“Stop wasting your time on those silly paintings, you fool!” the man snapped. He had no idea Id just sold one anonymously for a fortune.
The paint smelled sharp and sweetthe scent of freedom.
Sebastian James Harrington, my husband, despised that smell. He stood in the doorway of my tiny studio, which was really just a partitioned corner of our living room.
“Again,” he muttered. It wasnt a question.
His expensive suit looked out of place against my paint-splattered canvases. He wrinkled his nose in disgust, eyeing the palette.
“Eleanor, we agreed. No mess in the evenings. You reek of paint thinner. And were hosting guests on Saturdaywhat will they think?”
I dipped my brush into crimson without a word. The red spread across the fibers, alive and warm as blood.
“Its not a mess, Seb.”
“Then what is it?” He jabbed a finger toward the nearly finished canvas. “Just meaningless blobs of color. Ruined material. Money down the drain.”
His pragmatism was like a press, methodically flattening everything vibrant and alive into something dull, gray, and comprehensible to him.
“This space could have been useful. A shelf for my tools, or at least the winter tires. Id already picked out a perfect design.”
I dragged a bold red line across the canvas. It was defiant, uneven, tearing the composition apartexactly what I wanted.
“Stop this nonsense and focus on something worthwhile, you ridiculous woman!”
His words hit the room like heavy, filthy stones. Once, they would have wounded me. Left invisible scars.
But not today.
Today, I had a shield. Invisible, unbreakable. I could almost feel its weight.
I turned to him slowly, my face calm. He expected tears, excuses, shoutinghis usual script. He got none of it.
“I am focused, Sebastian.”
He blinked, thrown by my tonefirm, unapologetic.
“On what? Destroying our household budget?”
I turned back to the canvas. My silence infuriated him more than any argument.
On the laptop screen beside my easel, an unread email glowed. I hadnt closed it before he came in. It still shone like a beacon in the dim light.
*Dear Ms. Whitmore, were pleased to inform you that your piece “August Breath” has sold at a private auction. The final bid: £32,000.*
“Get this cleaned up by tomorrow,” he said from the hallway. “Ive scheduled a fitter for the shelves. Be home by eleven.”
The door slammed.
I picked up my finest brush, dipped it in pure white, and added the final dot to the painting.
It was the point of no return.
Morning changed nothing and everything.
The air in the flat was the samelingering with last nights dinner and Sebastians expensive cologne. But I breathed differently now. Deeper.
He sat at the table, eyes glued to his tablet, sipping his tasteless green smoothiehealthy, like everything else in his dull life. He didnt look at me.
“Ill be late tonight,” he said. “Dont bother with dinner; Im eating with clients.”
In the past, Id have nodded. Said, “Alright, darling.”
Today, I sipped my coffeerich, bitter, realand stayed silent.
He glanced up, irritated by my lack of response.
“Did you hear me? The fitters coming at eleven. Be here.”
I swallowed.
“Fine.”
He smirked, satisfied, retreating into his digital world. Hed gotten what he wantedcompliance. He just didnt realize *what* Id agreed to. Id be home. That was all.
The moment the door closed, I opened my old laptop. Another life waited there, hidden behind a password. *Eleanor Whitmore.* My pseudonym. My *real* namethe one Id never changed legally, the one known in the circles that mattered.
A foreign bank account, opened a year ago after a particularly vile argument. Just in case. Funded with the remnants of my grandmothers inheritancethe “trifle” Sebastian dismissed.
Transferring the money took ten minutes. The numbers didnt intoxicate me. They grounded me.
At ten, my phone rang. Unknown number.
“Eleanor Whitmore?” A mans voice. Rich, calm, velvet-smooth.
“Speaking.”
“Daniel Hartley. Owner of the gallery that represented your piece. First, congratulationsit was a sensation.”
I stayed quiet, unsure how to respond.
“The collector who bought it well, hes a prominent man. And he wants another. For his country estate. Any theme, your choice. He trusts your vision entirely.”
The words rang like music.
“Ill think about it,” was all I managed.
“Of course. Take your time. But know this, Eleanorwhat you create isnt just silly paintings. Its art. The world should see it.”
We spoke for ten more minutes. About pigments, light, texture. He *understood*.
When I hung up, the doorbell rang.
Eleven on the dot. Punctualitythe courtesy of kings and fitters.
I looked at my corner. My canvases, my mess, my *soul*.
Then I answered the door with a faint, knowing smile.
The fitter was a tired-eyed young man.
“Morning. Here to measure for the shelving. For tools, was it?”
“Good morning,” I said evenly. “Theres been a mistake. The orders cancelled.”
He blinked. “Cancelled? Your husband confirmed this morning”
“He acted too soon.” I handed him a twenty. “For your trouble.”
Baffled, he took it. “Right. Your call.”
I shut the door and leaned against it. First step taken. Not defensive*offensive*.
I didnt hunt for a studio. Id already chosen onean old factory turned loft, with huge windows. Id saved the agents card months ago.
A phone call. An online deposit. Three months paid upfront. Done.
Sebastian came home early that evening, in a foul mood. A deal must have fallen through.
He stormed into the living room, shoes still on, and froze at the sight of my untouched corner.
“Eleanor!” he barked. “Whats this? Where are the measurements?”
I stepped out of the kitchen with peppermint tea.
“I cancelled the order.”
He stiffened, shrugging off his jacket. “What did you just say?”
“I cancelled it. The shelves arent needed here.”
He threw the jacket onto the sofa. “Have you lost your mind? *I* decide what this house needs! *I* earn the money!”
“We both know thats not entirely true,” I said softly.
He stepped closer, reeking of anger and expensive aftershave.
“What nonsense is this?”
“Your latest project was funded by my grandmothers money. We just called it household savings.”
His face flushed. A direct hit to his pride.
“You” he hissed. “Ungrateful! I gave you everything! A home, security! And you waste it on*this*!”
He grabbed my latest canvasthe one with the white dotand raised it, ready to snap it over his knee.
I didnt scream. Didnt rush to stop him.
I tapped my phone, put it on speaker.
Daniels voice filled the room.
“Eleanor? Good evening. I was just about to call you.”
Sebastian froze, the painting still raised. His face went slack.
“Daniel, hello,” I said coolly. “Ive decided to accept your clients commission. With one condition.”
A pause. Daniel was quick.
“Name it.”
Sebastians eyes darted between the phone and the canvas. A predator robbed of his prey.
“Ill need help transporting several pieces. Including one currently at risk. To my new studio.”
I held Sebastians gaze. Confusion swam in his eyes.
“New studio?” Daniel echoed. “Wonderful. My team can be there in an hour. Same address?”
“No.” I wrote the factorys address on a notepad. “Ill text it. And Danielthe advance for the new piece? The same account.”
I hung up.
Sebastian set the canvas down carefully, as if it were glass.
“Whatwhat was that? What commission? What studio?”
“The nonsense you mocked, Seb.”
“*Nonsense*?” he spat. “Whod pay for this?”
“Someone already did. Enough for the studio. Enough to never ask you for money again.”
I walked to the bedroom and picked up the bag Id packed earlier. Not a suitcasejust a bag.
Sebastian followed. “How much? Five hundred? A thousand?”
I paused at the door.
“It doesnt matter. What matters is your worldwhere I was just a
