Charlotte closed her eyes before staring up again at the rafters. “You have my apologies, whatever they might be worth now. But what would you have done? If you were me? When you knew deep down that you possess all the ability and skill required, but your whole life you’ve been told that it’s not enough? Would you have risked the truth?”

He didn’t answer that.

“Will you ask Lisbon to replace me now? Make me leave?” Her question fell like a stone into the silence. But she needed to know. Because if she had to, she would fight for this too. She would not fade passively into the background. Not anymore.

His head came up, and he stared at her. “Leave?”

“It’s a fair question.”

“It’s an insulting question. Do you think I am intimidated by you? By your talent and skill?”

“No.” Charlotte shook her head wearily. “I don’t think you are intimidated by anything, Mr. Rutledge.”

“Then you’d be wrong.” His silver eyes pinned her to the pillows with the sharpness of a rapier. He set the bottle of whiskey aside and abruptly stood, snatching one of the lanterns and striding toward the door. Charlotte frowned in confusion as he made his way across the studio floor to the panel that was still shrouded. Through the open door, she could still see him and the lower portion of the panel.

He set the lantern down, turned and met her gaze across the space, and yanked the sheet from the panel.

Charlotte couldn’t see the top of his work, but what she could see was stunning. St. Michael, in all his defiant glory, stared out larger than life from the surface. Everything that Rutledge had captured in his sketch was also visible here. A raw emotion of the sort that made his Madonna portrait so breathtaking.

Flynn retraced his steps back to her room, pacing the tiny space near the end of her bed.

“It’s magnificent,” Charlotte said honestly. “But I’ve always known it would be.”

“How?”

“Because I knew how much of yourself you’d put into it. And because I know that you have the talent and skill to do that justice. I’ve seen it.” She jerked her chin in the direction of the panel. “You’re creating something extraordinary.”

“It’s because of you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Rutledge stopped pacing long enough to run a hand through his hair. “I haven’t created anything like that in a long time. I’ve been…lost. Unable to find joy in something that has been as necessary to me as breathing for as long as I can remember. And that didn’t just intimidate me—it terrified me. And then you showed up. And gave me…” He trailed off, visibly struggling for a word. “Direction. Made me remember what was important. Gave me back my purpose.”