Page 43 of Rose

She turned from the painting she’d been admiring, brow raised. “I didn’t start anything. Keon’s an amazing artist. I love what he’s doing for the art community.”

Savior tilted his head, watching her. “Yeah, but he started because of you. He told me your showcases were the reason his work got seen. You really don’t know, do you?”

Ahzii looked confused.

Back then, she’d hosted a ton of showcases, rotating work from up-and-coming Black artists all across the city. Some she never even met in person. It had been about giving space, she never thought about how many lives it may have touched.

“Wait… really?” she asked, genuinely shocked.

“You probably don’t recognize him,” Savior said, stepping closer. “After the army, he was homeless. Not every vet gets the benefits they’re owed. When I called him about getting into this sold-out showcase for my wife, he asked who I was married to.”

Ahzii rolled her eyes. “No one, because I’m not your wife.”

Savior ignored her. “I said your name, and he remembered you right away. Said you saw him painting on the street one day. Everyone else thought he was just some cracked-out dude with a paintbrush, but you saw an artist. A person. You bought one of his pieces—paid way more than he was asking—and put it in your showcase. Gave it a title. A space. A price tag that matched its worth.”

Ahzii’s chest tightened, memories flickering in her mind like light through broken blinds.

“He told me he walked into your show that night, saw his painting on display, and how much money you’d made off it—for him. You gave him all of it. That one night gave him enough to get off the street. From there, he got a job. A place. And eventually… this.”

Savior motioned around them at the museum, the people, the curated beauty Keon now called his.

And it all clicked.

Ahzii blinked. Her voice came out soft. “He told me his name was Harlem.”

“That’s his artist name. He’s from Harlem, but his real name’s Keon.”

She looked across the room where Keon— Harlem —was laughing with a small group, holding a glass of wine like he owned the air around him. She smiled, proud.

“Your art saved his life, Allure,” Savior said, watching her face closely.

Her eyes didn’t leave Keon. “It did,” she whispered, more to herself than him.

But he heard her.

“Why didn’t he say anything just now?” she asked, still watching the man who’d once been a stranger painting on the sidewalk.

“Didn’t think you’d remember,” Savior answered. “Said that was a low point in his life. Doesn’t like talking about it.”

Ahzii nodded slowly. She understood that. Completely. Because she was still living in her own low point .

But for the first time in a long time, standing here, surrounded by art and history she helped shape, something flickered in her chest.

Hope.

“What made you buy his art that day?” Savior asked, their steps slow as they wandered through rows of sculptures and paintings.

“I related,” Ahzii replied quietly.

She didn’t look at him, her eyes scanning the artwork, but her voice carried weight.

“My brother and I grew up homeless. Ran away from our foster family and ended up on the streets. A’Mazi turned to fast money, and I got a job at this little diner, but it was never enough. Not to make us happy. Not to make us feel safe.”

Her voice stayed even, but Savior saw the emotion flicker in her eyes.

“Art was our light in the dark,” she continued. “We used to tag buildings with anything we could find—paint, markers, even fucking chalk. We’d steal supplies from the school’s art class just to come home and create the life we wished we had through brushstrokes and color.”

Savior said nothing, just watched her with a soft smile.

She didn’t even realize she was opening up. She said it like she was listing off grocery items, but he could hear the history buried beneath the flatness. Feel the weight she carried.

“My brother made this one piece called The Joy in Chaos. I don’t know what happened to it after we got adopted and moved in with our mom, but it was the most beautiful thing he ever painted.

It captured our childhood in color. The madness, the noise, the survival—but in the middle of all that mess, there was joy. There was us.”

She took a long sip of her champagne.

“All I had was Mazi,” she added. “And art gave us something to hold onto. It gave us joy in the chaos we were living in.”

“Thank you,” Savior said, his voice low and sincere.

Ahzii looked at him sideways, brows pinched. “For what?”

“For sharing a piece of you with me.”

She laughed—not out of mockery, but because she didn’t know what to say to that. She hadn’t meant to say all of that. But she couldn’t deny it felt good. Like exhaling after holding your breath for too long.

Her eyes wandered, anywhere but him. But Savior never looked away, he was still watching her like she was the artwork in the room.

Then she froze.

Her breath caught.

“Oh my god…”

Before Savior could ask what was wrong, she moved, rushing forward until she stood in front of a painting. Her fingers hovered near the frame like she was afraid to touch it.

“This is the painting,” she breathed out. “ This is it! ”

The title read:

The Joy in Chaos. By A ’ Mazi Rose

“He sold it,” she whispered, her smile growing bright and wide.

Savior stepped beside her, and for a moment he just watched her take it in .

The painting was vivid—two Black children, a boy and a girl, playing in the street of a neighborhood surrounded by shadows, broken buildings, violence. But in the center, the children glowed with joy. Whole. Untouched. Like the ugliness couldn’t reach them.

She read the plaque beneath it aloud.

“ Dedicated to my twin. My ride or die. My joy.”

Her voice cracked. Tears welled in her eyes.

“He didn’t tell me…”

“Maybe he wanted to surprise you,” Savior said gently.

Ahzii wiped at her face before the tears could ruin her makeup, but the damage was already done, on the inside. The painting brought it all back. The laughter. The pain. The fear. The bond.

And most of all… the loss.

Because she’d wanted to give Willow the life she and A’Mazi never had. A life filled with love, and color, and safety.

But Willow was gone. And now, the memory of her felt woven into the fabric of every stroke.

More tears slid down her cheeks.

Savior noticed it the moment her smile disappeared. The shimmer in her eyes wasn’t awe anymore, it was pain. Tears threatened to fall, and his brows pulled slightly as worry crept in.

“Allure…” he said gently, sliding a hand around her waist, grounding her with his touch.

She didn’t look at him right away. Her eyes stayed on the painting, as if it was peeling something open inside her she wasn’t ready to confront.

“This piece just tugs at so many emotions,” she whispered. “Makes me think about everyone I’ve lost. The ones who were never really there. And the ones that were taken from me.”

Her voice didn’t crack, but the weight behind it did. Savior tightened his hold, firm but soft, his silence giving her room to breathe.

“And the fact that my brother’s been there through all of it,” she added, more to herself than him.

Savior stayed quiet, letting her unravel at her own pace.

She turned to him slowly, eyes glassy. “You want to know another fact about me?”

“I want to know everything about you,” he replied. “On your time.”

She sighed and dabbed beneath her eyes with her finger before the tears could fall. Her hand went to the necklace around her neck, her fingers tracing the name etched in gold.

“Willow is…” She paused. “Was my daughter.”

The words broke through her lips like a whisper from a haunted place.

And then the dam cracked.

Tears spilled down her cheeks, free and quiet, but she didn’t crumble. She stood in it. Strong, even in the breaking.

“I lost her a year ago,” she said, her voice trembling. “The scar on my stomach? That’s from the c-section. I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl who didn’t live long enough to take her first breath.”

More tears followed, but she didn’t stop. Saying it aloud opened a wound she’d buried too deep to heal.

Savior remained still, not daring to interrupt. His hand stayed at her waist, his presence wrapped around her like armor. But before he could say anything, Ahzii stepped back. Quick. Hurried. Gone from his arms in an instant.

She rushed toward the bathroom, heels clicking against the polished floor.

He almost went after her. Every instinct told him to, but he knew better.

She needed space. Not comfort. Not words. Not pity. She needed an escape.

Savior sipped his champagne, his eyes drifting back to the painting A’Mazi had done as a kid. He’d seen Mazi’s talent in ink before—but this? This piece was layered in soul. In memory. It was pure.

The sharp buzz of his phone broke the silence.

He glanced down.

Allure calling.

His heart jumped. She hadn’t come out of the bathroom. Hadn’t texted or called. Nothing—until now.

He answered immediately. “Allure? You good?”

Her voice came through low, heavy. Still thick with emotion. “My boundary, Savior. I need my fuck buddy.”

He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t speak. Just moved.

He was already walking toward the bathroom before the call ended. He knew what she needed now wasn’t comfort or conversation. Not even healing.

She needed release. Escape. Something to drown in that wouldn’t break her further.

And that’s exactly what he was going to be.

Savior stepped into the women’s restroom, his eyes immediately finding Ahzii.

She was leaning against the wall, head back, eyes closed. Her makeup was smudged, dried tear streaks painting her cheeks like warpaint. The quiet hum of the empty stalls confirmed they were alone.

He locked the door with a solid click.

Her eyes fluttered open at the sound, locking on him.

He didn’t say a word. Just walked over and scooped her into his arms like she weighed nothing. Set her gently on the marble counter, her legs spreading naturally to welcome him in. Her breathing picked up as his body moved between hers.