She became quiet.
“Because I want to build the next part of my life with people I trust.”
Something tightened inside him.
She noticed.
Camille slid the folder closer.
“You don’t have to answer today.”
“How long?”
“Three weeks.”
“Of course.”
She smiled.
“Look at the building.”
“Read the numbers.”
“Talk to whoever you need.”
“Then tell me no if that’s what you want.”
Malcolm took the folder home.
He read it twice.
Then again.
The financials worked.
The location worked.
The growth potential was obvious.
The problem was not business.
The problem was trust.
For six years, Malcolm had designed his life around making sure nobody else had enough power to destabilize Ava’s world.
Partnership meant dependence.
Dependence meant risk.
Risk meant someone else could walk away.
On Saturday, he took Ava to see the building.
She loved it immediately.
“This is huge.”
“Yes.”
“Can we live upstairs?”
“Maybe.”
“Can I have the room with the big window?”
“There is currently no room.”
“You can build one.”
Malcolm laughed.
They walked through the empty rear workshop.
Ava spun in the center.
“Dad, this is way better.”
“Than what?”
“Our old place.”
“You grew up there.”
“I’m still growing.”
Fair point.
Malcolm walked the perimeter, checking slab cracks, roof lines, electrical service, loading access.
The building needed work.
Nothing frightening.
Everything fixable.
Ava appeared beside him.
“Is Lena doing this too?”
“Yes.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“Business partnerships are complicated.”
“Do you trust her?”
Malcolm looked at his daughter.
“Yes.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
He smiled.
“You ask dangerous questions.”
Ava shrugged.
“She likes you.”
Malcolm stopped.
“What?”
“She likes you.”
“How do you know?”
“She looks at you weird.”
“What does that mean?”
“The same way you look at her.”
Heat rose into his face.
“Ava.”
“I’m eight, not blind.”
Malcolm turned toward the ceiling.
“Let’s inspect upstairs.”
Monday morning, he called Camille.
“I saw the building.”
“And?”
“It’s solid.”
Camille laughed.
“That sounds like you.”
“The numbers work.”
“And?”
“The shop is good.”
“And?”
Malcolm took a breath.
“I’m in.”
Silence.
Then, “You’re serious?”
“Yes.”
“Oh my God.”
“You offered.”
“I know.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I was preparing myself for three weeks of analysis followed by a six-page rejection.”
Malcolm smiled.
“You know me too well.”
They signed the lease that Friday.
The partnership agreement divided property expenses evenly while keeping Northline Contemporary and Reed Custom Woodworks legally separate.
Camille controlled gallery operations.
Malcolm controlled the studio.
Major building decisions required both.
Clear boundaries.
Clear money.
Clear responsibilities.
Exactly the kind of arrangement Malcolm could trust.
They stood inside the empty building after signing.
Rain tapped the windows.
Camille held her new key.
“We’re actually doing this.”
“Yes.”
“No turning back.”
“Technically there are termination clauses.”
Camille laughed.
“Romantic.”
Malcolm smiled.
For the first time in years, taking a risk did not feel irresponsible.
It felt necessary.
Three weeks later, the building had begun transforming.
Malcolm installed dust collection and storage racks in the rear studio.
Camille and Natalie rebuilt the gallery front.
Ava did homework at a desk Malcolm built in one corner.
She also made unauthorized design suggestions to everyone.
“Dad, my bedroom upstairs should be purple.”
“We haven’t decided to move upstairs.”
“We are.”
“Who said?”
“Me.”
Camille walked through the studio.
“I vote purple.”
Malcolm looked at her.
“This is not democracy.”
Ava grinned.
“Two against one.”
Something about the three of them standing there felt dangerously close to family.
Malcolm ignored the thought.
Then came the grand opening.
Northline’s new space filled with collectors, designers, artists, and neighborhood residents.
Malcolm’s studio brought its own attention.
A tech founder asked about a custom dining table.
An architect wanted built-ins.
An interior designer requested a meeting about a boutique hotel project.
Malcolm spent most of the evening wishing everyone would stop handing him business cards.
Natalie found him near the studio doorway.
“You’re hiding again.”
“I’m working.”
“You are holding champagne.”
“Complex work.”
She smiled.
“Camille needs you.”
“She always needs something.”
“That sounded affectionate.”
Malcolm ignored her.
Camille appeared before Natalie could say more.
“You okay?”
“I’ve met seventeen people.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It was.”
She led him toward a quiet window.
For a moment, they watched guests move through the gallery.
Camille exhaled.
“I’m tired.”
“You’ve been working sixteen-hour days.”
“I wanted this perfect.”
“It is.”
She looked at him.
“No criticism?”
“Give me time.”
Camille laughed.
Then her expression softened.
“I’m still learning how not to do everything alone.”
“I know.”
“You make that look easier.”
Malcolm shook his head.
“I spent six years doing everything alone.”
“So what changed?”
He looked toward Ava, who was helping Natalie hand out programs.
“You showed up in the rain.”
Camille became still.
Malcolm continued.
“I realized needing people doesn’t automatically mean failing.”
Their eyes held.
For one second, the entire room disappeared.
Then someone called Camille’s name.
She stepped backward.
“I should—”
“Go.”
She hesitated.
Then left.
Malcolm remained at the window.
Something was happening between them.
He knew it.
Camille knew it.
Ava definitely knew it.
Malcolm told himself ignoring it was the responsible choice.
Their businesses were connected.
Their building was connected.
Ava loved Camille.
One wrong move could complicate everything.
So Malcolm stayed professional.
For almost two months.
Then a wealthy collector named Victor Brennan came into the gallery furious over a painting he had failed to complete payment on.
By the time Malcolm heard the raised voices, Brennan was leaning over Camille’s desk.
“I put down a deposit.”
“And we refunded it.”
“I had first rights.”
“Until the payment deadline.”
“I’ll sue you.”
“You are welcome to speak with counsel.”
Brennan moved closer.
Malcolm stepped through the connecting door.
“Is there a problem?”
Brennan turned.
“Who are you?”
“Her partner.”
The word came out before Malcolm thought about how it sounded.
Camille looked at him.
Brennan did not notice.
“This is private.”
“It stopped being private when you started leaning over her desk.”
Malcolm stepped between them.
“Back up.”
Brennan stared.
“Or what?”
“I call police and have you removed.”
Malcolm took out his phone.
“Your choice.”
For several seconds, Brennan looked like he might escalate.
Then he recalculated.
“This isn’t over.”
Camille’s voice remained calm.
“Yes, it is.”
He left.
Only after the door slammed did Malcolm look at Camille.
“You okay?”
“Fine.”
Her hands were shaking.
Malcolm noticed.
She noticed him noticing.
“I thought I could handle him.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t need rescuing.”
“I know.”
She frowned.
“Then why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because you don’t have to do everything alone anymore.”
Camille became quiet.
Malcolm immediately regretted how personal it sounded.
Then she smiled.
“Thank you for showing up.”
“Apparently I have a habit.”
“You do.”
That night, Ava asked the question Malcolm had been avoiding.
“Do you love Camille?”
Malcolm nearly dropped the knife he was using to slice bell peppers.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“Ava.”
“You do.”
“I care about her.”
“That is adult lying.”
He stared.
She climbed onto a stool.
“You smile when she comes into the room.”
“That means nothing.”
“She smiles when you come into the room.”
“That also means nothing.”