CYAN
The morning sun fell across the marble floor of the balcony at an angle that most painters would have spent hours trying to recreate, but I was too busy staring at a man wearing nothing but a pair of leather cowboy boots and a strategically placed Stetson hat.
My father's estate stretched out below us, a massive, sprawling expanse of manicured lawns, vibrant lavender beds, and ancient cherry blossoms that dropped their petals into a quiet koi pond.
A fountain clicked and hummed somewhere in the distance, its waters catching the light, while the morning birds filled the air with loud, cheerful noise.
It was the kind of pristine, untouched beauty that generational wealth buys you when it's working exactly the way it's supposed to.
But the view was old news. I had painted those gardens a thousand times.
The six-foot-two man standing near the stone railing, however, was a completely fresh addition to the collection.
