The air smelled thick and sweetlike freedom.
“Stop wasting time on your silly little paintings, you daft woman!” the man snapped. He didnt know Id just sold one anonymously for a fortune.
The scent of paint clung to the room, sharp and intoxicating. My husband, Sebastian Whitmore, loathed it. He stood in the doorway of my tiny studio, which was really just a corner of the living room sectioned off with a screen.
“Again,” he sighed. It wasnt a question.
His expensive suit looked out of place against my paint-splattered canvases. He wrinkled his nose at the palette, disgusted.
“Eloise, we agreed. No mess in the evenings. You reek of turpentine for hours. Were hosting guests on Saturdaywhat will they think?”
I dipped my brush into crimson without a word. The red spread across the canvas like something alive.
“This isnt a mess, Seb.”
“Then what is it?” He jabbed a finger toward the half-finished painting. “A mess of colours. Wasted canvas. Money down the drain.”
His logic was a press, crushing everything vibrant and alive into something flat, grey, comprehensible.
“This space could be useful. A shelf for my tools, at least. Or winter tyres. I had my eye on a lovely option.”
I dragged a bold red line across the canvas. It was crooked, defiant, ruining the compositionjust as Id intended.
“Stop messing about with these childish daubs!”
His words landed like stones. Once, theyd cut deep. Now, they barely grazed me.
Today, I had a shield. Invisible, unbreakable.
I turned to face him, calm. He expected tears, excuses, shouting. He got nothing.
“Im busy, Sebastian.”
He blinked, thrown by my tonefirm, unapologetic.
“Busy with what? Wasting our savings?”
I turned back to my work. Silence irritated him more than any argument.
On the laptop beside the easel, an unread email glowed. A Geneva gallerys name shone in the dim light like a beacon.
*Dear Mrs. Fairweather, we are pleased to inform you that your piece Breath of August has sold at private auction for £32,000.*
“Youll have this cleared by tomorrow,” he called from the hall. “Ive booked a fitter for the shelves. Be home by eleven.”
The door slammed.
I picked up my finest brush, dipped it in pure white, and placed the final dot.
The point of no return.
Morning changed nothing and everything.
The air in the flat was the samelingering dinner, Sebastians cologne. But I breathed differently now. Deeper.
He sat at the table, scowling at his tablet, sipping a green smoothiehealthy, tasteless, like his life. He didnt look up.
“Ill be late tonight. Dont bother with dinnerIll eat with clients.”
Once, Id nod. Say, “Of course, darling.”
Today, I sipped my coffee. Bitter, real.
He glanced up, unnerved by my silence.
“Did you hear me? The fitters coming at eleven. Be here.”
I took another sip.
“Fine.”
He smirked, satisfied, returning to his spreadsheets. He didnt realize what hed just confirmed. Id be here. That was all.
When the door shut behind him, I opened my old laptop. Another life waited there, password-protected. *Eloise Fairweather.* My pseudonym. My real namethe one Id never changed on my passport.
The foreign bank account had been opened a year ago, after a particularly ugly row. Just in case. The remnants of my grandmothers inheritancewhat Seb called “pocket change”had let me quietly enter online exhibitions.
The transfer took minutes. The numbers didnt dazzle. They steadied me. Granite beneath my feet.
At ten, my phone rang. Unknown number.
“Eloise Fairweather?” A mans voice. Rich, calm. Velvet over gravel.
“Speaking.”
“Oliver Hartley. I own the gallery that represented your piece. First, congratulations. It caused quite a stir.”
I said nothing.
“The collector who bought ita very prominent manis enthralled. Hed like to commission another. For his country estate. Any theme, your choice. He trusts your vision entirely.”
Those last words sang.
“Ill think about it.”
“Of course. No rush. But know this, Eloisewhat you create isnt daubs. Its art. The world should see it.”
We talked for ten more minutes. About pigment, light, texture. He spoke my language.
When I hung up, the doorbell rang.
Eleven on the dot. Punctualitythe courtesy of kings and fitters.
The young man at the door had tired eyes.
“Morning. Im here to measure up for shelving. Tools storage, was it?”
“Good morning,” I said calmly. “Theres been a mistake. The orders cancelled.”
He blinked. “Cancelled? Your husband confirmed”
“He was hasty.” I smiled. “This space isnt for storage. It isnt for things at all.”
I handed him a fifty. “For your trouble.”
He hesitated but took it. “Right. Well. Cheers, then.”
I shut the door and leaned against it. First step taken. Not retreatadvance.
I didnt search for a studio. Id already found itan old factory turned loft, massive windows. Id saved the agents card six months ago, during one of Sebs “financial optimisation” lectures.
I called. Paid the deposit online. Three months upfront. Done.
Sebastian came home early that evening, tense. A deal must have fallen through.
He strode into the living room, still in his shoes, and froze at the sight of my untouched corner.
“Eloise!” he barked. “Whats this? Where are the measurements?”
I stepped out of the kitchen with mint tea.
“I cancelled the order.”
He slowly set down his briefcase.
“You did *what*?”
“Cancelled. The shelves. We dont need them.”
He threw his 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. Anger and cologne.
“Whats that supposed to mean?”
“Your last project was funded by my grandmothers money. We just call it our savings.”
His face darkened. A direct hit to his pride.
“YouungratefulIve given you everything! A home, food! And you waste time 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 lunge.
I tapped my phone. Olivers voice filled the room.
“Eloise? Good evening. I was just about to call.”
Sebastian froze, canvas aloft.
“Oliver, good evening,” I said evenly. “Ive decided to accept your clients commission. With one condition.”
A pause. Oliver was sharp.
“Im listening.”
Sebastian stared between the phone and the painting. A predator confused by prey that fought back.
“Ill need help transporting several pieces. Including one currently at risk. To my new studio.”
I held Sebs gaze. Bewilderment swam in his eyes.
“New studio? Splendid! Consider it done. My team can be there in an hour. Same address?”
“No.” I wrote the factorys address on a slip of paper. “Different location. Ill text it. And Oliverthe advance for the new piece? The same account.”
I hung up.
Sebastian carefully set the canvas down as if it were glass.
“Whatwhat was that? What commission? What studio?”
“That daub, Seb. My work.”
“Work?” He laughed nervously. “Your *paintings*? Whod buy them?”
“Someone already did. Its enough for the studio. Enough never to ask you for money again. Not for paints. Not for anything.”
I walked to the bedroom and picked up my pre-packed bag. Not a suitcase. Just a bag.
Seb followed. “How much? How much for thatsplodge? Five hundred? A thousand?”
I paused in the doorway.
“It doesnt matter, Seb. What matters is your worldwhere I was a daft woman with daubsits gone. Theres my world now. And in it, tyre racks go in garages. Living rooms are for painting.”
He stared, his calculations failing. Talent, inspirationthings without price tagshad value he couldnt compute.
“Butwhat aboutus?”
“There was no
