“Stop messing around with your daft little paintings and do something useful!” my husband snapped. He had no idea Id just sold one of those “daft little paintings” anonymously for a fortune. The sharp, sweet tang of paint in the airthe smell of freedom.
Edward James Whitmore, my husband, loathed that smell. He stood in the doorway of my tiny studioreally just a partitioned corner of our living roomhis expensive suit a stark contrast against my acrylic-splattered canvases.
“Again,” he sighed. It wasnt a question.
His nose wrinkled in disgust as he eyed my palette. “Amelia, we agreed. No painting in the evenings. The whole place reeks of turpentine. Weve got guests coming on Saturdaywhat will they think?”
I dipped my brush into crimson without a word. The red bled into the canvas, alive and warm as blood.
“This isnt messing around, Ed.”
“What is it, then?” He jabbed a finger toward the half-finished work. “Just a load of random splodges. Wasted canvas. Money down the drain.”
His practicality was like a vicemethodical, relentless, crushing anything bright and alive into something flat, grey, and comprehensible to him.
“This space couldve been put to good use. Shelving for my tools, or even the winter tyres. Id already found a perfect set.”
I dragged a bold red line across the canvascrooked, defiant, tearing the composition apart. Exactly what Id intended.
“Stop wasting time on these stupid little paintings like some airheaded schoolgirl!”
His words landed like dirty stones. Once, theyd cut deep. Left scars. But not today.
Today, I had a shield. Invisible, unbreakable. I turned to face him, my expression calm. He expected tears, excuses, shoutingthe usual script. He got none of it.
“Im busy, Edward.”
He faltered at my tonefirm, unapologetic. Blinked, as if adjusting his focus.
“Busy with what? Draining our savings?”
I turned back to the canvas. My silence irritated him more than any argument could.
On the laptop beside my easel, an unread email glowed. I hadnt closed it before he came in. Still there, shining like a beacon in the dim light.
*Dear Mrs. Hartley, Were pleased to inform you that your piece, “August Breath,” sold at a private auction for £30,000.*
“Clear this mess up by tomorrow,” he threw over his shoulder as he left. “Ive booked a fitter for the shelves. Be home by eleven.”
The door slammed.
I picked up my finest brush, loaded it with pure white, and placed the final dot on the painting. A point of no return.
Morning changed nothing and everything.
The flat smelled the samelingering aftershave, last nights dinner. But I breathed differently. Deeper.
Edward sat at the table, glued to his tablet, sipping a tasteless green smoothiehealthy, joyless, like his entire life. He didnt look up.
“Working late tonight,” he muttered. “Dont bother with dinnereating with clients.”
Once, Id have nodded. Said, “Alright, love.” Today, I sipped my coffeedark, bitter, realand said nothing.
He glanced up, unnerved by my silence. “Did you hear me? The shelf fitters coming at eleven. Be here.”
I took another sip.
“Fine.”
He smirked, returning to his spreadsheets. Hed got what he wantedsubmission. He just didnt realise what Id agreed to. Id be home. That was all.
The moment he left, I opened my old laptop. Another life, password-protected. *Amelia Hartley.* My pseudonym. My real name. The one Id kept on my passport, the one whispered in art circles.
The offshore account Id opened a year agoafter a particularly nasty rownow held the remnants of my grandmothers inheritance, the “trifle” Edward had dismissed. That “trifle” had quietly funded my online exhibitions.
The transfer took minutes. The numbers didnt dazzle me. They grounded me.
At ten, my phone rang. Unknown number.
“Amelia Hartley?” A mans voicedeep, smooth, velvet.
“Speaking.”
“Charles Lockwood. Gallery owner representing your work. Firstly, congratulations. The sale caused quite a stir.”
I stayed silent.
“The collector who bought ita very prominent manis enthralled. He wants to commission another piece. For his country estate. Any theme you choose. He trusts your vision entirely.”
Those last words sang.
“Ill… think about it,” I managed.
“Of course. But know this, Ameliawhat you create isnt daft little paintings. Its art. The world should see it.”
We talked for ten more minutespigments, light, texture. He understood. Spoke my language.
When the doorbell rang at eleven sharp, I looked at my cornermy canvases, my chaos, my souland answered with a faint, knowing smile.
The fitter was a tired-eyed young man. “Morning. Here to measure up for shelving. Tools storage, yeah?”
“Morning,” I said. “Theres been a mistake. The orders cancelled.”
He blinked. “Cancelled? Your husband confirmed”
“He jumped the gun.” I handed him a twenty. “For your trouble.”
That afternoon, I rang the estate agent. Paid the deposit online. Three months upfront. The lofta converted factory with huge windowswas mine.
Edward came home early that evening, in a foul mood. A deal mustve fallen through.
He stormed in, still in his shoes, zeroing in on my untouched corner.
“Amelia!” he barked. “Where are the measurements? Why is everything still here?”
I stepped out with a mug of tea. “I cancelled it.”
He froze, mid-jacket removal. “You did what?”
“Cancelled. The shelves. Theyre not needed.”
He threw his jacket down. “Have you lost it? I decide what happens in this house! I earn the money!”
“We both know thats not entirely true,” I said softly.
He loomed over me, reeking of anger and expensive cologne. “What rubbish are you spouting now?”
“Your last venture was funded by my grandmothers money. We just called it our savings.”
His face flushed. A direct hit to his pride.
“You ungrateful! I gave you everything! A home, food! And you waste time on… this!”
He snatched my latest paintingthe one with the white dotand raised it, ready to snap it over his knee.
I didnt scream. Didnt lunge.
I tapped my phone, put it on speaker.
Charless voice filled the room. “Amelia? I was just about to call.”
Edward froze, painting still raised.
“Charles, good evening,” I said evenly. “Business proposal. Ill take the commission. On one condition.”
A beat. Charles was sharp. “Name it.”
Edward gaped at the phone, then the canvasa predator robbed of his prey.
“I need help transporting several pieces. Including one currently… at risk. To my new studio.”
I held Edwards stare. His confusion was palpable.
“New studio? Splendid! Consider it done. My team can be there in an hour. Same address?”
“No.” I wrote the factorys address on a notepad. “And Charles? Advance payment to the usual account.”
I hung up.
Edward set the painting down carefully, as if it were glass.
“What… what was that? What commission? What studio?”
“What you called daft little paintings, Ed. My work.”
“Work?” He laughed nervously. “Whod buy them?”
“Someone already did. Enough for a studio. And to never ask you for money again.”
I walked to the bedroom, grabbed my pre-packed bagnot a suitcase, just a holdall.
He followed. “How much? Five grand? Ten?”
I paused at the door.
“It doesnt matter, Ed. Your worldwhere I was an airhead with her daft little paintingsis gone. In mine, tyre racks go in garages. And living rooms are for painting.”
Two years later.
My first London solo exhibition. The gallery hummed. I stood in the centre, exactly where I belonged.
Then I saw him. Too-stiff posture, an expensive but worn suit. Edward.
He lingered by my earliest piece*Point of No Return*. Our eyes met. He approached. My husband (Charles now) tensed, but I touched his hand. *Its fine.*
“Amelia,” Edward exhaled. He looked older. The steel in his eyes was gone. “I… didnt expect this scale.”
“Hello, Ed.”
“I saw the Euronews feature. But this…” He fumbled. “I flew in yesterday. My business
