“Stop wasting your time on those silly pictures!” the man snapped. He had no idea I’d sold one anonymously for a fortune.
The sharp, sweet tang of oil paint hung in the airthe scent of freedom.
Sebastian Archibald Whitmore, my husband, detested that smell. He stood at the threshold of my tiny studio, which was really just a partitioned corner of our sitting room.
“Again,” he exhaled. It wasn’t a question.
His expensive suit looked out of place among my canvases, splattered with acrylic. He wrinkled his nose in disgust, eyeing my palette.
“Eloise, we agreed. No mess in the evenings. You reek of turpentine for days. We have guests coming on Saturdaywhat will they think?”
I dipped my brush into crimson without a word. The red spread across the fibers, warm and alive, like blood.
“This isn’t a mess, Seb.”
“Then what is it?” He jabbed a finger toward the nearly finished canvas. “Meaningless splotches of colour. Ruined material. Money down the drain.”
His pragmatism was like a vice. Methodical, unrelenting, pressing everything bright and vibrant into flat, grey, comprehensible mundanity.
“This space could be useful. Shelving for my tools, at least. Or winter tyres. Ive already picked out a perfect option.”
I dragged a bold scarlet line across the canvas. It was defiant and crooked. It shattered the compositionexactly what Id intended.
“Stop dawdling and do something useful, you foolish woman!”
The words landed like heavy stones. Once, they would have wounded me. Left invisible scars.
But not today.
Today, I had a shield. Invisible, yet unbreakable. I turned to him slowly, my face calm. He expected tears, excuses, shoutinghis usual script. He got nothing.
“I *am* doing something useful, Sebastian.”
He faltered at my tonefirm, without a trace of deference. He blinked, as if adjusting his focus.
“Useful? How? By draining our household budget?”
I turned back to the canvas. My silence irritated him more than any argument.
On the laptop beside my easel glowed an unread email from a London gallery. I hadnt closed it before he arrived, and it still shone there, a beacon in the dim light.
*Dear Mrs. Hartwell, we are pleased to inform you that your piece, “August Breath,” has sold at private auction for £30,000.*
“Clear this out by tomorrow,” he tossed over his shoulder as he left. “Ive booked a carpenter for shelving. Be home by eleven.”
The door slammed.
I picked up my finest brush, dipped it in pure white, and placed the final stroke.
A point of no return.
Morning changed nothingand everything.
The flat smelled the samelingering hints of last nights supper and Sebastians cologne. But I breathed differently. Deeper.
He sat at the table, absorbed in his tablet, sipping a green smoothiehealthy, flavourless, like his life. He didnt look up.
“Ill be late tonight. Dont bother with supper; Im dining with associates.”
Once, I would have nodded. Said, *”Of course, darling.”*
Today, I sipped my coffeerich, bitter, realin silence.
He glanced up, unnerved by my lack of response.
“Did you hear me? The carpenters coming at eleven. Be here.”
I took another sip.
“Fine.”
He smirked, satisfied, retreating into his digital world. Hed gotten what he wantedsubmission. He just didnt realise what Id agreed to. I *would* be home. That was all.
Once the door closed, I opened my old laptop. Another life waited there, password-protected. *Eloise Hartwell.* My pseudonym.
My maiden name. The name under which I was known in certain circlesthe one Id never changed on my passport.
The foreign bank account had been opened a year ago, after a particularly vile row. Just in case. Id tucked away the remnants of my grandmothers inheritancewhat Seb dismissed as “trifles.” Those trifles had quietly funded my participation in online exhibitions.
The transfer took minutes. The numbers didnt dazzle me. They gave me solid ground.
At ten, my phone rang. An unknown number.
“Eloise Hartwell?” A mans voice, deep and calm, with a velvet roughness. No sharpness, just warmth.
“Speaking.”
“Lionel Beaumont. I own the gallery that represented your work. First, congratulations. It was a triumph.”
I stayed silent, unsure how to respond.
“The collector who bought ita prominent figureis enthralled. He wants to commission another piece. For his country estate. The theme is yours to choose. He trusts your vision entirely.”
The words rang like music.
“Ill consider it,” I managed.
“Of course. Take your time. But know this, Eloisewhat you create isnt silly. Its art. And the world should see it.”
We spoke for ten more minutes. About pigments, light, texture. He understood. Spoke my language.
When I hung up, the doorbell rang.
Exactly eleven. Punctualitythe courtesy of kings and carpenters.
I glanced at my corner. At the canvases, the paints, the beautiful chaos that was my soul.
Then I answered the door with a faint, enigmatic smile.
The carpenter was a tired-eyed young man.
“Good morning. Im here to measure for 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 was hasty.” I smiled. “This space isnt for shelving. It isnt for storage at all.”
I handed him a twenty-pound note. “For your trouble.”
He hesitated but took it. “Well your call. Good day.”
I closed the door and leaned against it. First step taken. Not defensive. Offensive.
I didnt spend the day hunting for a studio. Id known where it was for six monthsever since a walk through Shoreditch, escaping another lecture on “financial prudence.”
A converted factory, huge windows. Id inquired about the price then and kept the agents card.
I called, paid the deposit online. Three months upfront. It was done.
That evening, Sebastian returned earlyand in a foul mood. A deal had collapsed, no doubt.
He stormed in, still wearing his shoes, his gaze locking onto my untouched corner.
“Eloise!” he barked. “Explain. Where are the measurements? Why is this still here?”
I stepped out of the kitchen with a cup of mint tea.
“I cancelled the order.”
He froze mid-shrug, jacket half-off. Slowly, he turned.
“You did *what*?”
“Cancelled. The shelving.” I enunciated. “Its not needed here.”
Sebastian flung his jacket onto the sofa. “Have you lost your mind? *I* decide what this house needs! *I* earn the money!”
“We both know that isnt entirely true,” I said softly.
He stepped closer, reeking of anger and cologne.
“What nonsense is this?”
“Your last venture was funded by my grandmothers money. We just call it household funds.”
His face purpled. A blow to his pridehis most vulnerable spot.
“You ungrateful” he hissed. “Ive given you everything! A roof, meals! And you waste time on*this*!”
He snatched my latest paintingthe one with the white strokefrom the easel. The piece that held all my pain and hope.
“*This* is what your art is worth!”
He raised it, ready to snap the canvas over his knee.
I didnt scream. Didnt lunge.
I tapped my phone, hit speed dial, and put it on speaker.
Lionels velvet voice filled the room.
“Eloise? Good evening. I was just about to call you.”
Sebastian froze, the painting mid-air. His face went slack.
“Lionel, good evening,” I said calmly. “I have a proposal. Ill accept your clients commission. On one condition.”
A pause. Lionel thought fast.
“Im listening.”
Sebastian stared between the phone and the painting, bewildereda predator robbed of his prey.
“Ill need help transporting several pieces. Including the one currently… at risk. To my new studio.”
I held Sebastians gaze. Confusion swam in his eyes.
“New studio?” Lionel asked. “Marvellous. Consider it done. My team can be there in an hour. Same address?”
“No.” I took a pen, wrote the factorys address on a scrap of paper. “Its different. Ill text it. And, Lionelthe advance for the new piece? The
