The Last Brushstroke
EMMA
The issue with painting the sky is that it never stays the same. It shifts and changes. Right now, on my canvas, it was a stifled, heavy grey that felt completely off.
The sky outside my studio window, the true one over Glenroth, was alive. It looked like a bruise, darkening over the hills, with one bold stripe of gold where the sun had faded. My version looked lifeless. Just paint.
I dipped my brush in the thinner, wiping away a cloud. My hands were stained with ultramarine and terracotta, remnants of failed attempts under my nails. The smell of linseed oil and turpentine was as familiar as my heartbeat. At that moment, home smelled like desperation.
The phone on the paint-splattered stool rang, shattering the quiet. I wiped my hand on my jeans, leaving a blue streak, and answered it.
"Glenroth Estate," I said, my voice shifting into what I called my "debtor's daughter" tone—polite, composed, completely fake.
"Miss MacKinnon, it's Stephen Davies at Clydesdale." The bank manager. My stomach twisted. "I'm afraid I'm calling about the final notice. The extension we discussed… the board couldn't approve it."
The gold stripe outside disappeared, swallowed by grey. I closed my eyes for a moment, envisioning numbers instead of darkness. The overwhelming amount we owed felt like a mountain I had been climbing for ten years with bare hands.
"Mr. Davies," I said, opening my eyes and focusing on a crack in the window frame. "The timber from the north quarter will be cut down next week. That's a confirmed sale. And the holiday lets are fully booked for the shooting season. Revenue is coming."
"It's not about revenue, Miss MacKinnon. It's about security. The debt against the land value…" He cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. "Without a significant, immediate cash injection, the loan must be called. I'm very sorry. You have until the end of the month."
The end of the month. Three weeks. The numbers in my mind collapsed into a void.
I don't recall what I said to end the call. It was probably something calm. Promising to explore options. I gently set the phone down on the stool, as if it were made of the same fragile glass that was currently shattering inside my chest.
The studio was my refuge, but today it felt like a beautiful falsehood. Canvases leaned against every wall, vibrant landscapes of Glenroth in every season—none of them showed the truth. They didn't depict the crumbling dry stone walls, the rusty equipment in the barns, or the peeling wallpaper in the west wing. They captured the spirit of the place but not the dying reality.
I couldn't paint the truth. Who would buy a painting of a beautiful corpse?
I left the studio, my boots silent on the worn stone stairs. The house echoed not with laughter or music, but with a vast, hungry silence. I passed the portrait of my great-grandfather, his painted eyes seeming to follow me with disappointment. You're the last one, they seemed to say. The last chance. And you're standing in a hallway, covered in paint.
I found my father in the library. He wasn't reading. He sat in his worn leather chair, staring at the empty fireplace as if he could will a flame to life. Baron MacKinnon, the Laird of Glenroth. That title felt too big for him now, hanging over him like a heavy cloak.
"The bank called," I said, my voice flat in the dusty silence.
He didn't look at me. Just blinked slowly, weariness in his eyes. "Aye."
"We have three weeks."
This time, he flinched. He turned his head slowly. His eyes, the same warm brown as mine, looked haunted. "Emma, mo chridhe…"
"Don't," I cut him off, sharper than I intended. I couldn't bear his endearments, his grief. It was a burden I couldn't manage on top of everything else. "We need to talk to the trustees again. Or maybe list the south fields separately, just to—"
"It's done, Emma."
Three words. An icy chill ran down my spine. "What's done?"
He looked back at the fireplace, his voice so low I had to strain to hear. "I've found a solution. A… partner."
A partner. The word lingered in the air, unsettling and strange. We didn't have partners. We had creditors, tenants, and a few loyal friends who were as broke as we were.
"What kind of partner?" My artist's mind, always creating images, imagined a kind-hearted philanthropist in tweed with a soft spot for old buildings.
Before he could respond, the sound cut through the silence. Not a car—our gravel drive was used to the noise of tractors and old Land Rovers. This was different, a smooth, menacing purr. I walked to the window and wiped a clear spot in the condensation with my hand.
A car the color of midnight was gliding to a stop in the drive. It was low and sleek, almost as if it had been poured onto the gravel. As the door opened, a man stepped out.
He wasn't wearing tweed.
He stood there, a silhouette of sharp black against the moody hills. Tall, moving with easy confidence as he adjusted his coat. He glanced up at the house with a cool, calculated look, as if he were assessing the windows.
"Who is that?" I whispered, though I already had an idea.
"Azriel Thorne," my father said, the name ringing like a death sentence.
The world shrank around me. Azriel Thorne. I had seen his name in the financial times Liv left lying around. The 'reclusive billionaire.' The 'ruthless asset-stripper.' The man known for buying failing companies and ancient estates, turning them into luxury hotels and golf courses. My heart raced violently in my chest.
"You sold Glenroth to him?" My words felt like pure horror.
"Not sold," my father said quickly, standing up and wringing his hands. "A partnership. A merger. He clears the debt. He invests. He saves it."
"At what cost?" I turned from the window, my back to the impossible scene outside. "What's the cost, Dad?"
He avoided my gaze. "There's a… a marriage clause."
The room tilted. The paintings on the walls, my proud, false landscapes, seemed to sway. "A what?"
"A two-year marriage contract. With him. To solidify the alliance. To make it… acceptable to the public. It's just business, Emma. On paper. Two years, and Glenroth is secure forever."
Just business. On paper. I looked at my hands, at the vivid blue stain on my knuckles, the earthy ochre under my nails. These hands had tried to hold this place together. They pulled lambs from the mud, balanced ledgers until dawn, and mixed colors to capture a fading light. They belonged to an artist, a farmer, a daughter.
And now, they were an item in a contract.
The doorbell rang, a sound we rarely used. It felt absurdly cheerful in the silent house.
My father jumped. "I'll… I'll get it."
"No." The word came out steady and cold, a stranger's voice. "I'll get it."
I avoided the mirror. I knew how I looked—a wild thing dragged in from the moor, paint and fury on my skin. Let him see. Let Azriel Thorne see exactly what he was buying.
I strode to the great front door, my boots firm on the stone, and pulled it open.
The Highland wind rushed in, bringing the scent of rain and earth. And him. Sandalwood and something cold, like frost.
He filled the doorway. The pictures in the papers didn't do him justice. They couldn't capture the focused intensity he exuded. His sea-green eyes locked onto mine, scanning me with a swift, clinical efficiency that stripped away my paint-stained clothes and messy hair, exposing the crumbling foundation I stood on.
"Emma MacKinnon," he said. It wasn't a question. His voice was polished and deep, devoid of warmth. A statement of fact.
I didn't smile. I didn't extend my hand. I stood there, facing the man who held my home's future, and saw not a savior, but a jailer in a perfect black coat.
"Welcome to Glenroth, Mr. Thorne," I said, keeping my voice steady. "I hear you're in the market for a wife."