Page 2 of Billion Dollar Vow (The Lincoln Brothers #4)

Karley

I exhale loudly as the crowd on the Manhattan sidewalk flows, and the woman in front of me abruptly stops.

My usual fast pace means I crash right into her.

“Sorry,” I mutter breathlessly, trying to muster a smile, but the sun blazes in my eyes as I adjust the strap on my bag that slipped off my shoulder when we collided.

At twenty-two, you’d think I’d have mastered the art of navigating busy streets by now.

She apologizes and steps aside. I’m running late again.

God, I wish I had my shit together like those women who glide through life effortlessly.

You know the type… Always fifteen minutes early, never digging through their purse at the checkout or scrambling to find their keys.

Their bills are probably paid a week in advance.

They’ve got clean cars, perfect nails, and color-coded calendars that they actually use.

Meanwhile, I’m standing here in a coffee-stained sweater, juggling an oversized tote that’s basically my portable junk drawer, with a phone full of unpaid reminders.

My life isn’t just a little messy, it’s a full-blown disaster zone.

Like one of those “before” pictures on an organizing show.

Except, for me, there’s no neat “after” waiting at the end.

I move past her, eager to continue my walk to The Lincoln School of Art.

I’ve been here for a few months now, pouring myself into painting, pushing my skills further with every brushstroke.

It started when I was a kid. I’ve always loved drawing, not just with crayons or colored pencils, but on anything I could find.

Worksheets, napkins, the backs of old receipts—if there was a blank space, I’d fill it.

My brother still teases me about the time I drew on the back of his homework.

“You turned my math into flowers,” he said, like it wasn’t an improvement.

But painting? That was different. I remember the first time I held a proper artist brush. It was hard in my grip, solid and real, yet somehow, it felt like holding possibility itself. Like I could take all the broken, unfair things in the world and turn them into something beautiful.

I was fourteen, and my adopted mother, Amber, handed me a palette full of bright, shiny colors.

She said, “Here’s your chance to make something that feels alive.

” I didn’t know what she meant, but as soon as the brush hit the paper, I felt it.

The way the colors moved and blended… It was like magic.

From that moment, painting became my thing.

My escape. My joy. While other kids were braiding each other’s hair or playing dress-up, I spent hours in the art room, trying to figure out how to mix the perfect shade of green.

My adopted parents even let me paint on a wall in my room.

I still remember the freedom that simple act gave me, like someone finally saw the real me beneath all the labels and case files.

My fingers trembled holding that first brush, afraid they’d change their minds, but they just smiled and closed the door behind them.

Even when life felt like it was falling apart, painting made everything make sense. It was the one time when the chaos in my head settled into something beautiful. And now, walking to The Lincoln School of Art every morning, it feels like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

I jog up the steps of the concrete building, take the elevator, and hurry down the hall, past offices and classrooms. My heart’s racing as I push open the glass door to class.

Inside, students are unpacking supplies…

and some are already set up. I nod a quick hello and slip to my usual spot in the back corner.

Tucked beneath the fluorescent light, the empty desk awaits.

It’s hidden, and that’s exactly how I like it.

Dropping my bag to the table, I open it to pull out my brushes, including my hake, laying them out, and then place my bag near my feet.

My body sinks into the plastic chair as I scan the room.

There are a total of fifteen students in this class.

The school is owned by Eliza Lincoln, my brother's best friend's mother. I don’t see her often, but I look up to her. She’s also a painter, but better known for her art galleries, which she started on her own.

She established the art school for people who couldn’t afford formal classes, like me.

She supports the school with the best teachers and supplies, including high-quality paper that’s perfect for those of us… like me, who love watercolors.

“Good morning, class.” Mrs. Bennett enters, wearing her classic blue distressed overalls and a white cardigan covered in sunflowers, brightening the room.

We all respond in unison. “Good morning.”

She settles at the front of the class, her messy brown hair in a bun, soon to be filled with art brushes, no doubt. We will have to wait and see to figure out how many.

I peer over at Evelyn, my friend’s empty chair. As usual, she’s running late, probably because she slept in after studying all night.

“Has she started?” Evelyn asks not even a minute later, dragging out her chair with a screech that echoes through the room. There’s something reassuring about her presence. No matter how late she is, Evelyn always shows up.

She drops her bag onto the floor with a thump, unconcerned about the eyes on her. She’s the opposite of me. I try to avoid attention, but even if she were quiet, she’d draw it anyway, with her striking green eyes, faint freckles, and shiny red hair.

“No, she just walked in,” I whisper.

“I slept in because I stayed up late studying and watching a new show.”

“What was it called?” I ask, thinking I’ll try to watch it if I’m home alone tonight. I’ve finished binge watching Dream Home Makeover . I’ve been obsessively taking notes of every built-in shelf and kitchen island, saving them for the house I want.

She scrunches her nose as she snaps her fingers. “Damn it. I forgot. It’ll come to me.”

I giggle as she unpacks before settling in her chair.

“Alright, class,” Mrs. Bennett starts, and the room falls silent. “Today, we’ll focus on line work. For the first half of the class, you’ll watch me, and then you’ll try it yourselves. I'll walk around and offer help. Any questions?”

We spend the next thirty minutes watching her sketch the Empire State Building, explaining her techniques as she goes. As expected, by the time she’s finished, she’s got at least eight pencils tucked into her messy bun.

Now it’s our turn. We’re free to draw whatever we like, as long as it’s based on lines. I don’t hesitate. I already know what I want to draw. Before I know it, I’m lost in my drawing of a peony, only snapping out of it when Evelyn taps my shoulder.

“Hey, what’s up?” I ask.

“Time for a break.”

I glance at the clock, surprised to see that an hour has already slipped by.

As much as I want to skip our break, I know I need it to keep me going today.

I lower my pencil and stretch my arms over my head.

Grabbing my purse, which is filled with an old phone and crumpled sketchbooks, paint-stained receipts, and dried color tubes that mean everything to me, I follow her out of the classroom, where I finally notice what she’s wearing.

She usually wears dress pants to class and changes tops before heading to her afternoon or night shift at The Charles Hotel, working as a concierge.

“Why are you in jeans? I thought you had a shift at the hotel right after class.”

“Brittany begged me to swap shifts.”

“So, when are you working?”

I know she needs the hours. I can’t help but worry about what it means for her money.

She crosses her arms. “Saturday afternoon.”

We step into the break room, soft conversations humming around us.

A small table is covered with free snacks, all provided by Mrs. Lincoln, who insists on taking care of her students.

I appreciate it and usually grab a handful.

In the corner, a simple vending machine stands.

A few students lounge on green sofas, the concrete walls and exposed pipes, adding to the industrial feel of the room.

“Bummer, we can’t hang out on Saturday then,” I say, walking over to a small counter, where a friendly staff member is arranging more free snacks on trays. I help myself to a red apple, some cheese, and crackers from her neatly organized selection.

Evelyn grabs cookies. “Hopefully, your brother goes out so you don’t have to deal with him.”

By him , she really means him and his girlfriend, Amarni. I live with him while I save for my own place. It’s also close to the school. I’m happy he found someone, and it helps to keep his focus off me.

“God, I hope so. They’re all over each other like a rash, and I’m over it.” I sigh.

We make our way to the coffee and tea station.

“If you were in love, you’d be the same.”

Evelyn makes her coffee with cream and sugar, while I make tea. “Not happening anytime soon. I’ve got more important things to focus on.” I’ll never be in love like that.

We take our things to one of the wooden tables and chairs and begin eating.

As we settle in, I can’t help but feel a little disappointed that we can’t hang out on Saturday.

It’s not like I was planning anything special, but I had hoped for a chance to maybe talk more.

When she asks how I am, she actually means it.

She doesn’t push, doesn’t pry; she just listens.

And when she talks, it’s never empty. It’s thoughtful, fun, and real.

I don’t trust people easily, but with her, it’s different. She gets me in a way no one else does. She doesn’t try to fix me or tell me what I should do. She’s just... there. And that’s more than I’ve ever been able to say about most people.

“Are you still thinking about that property?” she asks.