"I don't recall hiring a partner for this project, Julian," Clara said, her voice echoing faintly in the hollowed-out back room of the gallery. She was looking at Julian, who had arrived with a toolbox and a smile too broad for the early hour. Behind him, standing in the doorway like a storm cloud made flesh, was Eli.

Julian wiped his forehead, glancing sideways at the bearded man. "I ran into Eli at the hardware store. Since I'm going to sea for three days tomorrow, I thought I'd pay him to help you finish the structural work while I'm gone. He's the best with a hammer in the county, right?"

Elias felt a wave of cold, dark triumph. His plan to remove Julian from the equation was working, but being so close to the man who wanted to replace him made his blood boil. He entered the room, his heavy boots clacking against the floorboards he'd probably once paid a crew of contractors to install in a single afternoon. "The lady hasn't said she wants my help yet," Elias said, his voice deep and disciplined.

Clara glanced at the two men alternately—the sun-tanned, golden fisherman and the dark, brooding carpenter who seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. She felt a strange, throbbing anxiety in her chest when her eyes met Eli's. "I can't afford two pairs of hands, Julian," she said softly, her gaze lingering on the scar on Eli's knuckle.

"It's all sorted, Clara," Julian laughed, placing a hand on Elias's shoulder. Elias tensed, his eyes flashing with a momentary, lethal sharpness that made Julian blink in confusion. "I pay Eli's daily f*e as a gift to the gallery. Consider it an investment in the best artist in Seaside Point."

Elias wanted to shake his hand and tell Julian that his "daily rate" wouldn't even cover the taxes on a Thorne executive's lunch. Instead, he forced himself to nod, his jaw clenched. "I'll start with the load-bearing wall," he muttered, walking past them to avoid seeing Julian's hand near Clara's waist. He picked up a sledgehammer, its familiar, comforting weight.

For the next three hours, the gallery was filled with the rhythmic, violent sound of Elias working. He wielded the mallet with a desperation bordering on madness, each blow a silent scream against the years of neglect he had shown his wife. Clara watched him from the corner, her sketchbook forgotten in her lap as she mentally traced the way the muscles in his back contracted and curled beneath his damp flannel shirt.

"You work like you're trying to kill the building, Eli," Clara said during a break, handing him a bottle of water. The room was quiet now; Julian had gone to prepare his boat for the morning. Elias took the water, his fingers brushing against hers again, and this time, neither of them pulled away immediately.

"Sometimes you have to tear something down completely before you can rebuild it properly," Elias replied, his eyes searching hers for some sign of recognition. He saw a glimmer of something—pain, perhaps, or the memory of a man who used to look at her with that same intensity before he became a monster. He saw her swallow hard, her pulse throbbing in the hollow of her throat.

“I spent five years watching things get destroyed,” Clara whispered, her voice trembling. “I’m tired of the destruction, Eli. I just want something that will stand.” She turned away before he could reply, leaving him standing in the dust of the wall he had demolished. Elias looked at the sledgehammer in his hand and realized that, while he could break wood and stone, he had no idea how to heal the soul of the woman he had shattered.