in a rush, and force myself to keep pace as he moves through the fourth floor with brisk efficiency.

“Kitchen. Home office. Gym.” He gestures at each area as we pass, then pauses at a great room. “I call this the solarium.”

Beyond the towering wall of glass, the sea sprawls in endless motion. I’ve watched those waves a thousand times, crashing against the cliffs, always in flux. Last night, I almost saw them up close and personal.

But there’s no time to dwell on my mistakes.

Oliver is already moving again, and just as I catch up, he falters in front of a set of double doors. “This is the library. You’re welcome to use it whenever you like.”

With a touch of awe, I take in the towering rows of books. The collection spans classics and thrillers…and, surprisingly, romance novels. My fingers itch to reach for one and disappear into someone else’s story for a while.

He continues past the library, stopping next at a heavy door. Dark engravings spiral across its surface, elaborate patterns twisting into something almost hypnotic—until my gaze snags on the keypad embedded in the frame.

“This room is off-limits for now.” He swings his gaze from me to the door. “Until I decide otherwise.”

I tilt my head, more curious than wary. “What’s in there?”

His lips curve, amusement sparking in his chestnut eyes. “Something you’re not ready for.”

He’s got me there, because I’m not ready for any of this. I never am.

We continue deeper until the hall opens into a large suite. “This is where you’ll stay for the month. I’ll have an extra bed brought in for Astrid.”

Stepping past him, I take in my surroundings. Rich cherrywood furnishings, a massive bed dressed in a charcoal-gray duvet, and a sitting area near the fireplace, its warmth painting the walls in burnt amber. An arched mullioned window seat promises the perfect place to disappear into a book.

Or zone out into nothingness.

The babysitter enters behind me, while Oliver stalls on the threshold, assessing each detail to ensure it meets his exacting standards.

“I had some of your things brought in.” He motions to the writing desk. “Sketching supplies, a few of your books. The wardrobe has some of your clothes as well.”

I glance at the familiar items, and my stomach tightens at the unexpected consideration.

Kindness from these men always comes with strings.

Before I can decide whether to reach for my sketchbook or pretend it doesn’t exist, he’s speaking again.

“I’ll come for you in two hours. Stay here until then.”

“What happens in two hours?”

“Your first session with Dr. Price.”

I fold my arms, already tired of this routine. “That will make me late for the monthly dinner.”

Crossing his arms to match my stance, he leans against the doorjamb, but the smirk I expect doesn’t come. Instead, his jaw tightens. “How do you figure? It’s a ninety-minute session.”