**Diary Entry**
*London, 12th May*
“Focus on something useful, not these ridiculous paintings!” he snapped. He had no idea I’d just sold one of my “ridiculous paintings” anonymously for a million pounds.
The smell of paintsharp and sweethung in the air, the scent of freedom.
Sebastian William Harrington, my husband, loathed that smell. He stood at the entrance of my tiny studio, which was really just a partitioned corner of our living room.
“Again,” he exhaled. It wasnt a question.
His expensive suit looked out of place against my acrylic-splattered canvases. He wrinkled his nose in disgust, eyeing the palette.
“Emily, we agreed. No messing about with paints in the evening. You reek of turpentine for days. We have guests coming on Saturdaywhat will they think?”
I dipped my brush into crimson. The red spread across the fibres, alive and warm as blood.
“This isnt messing about, Seb.”
“Then what is it?” He jabbed a finger toward the nearly finished canvas. “Nonsense blobs of colour. Wasted canvas. Money down the drain.”
His pragmatism was like a vicesqueezing, relentless, flattening everything bright and alive into something grey and comprehensible.
“This space could be put to proper use. Shelving for my tools. Or at least for the winter tyres. Ive already found a perfect design.”
I dragged a bold red line across the canvasdefiant, uneven. It shattered the composition, just as I intended.
“Do something useful, not these silly daubs like some brainless girl!”
His words dropped like dirty stones. Once, they wounded me. Left scars.
But not today.
Today, I had a shieldinvisible, 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 blinked, startled by my tonefirm, unwavering.
“Useful? How? By destroying our household budget?”
I turned back to the canvas. My silence irritated him more than any argument.
On my laptop, left open beside the easel, glowed an email from a London gallery. I hadnt closed it before he came in. It still shone there, a beacon in the dim light:
*Dear Ms. Whitmore, were delighted to inform you your piece “Breath of August” has sold at auction for £30,000.*
“Clear this up by tomorrow,” he called from the hallway. “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 on the painting.
The point of no return.
Morning changed nothingand everything.
The flat smelled the samelingering traces of last nights dinner and Sebastians aftershave. But I breathed differently. Deeper.
He sat at the table, scrolling his tablet, sipping a green smoothietasteless, like his life. He didnt look up.
“Ill be late tonight,” he muttered. “Dont cook. Meeting with clients.”
Once, Id have nodded. Said, “Of course, darling.”
Today, I sipped my coffeebitter, rich, *real*.
He glanced up, frowning at my lack of response.
“Did you hear me? The fitters coming at eleven. Be here.”
I took another sip.
“Fine.”
He smirked, returning to his digital world. Hed got what he wantedsubmission. He just didnt realise *what* Id agreed to. Id be here. That was all.
Once he left, I opened my old laptop. Another life hid behind a password. *Emily Whitmore*. My pseudonym. My maiden namethe one I’d kept discreetly in professional circles.
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 “trifles”had quietly funded my participation in online exhibitions.
The transfer took minutes. The numbers didnt intoxicate me. They were solid ground beneath my feet.
At ten, my phone rang. Unknown number.
“Emily Whitmore?” A mans voicedeep, calm, velvet.
“Speaking.”
“Charles Beaumont. I own the gallery representing your work. First, congratulations. The sale caused quite a stir.”
I stayed quiet.
“The collector who bought itquite a prominent figureis enthralled. Hed like to commission another. For his country estate. Any theme, your choice.”
His next words hummed like music: *”He trusts your vision completely.”*
“Ill think about it,” I managed.
“Of course. No rush. But Emilywhat you create isnt silly daubs. Its art. And the world should see it.”
We talked for ten more minutespigments, light, texture. He *understood*.
When I hung up, the doorbell rang.
Eleven on the dot. Punctualitythe politeness of kings and fitters.
I glanced at my cornercanvases, paints, chaos. My soul laid bare.
I answered the door with a faint, knowing smile.
The fitter was a tired-eyed young man.
“Morning. 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”
“He acted too soon.” I handed him a fifty. “For your trouble.”
He hesitated but took it. “Right. Cheers, then.”
As the door closed, I leaned against it. First step taken. Not defensive*forward*.
I didnt search for a studio that day. Id already chosen onean old factory converted into lofts. Huge windows. Id saved the agents card months ago.
I called. Paid the deposit online. Three months upfront.
By evening, Sebastian returned earlyand in a foul mood. A deal must have fallen through.
He stormed in, still in his shoes, his gaze locking onto my untouched corner.
“Emily!” he barked. “Whats this? Where are the measurements?”
I stepped out with a cup of mint tea.
“I cancelled the order.”
He froze mid-jacket removal. Turned slowly.
“You *what*?”
“I cancelled the shelving. Its not needed.”
He flung his jacket onto the sofa. “Have you lost your mind? *I* decide whats needed here! *I* earn the money!”
“We both know that isnt entirely true,” I said softly.
He loomed over me, reeking of rage and cologne.
“What rubbish are you spouting?”
“Your last venture was funded by my grandmothers money. We just called it household budget.”
His face flushed. A direct hithis pride.
“Youungrateful woman! Ive given you everything! A home! Security! And you waste time on*this*!”
He snatched my latest paintingthe one with the white dotand raised it to snap over his knee.
I didnt scream. Didnt lunge.
I tapped my phone, put it on speaker.
Charless voice filled the room. “Emily? I was just about to call.”
Sebastian froze, the painting mid-air.
“Charles, good evening,” I said evenly. “Ill accept your clients commission. On one condition.”
A pause. Charles understood. “Name it.”
Sebastians eyes darted between the phone and the canvas. A predator robbed of his prey.
“I need help transporting several worksincluding one currently at risk. To my new studio.”
I held Sebastians gaze. Confusion swam in his eyes.
“New studio? Splendid. My team can be there in an hour. Same address?”
“No.” I scribbled the factorys address on a notepad. “Texting the details. And Charlesthe advance? Same account.”
I ended the call.
Sebastian set the painting down carefully, as if it were glass.
“Whatwhat was that? What commission? What studio?”
“That silly daub just paid for my independence, Seb. No more asking you for money. Ever.”
I walked to the bedroom, retrieved a pre-packed bagnot a suitcase, just a holdall.
He followed. “How much? Five grand? Ten?”
I paused at the door.
“Doesnt matter. Your worldwhere I was a brainless girl with paintsis gone. In *my* world, shelves for tyres go in the garage. And living rooms? Theyre for creating.”
His mind visibly short-circuited. Talent, inspirationthings he couldnt quantifyhad real value.
“Butwhat about *us*?” His last weapon: emotional blackmail.
“There *was* no us. Just you
