Chapter 9
The scent of turpentine filled the room, mingling with the quiet notes of piano music floating from the kitchen radio. I stood in front of a blank canvas, brush poised, heart steady. For the firs time in months-maybe years-I felt like myself again.
My stepfather’s estate was peaceful, nestled away from the noise and chaos I’d just left behind It wasn’t grand, not like Kevin’s towering mansion filled with secrets and whispers, but it wa real. Solid. Safe. Just being here gave me something I hadn’t had in a long time-hope. “You’ve been quiet,” my stepfather said, peeking in through the doorframe, his salt-and-peppe hair tousled, mug in hand. “That painting coming along?”
I turned and smiled faintly. “I’m trying again.”
He nodded, walking in to place the mug beside me. “Took you long enough. You were alway happiest with a brush in your hand.”
“I forgot,” I whispered, eyes stinging as I looked at the empty canvas. “I really forgot who I was.”
It was true. I had stopped painting the moment I married Kevin. Back then, he told me I didn’ have to worry about working. That he’d take care of everything. “You just be my wife,” he’d sai once, brushing my hair behind my ear. “Focus on the house, on us. Let me handle the rest.”
And so I did. I folded up my dreams. Hung up my passions. I traded canvases for casseroles Brushes for bills. I wanted to believe that love meant sacrifice. That being his wife was enough.
But it was never enough.
And now, here I was. Starting over.
dipped the brush into soft blue paint and made the first stroke-gentle, confident. Lik eclaiming a voice I had silenced far too long.
_ater that afternoon, I made myself tea and curled up on the couch with a blanket. The televisior played softly in the background, the news humming idly until a headline caught my attention.
‘Kevin and Jasmine Address Viral Scandal”
stared at the screen as the camera panned to Jasmine. Her eyes were wide, voice shaking-bu knew better.
‘She exposed us,” Jasmine said in one interview. “She turned something beautiful intc something dirty. But we’re not ashamed of loving each other. Actually, we’re gonna get marrie soon. And Isabella, she’s just nothing. No one.”
I didn’t flinch. Didn’t cry.
I just took a sip of my tea, let the warmth settle into my chest, and let the silence speak for me. “They deserve each other,” I muttered, setting my mug down. “Two snakes in love, so happy wedding.”
The words tasted bitter, but satisfying. I grabbed the remote and turned off the television, the screen fading to black along with any trace of their voices.
From the kitchen, I heard the soft clink of porcelain. My stepfather appeared a moment later, wiping his hands on a dishtowel.
“You okay?” he asked gently, walking over to sit beside me.
I nodded. “I’m… better now. Lighter, even.”
He was quiet for a beat before speaking again. “I should’ve said something back then,” he murmured, his voice low and heavy. “When you told me about Kevin. About everything. If I had just told you not to go through with it, if I’d asked you to stay…” He shook his head. “Maybe none of this would’ve happened.”
I reached over, placing a hand on his. “Don’t blame yourself. I made that choice. And yes, it hurt But it taught me who I never want to become again.”
He smiled faintly, pride and guilt warring in his eyes. “Still… I’m glad you’re home now. You’re stronger than you think.”
I nodded. Then, after that I decided to leave the house to roam around the area-and finally fee free from everything that had hurt me.
The sky was clear, the breeze crisp with the scent of bookstores and coffee shops. I wrapped scarf around my neck, tucked my sketchpad under one arm, and headed out for the art store downtown.
For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like I was running from something. I felt like I wa: going toward something.
I browsed through watercolors, paintbrushes, and new canvases with the kind of reverence on reserves for sacred spaces. After paying, I walked toward a small indie bookstore nearby-my favorite from years ago. As I stepped through the door, the bell overhead chimed softly.
I wasn’t looking when I collided with someone.
“Oh! I’m so sorry-” I started, stepping back, my hand clutching the sketchpad close.
The man turned around, tall and broad-shouldered, with warm eyes and a familiar smirk. My breath hitched.
“Troy?” I asked, my voice hesitant.
His smile widened with surprise. “Isabella?”
7:42 pm
