Ch. My sister’s punishment, my billionaire prize 27 My sister’s punishment, my billionaire prize 27

27 

‘I first saw Violet Parker’s painting before I ever met her. 

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it was in a small gallery in Vermont-a watercolor of a young girl in a sunflower field. The technique wasn’t perfect, but there was something about the emotion captured in the child’s expression that stopped me in my tracks. A mixture of hope and sadness that felt uncomfortably familiar. 

ocal artist,” the gallery owner told me. “Just a teenager, actually. Lives with distant relatives up in the hills.” 

I bought the painting without hesitation, had it shipped to my Boston office where I could see it daily. Something about it haunted me-the technical skill far beyond what a self-taught teenager should possess, combined with that raw emotional power. 

Two years later, when Olivia came bursting into my office, talking about reuniting with the girl who had saved her life in Vermont, I made the connection immediately. 

“Violet,” I said, interrupting Olivia’s excited chatter. “Violet Parker.” 

Olivia’s eyes widened. “How did you know?” 

I gestured to the painting on my wall-the one I’d looked at every day for two years. 

“I’ve been following her career,” I admitted. “Small exhibitions, online sales. She’s incredibly talented.” 

What I didn’t tell Olivia was how much I’d already learned about Violet through my investigations. Her abandonment by her family. Her resilience in teaching herself art with minimal supplies. The hearing loss in one ear from her mother’s abuse. 

I had initially been interested in her work. But somewhere along the way, I’d become invested in her story-in her. 

When Olivia told me what she’d discovered about Violet’s current situation, rage unlike anything I’d ever experienced coursed through me. The Parker family’s treatment of her was beyond unconscionable. 

“We need to get her out of there,” I said, already formulating a plan. 

“But how? She won’t just leave with us-she doesn’t even remember me. And she’s still hoping for her family’s approval.” 

I thought about it for days, examining every angle. The Parkers wouldn’t release Violet willingly- they needed her as their scapegoat. We needed leverage. 

The plan with the staged accident was Olivia’s idea, but I refined it, made it bulletproof. I knew exactly how the Parker family would react-they’d sacrifice Violet rather than risk their precious Amber. It was despicable, but predictable. 

What I hadn’t predicted was my reaction to Violet when I finally met her. 

I’d seen photos, of course. But they didn’t capture the quiet dignity in her posture, even in the face of her family’s betrayal. They didn’t convey the intelligence in her eyes, or the spark that still lived there despite everything she’d endured. 

That first day at our estate, when Olivia pushed me against Violet and I caught her in my arms-I felt something shift inside me. The protectiveness I’d developed for this artist I’d never met transformed into something much more immediate and personal. 

I had to remind myself constantly that Violet needed space. Freedom. Not another controlling presence in her life. 

So I kept my distance, even as I ensured her room was prepared exactly to her taste. Even as I found excuses to be in the same room, to hear her laugh with Olivia, to watch her face light up when she talked about painting. 

When she called me “Alex” that first morning at breakfast, it took every ounce of self-control not to react visibly. No one but Olivia called me that. The intimacy of it, accidental as it was, felt like a gift. I knew from the moment she agreed to go study with Montgomery that I wouldn’t be able to let her go completely. She deserved her independence, her chance to develop her talent without distraction- but I couldn’t bear the thought of her feeling abandoned again. 

So I arranged my business affairs to include regular European trips. I told myself I was just keeping an eye on my investment in her future. In reality, I was becoming increasingly obsessed with her happiness, her comfort, her success. 

Watching her from afar in Florence, seeing her grow more confident with each passing month-it was both torture and joy. I wanted to approach her, to tell her how proud I was, how much I missed her. But I’d made a promise to support her journey, not complicate it. 

When she finally caught me watching her in the Boboli Gardens, I felt a mixture of relief and terror. Those eight months of silent observation had been unsustainable, but I hadn’t known how to change the pattern without disrupting her life. 

The night of the flood changed everything. Seeing her in danger activated something primal in me. All my careful distance evaporated the moment I held her hand, leading her through flooded streets. In that villa, soaking wet and vulnerable, we finally acknowledged what had been building between us since that first encounter. When she kissed me, it was as if everything in my carefully controlled life suddenly made sense. 

The years that followed were a delicate balance-giving her the space to grow as an artist while 

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nurturing what was blooming between us. Each separation was painful, but each reunion more intense for the waiting. 

I carried that ring with me for five years before I finally felt worthy of asking her to marry me. Not because of what I could give her-money, status, security-but because I believed I had finally fearned how to love her the way she deserved: completely, but without constraints. 

When she said yes, I realized that the painting that had first drawn me to her-that child in the sunflower field with hope battling sadness in her eyes-had been prophetic. Violet had always been waiting for someone to see both her pain and her potential, and choose to nurture the latter without exploiting the former. 

I had finally become that person.