Page 13 of Billion Dollar Vow (The Lincoln Brothers #4)

Karley

I’m at Tills’ in the middle of a class when my phone rings. The women are painting on canvases with wine glasses in hand, their laughter filling the studio. I take a glance at the screen, half expecting it to be a telemarketer, but no, it’s Oliver.

What could he possibly want?

I hit decline and put the phone on my desk to refocus on helping one of the women who’s struggling to blend her colors.

My hands move easily, showing her how to create a smooth mix, but my mind is still on Oliver.

If it were urgent, there’d be a message, a voicemail, or text.

Knowing him, it’s probably something trivial, like needing to confirm my brother's birthdate for some paperwork.

The class wraps up, and as I’m cleaning brushes and putting away easels, my phone rings again.

I miss the call because it’s across the room, but when I check, it’s Oliver.

Again. I sigh, deciding I’ll call him back once I’m done cleaning up.

It’s been a long day, and all I want to do is go home, collapse on the sofa to watch some TV, and then fall asleep.

I’m wiping down the table when there’s a knock on the door. I freeze, my heart suddenly pounding.

It’s late; no one should be here.

I tiptoe over to the peephole, peering out into the dark, and see Oliver standing there under the outside light, dressed casually in a cream sweater and dark pants. He’s not in his usual suit, which throws me off. This relaxed version of him is harder to resist.

I open the door a crack. “It must be something important if you’ve called me twice and now showed up at my work.”

“It is,” he says simply.

My stomach drops. Whatever annoyance I felt dissolves into concern. I pull the door open wider. “Come in. It’s cold out there, and I’d like to go home before midnight.”

It’s an exaggeration. I could finish up here in fifteen minutes, but I want him to hurry up, tell me what he wants, and leave.

As he steps inside, the familiar scent of his cologne hits me.

I tell myself to ignore it, to push down the warmth creeping up my chest, but it’s impossible not to inhale just a bit deeper.

He doesn’t ask where to sit. He strides toward one of the empty chairs and looks around the studio.

He’s never been here before. There’s a slight frown on his face, and I suddenly feel self-conscious, as if he’s judging this small, messy space I call work.

I imagine him comparing it to his sterile office, with modern art, glass walls, and everything in its place.

Deep down, a flicker of resentment rises in me at the fact he had two loving parents who supported him, who gave him a head start in life, while I bounced between foster homes after my parents’ addiction took priority over raising children.

No safety net, no inheritance, no connections…

just survival with nothing but my stubbornness keeping me going. Until I was adopted by Amber and Wren.

I start putting away the easels, feeling his eyes on me the whole time, which only makes my body tense.

“I need to ask you a favor,” he says, breaking the silence.

I pause, glance over my shoulder, then turn to face him fully, one eyebrow lifting. “You need my help?” I ask, surprised. He’s usually the one who has everything under control.

“Yes.” He runs a hand through his hair, something I’ve rarely seen him do. “That’s why I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“Well, I’m sorry, I was working.”

He runs his hand down the back of his head. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just… a little urgent.”

I continue picking up the easels, deliberately avoiding his gaze.

Why am I still tidying up when he clearly has something important to say?

It’s to keep a distance between us and to keep control in my space.

When I reach the one closest to him, his hand closes over mine, stopping me.

A jolt of electricity rushes through me.

I try to ignore it, looking down at his hand, then back up, keeping a blank face. “What do you need, Oliver?”

Standing over him, I notice how different he seems, almost vulnerable, without the usual power he exudes. And I hate how a small part of me still finds it endearing, being in the same room with him, even after everything.

“I need you to marry me.”

“What the fuck, Oliver?” I spit out, the words escaping before I can stop them. My mind floods with questions. Is this some kind of sick joke? A bet with my brother? A prank?

“I’m serious.”

I yank my hand back, my mind struggling to process his words. This is fucking crazy. I actually start laughing because there’s no way he means it. “No.”

Marriage isn't even on my mind right now. Maybe in the future, but certainly not now.

“I’ll pay you,” he pleads.

The suggestion hits me like a slap. Heat floods my face as anger rises in my throat.

“I’m not a whore, Oliver,” I snap, crossing my arms over my chest, hating that he confirms that the powerful always take advantage of the weak.

He grimaces. “Shit. No, Karley. Clearly, I’m not explaining this well. I didn’t mean it like that.”

I shake my head vehemently, trying to process what’s happening. Part of me wants to laugh, but the other part is insulted that he thought I’d agree. “I don’t want to get married.”

“What do you want?” he whispers with uncertainty in his eyes. Oliver Lincoln unsure of himself is unsettling.

I point to the wooden door. “For you to leave. Like I said, it’s been a long day.”

He stands and waves his hands around the room. “I’m offering to pay you enough so you don’t have to work here anymore.”

My chest tightens as his words confirm his dislike of my work. “I like this job, and I have no intention of quitting.”

His blue eyes flare, clearly taken aback, as if he never considered that someone could actually enjoy this kind of work. But there’s a freedom in teaching, in watching people create, that I can’t give up, not for any amount of money. And more importantly, not for him.

“Your brother said it would be okay,” he adds.

I go completely still as a sharp ringing fills my ears, replaying his words over and over. He has to be fucking kidding. “My brother said it was fine for you to marry me?” The betrayal cuts deep. I can almost picture it: Declan and Oliver discussing my future.

“Yes.”

I close my eyes and rub my temples, feeling a headache coming on. What exactly had Declan told him? That I was desperate enough for money? Or maybe it’s connected to Declan’s upcoming move; this is his way to take care of me while he’s gone.

I drop my hands and look at him. “Declan isn’t my father, Oliver. He doesn’t get to decide for me.”

“I understand that, but he’s my best friend.”

“Yes, I’m well aware.”

I turn to the table to continue cleaning, needing something to distract me. Part of me wants to throw him out, but another part wonders what kind of money he’s talking about. I spray down the table and start wiping it.

“It’s not a real marriage. It would be for a short time,” he says, watching me. He shifts, rubbing the back of his neck. “Can you please stop cleaning and just listen?”

A fake marriage? Is that supposed to make his proposition less insulting? More tempting? I’m not sure which is worse.

“No.” My hands need to stay busy while I process what he’s asking. “I’m not marrying you, Oliver. Please leave.”

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence, then I hear his voice, softer, almost pleading. “Come on, Karley.”

I swear there’s a break in his voice, and it makes me hesitate. I close my eyes, drop the cloth, and then slowly sit down in the chair next to him, facing him directly.

“You need to explain why. You can’t just show up at my workplace and demand I marry you.”

“Do you know the Warne Gallery on West 24th Street?” He leans forward slightly, his voice low, like he’s sharing a secret.

Of course, I know it. Everyone in the art world knows it.

I nod. “Yes.”

His eyes are intense. I feel my heart flutter under his gaze.

“The owner, Dan Warne, is finally selling it.”

I wait, sensing there’s more. “I want to buy it, but the owner won’t sell it to me. Or to Liam.”

Liam. The guy’s a jerk. I saw him once at one of Oliver’s gallery parties, trying to flirt with Jemima just to rile up his brother Harvey.

“Why won’t he sell it to you?”

“He will only hand it over to a married couple. He wants to make sure it’s in a good family’s hands.”

“And that’s where I come in?” His plan leaves me somewhere between insulted and suspicious.

“Yes.”

This is ludicrous. A fake marriage, legal documents, lying to Warne.

All the complications that would follow.

“I want to help you, Oliver, but you’ll have to just buy another gallery.

I’m not doing this.” I sigh and stand up, but as I move to walk away, he catches my wrist. A shiver runs down my spine, starting at the point where his fingers touch my skin and radiating through my entire body.

I wish he’d stop touching me because it’s messing with my head.

“It’s not just for me. Let me explain.”

The sad look in his eyes makes me reluctantly sit back down, and he lets go of my wrist. Immediately I miss his touch.

“It’s for my mom,” he says, and my heart softens.

His mom is like a second mother to me. “Your mom’s retired. She doesn’t need a gallery. I thought she was busy with her school?”

“It’s to display her students’ work,” he says quietly. He’s nervous admitting that? But why…because I’m one of those students?

My heart skips a beat. My work.

The thought of having my art displayed in a world famous gallery is too good to be true, a dream I never let myself consider.

But shame fills me. How could I let Eliza down by saying no?

Not just me, but all the other students, people like me who never thought they’d have a chance.

People she’s believed in. But I’ve always stayed in the shadows, and this would put me on display. Which means I can’t do this.

“I can’t help you, Oliver. Find someone else.”

“There isn’t anyone else,” he says firmly. “No one who knows me, who understands art, and who could make it believable.”

“But it wouldn’t be real.” The words come out softer than I intended. Why does that matter? Shouldn’t I be relieved it would be temporary?

“We’ll annul the marriage as soon as I secure the gallery,” he insists. “I’ll do anything. Name your price.”

I stare at him, searching his face for any sign of a playful smirk, a flicker of humor, really anything that might tell me he’s joking.

But the familiar spark is gone, replaced by a heavy, desperate look that I hardly recognize.

His shoulders slump, his eyes dark and distant, as if he’s carrying the weight of something he can’t put into words.

“You’re serious?”

“Yes.” He reaches out, trying to touch my hand, but I slip off the stool, putting some distance between us. I need space to think.

The idea of helping his mom is sweet, and I can’t deny that.

Eliza gave so many students like me a chance when the art world wanted nothing to do with us.

A gallery dedicated to showcase our work could change lives.

Even if I chose to keep my own art hidden, could I really stand in the way of others getting their big break?

“What does your mom think about all this?”

“She doesn’t know,” Oliver says, his voice dropping to nearly a whisper, eyes softening with what looks like genuine affection. “I want it to be a surprise. She’s always dreamed of having this gallery, but Mr. Warne never seemed interested in selling before.”

I cross my arms, hesitating. Something about the timing feels off. “I heard his wife had a health scare.” It’s a rumor that’s been circulating in the art community for weeks now.

His eyebrows knit together, a flash of surprise crossing his face.

“I overheard Mrs. Bennett talking about it at school,” I explain.

He nods slowly, processing the information.

“So, what do you think? Will you marry me, Karley?” His expression is a mix of determination and something almost vulnerable as he drums his fingers against his leg.

My heart pounds a powerful beat. The guy I had a crush on, is standing right in front of me, asking me to fake-marry him. For a moment, it’s almost surreal. But as much as I care about his mom, I just can’t do it. I don’t think I have what it takes to get over him a second time.

“I’m sorry, Oliver. As much as I love your mom, I can’t.”

His shoulders sag, and for a moment, he looks defeated. But he quickly pulls himself together, standing up and offering me a small smile. “I understand. I’ll let you go. Goodnight, Karley.”

“Goodnight.” I’m relieved he agrees.

I watch him leave, and as soon as the door clicks shut behind him, I rush to lock it, leaning against the wood to catch my breath. My heart is still pounding, my mind spinning. I should be relieved that he’s gone, but I’m not.

There’s only one thing that will calm me down right now… painting.

I grab a blank easel, set up my paints, and begin. The only way to get Oliver out of my head is to lose myself in something I love more.