“Stop wasting your time on those silly paintings!” the man snapped. He had no idea Id just sold one anonymously for a fortune.
The paint smelled sharp and sweetthe scent of freedom.
Edward James Whitmore, my husband, despised that smell. He stood in the doorway of my tiny studio, which was really just a curtained-off corner of the living room.
“Again,” he sighed. It wasnt a question.
His expensive suit looked out of place against my paint-splattered canvases. He wrinkled his nose in disgust at the palette.
“Eleanor, we agreed. No mess in the evenings. You reek of turpentine for hours. Were hosting dinner on Saturdaywhat will people think?”
I dipped my brush into crimson without a word. The red spread across the canvas, vibrant and warm, like blood.
“Its not a mess, Ed.”
“Then what is it?” He jabbed a finger at the nearly finished piece. “Meaningless splashes of colour. Wasted canvas. Money down the drain.”
His practicality was like a vicesqueezing, methodical, crushing everything bright and alive into something flat, grey, and comprehensible to him.
“This space could be useful. Shelving for my tools. Or even winter tyres. I found a perfect option.”
I dragged a bold red line across the canvas. It was defiant, crooked, tearing the composition apartexactly what I wanted.
“Focus on real work, not these childish daubs!”
His words landed like heavy, dirty stones. Once, they would have cut deep. Left scars.
But not today.
Today, I had a shield. Invisible, unbreakable. I turned to him slowly, my face calm. He expected tears, excuses, shoutingthe usual script. He got none of it.
“I am working, Edward.”
He faltered at my tonesteady, unwavering. He blinked, as if adjusting his focus.
“Working? On what? Ruining our finances?”
I turned back to the canvas. My silence infuriated him more than any argument.
On the laptop beside my easel, an unread email glowedstill open from before hed stormed in. A beacon in the dim light.
*Dear Ms. Hartley, were pleased to inform you that your piece August Breath has sold at private auction. The final bid: £120,000.*
“Clear this out by tomorrow,” he tossed over his shoulder as he left. “Ive booked a fitter for the shelves. Be here by eleven.”
The door slammed.
I picked up my finest brush, dipped it in pure white, and placed the final dot.
A point of no return.
Morning changed nothing and everything.
The flat smelled the samelingering dinner, Edwards cologne. But I breathed differently. Deeper.
He sat at the table, eyes glued to his tablet, sipping a green smoothietasteless, healthy, like his entire life. He didnt look up.
“Ill be late tonight,” he said. “Dont cook. Dining with clients.”
Once, Id have nodded. Said, “Of course, darling.”
Today, I sipped my coffeestrong, bitter, realwithout a word.
He glanced up, thrown 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 realise what Id agreed to. Id be here. That was all.
As soon as he left, I opened my old laptop. Another life, hidden behind a password. *Eleanor Hartley.* My pseudonym. My real namethe one Id kept in secret, the one collectors knew.
The foreign bank account was a year old, opened after a particularly vicious row. A safety net, funded by the remnants of my grandmothers inheritancewhat Ed had dismissed as “pocket change.” It had quietly financed my online exhibitions.
The transfer took seconds. The numbers didnt dazzle me. They grounded me.
At ten, my phone rang. Unknown number.
“Eleanor Hartley?” A mans voicedeep, smooth, velvet over gravel.
“Speaking.”
“Sebastian Gray. I own the gallery representing your work. Firstlycongratulations. Last night was a triumph.”
I stayed silent.
“The collector who bought your piecehes influential. Hes enthralled. Wants to commission another. For his country estate. The theme is yours to choose.”
His next words were music: *”He trusts your vision completely.”*
“Ill consider it,” I managed.
“Take your time. But know this, Eleanorwhat you create isnt daubs. Its art. The world should see it.”
We talked for ten more minutespigments, light, texture. He spoke my language.
When the call ended, the doorbell rang.
Eleven on the dot.
I looked at my cornermy canvases, my chaos, my soul.
Then I answered the door, smiling faintly.
The fitter was young, tired-eyed.
“Afternoon. Here to measure for shelving. Tools storage?”
“Actually,” I said, “theres been a mistake. The orders cancelled.”
He frowned. “Cancelled? Your husband confirmed”
“He jumped the gun.” I handed him fifty pounds. “For your trouble.”
He pocketed the cash, baffled. “Your call. Cheers.”
The door closed. I leaned against it. First step takennot back, but forward.
I didnt need to hunt for a studio. Id known the place for monthsa converted factory in Shoreditch, huge windows. Id saved the agents card after walking in on a whim.
The deposit was paid online. Three months rent. Done.
Edward came home early that eveningin a foul mood. Deal fallen through, no doubt.
He strode into the living room, shoes still on, eyes locking onto my untouched corner.
“Eleanor!” he barked. “Whats this? Where are the measurements?”
I stepped out of the kitchen with mint tea.
“I cancelled it.”
He froze mid-jacket removal. “You did *what*?”
“Cancelled. The shelving. Its not needed.”
He threw his jacket down. “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 loomed over me, reeking of anger and cologne.
“What nonsense is this?”
“Your last venture was funded with my inheritance. We just call it our money.”
His face reddened. A direct hithis pride.
“YouungratefulI gave you everything! A home, security! And you waste time onthis!”
He grabbed my latest canvasthe one with the white dotand raised it, ready to snap it over his knee.
I didnt scream. Didnt beg.
I dialled, put it on speaker.
Sebastians voice filled the room. “Eleanor? I was just about to call.”
Edward froze, canvas aloft.
“Sebastian,” I said evenly. “Ill take the commission. With one condition.”
A pause. Sebastian was quick.
“Name it.”
Edwards eyes darted between the phone and the painting. A predator confused by prey fighting back.
“I need help transporting several pieces. Including one currently at risk. To my new studio.”
I held Edwards gaze.
“New studio? Brilliant. Consider it done. My team can be there in an hour. Same address?”
“No.” I wrote the factorys address on a scrap of paper. “Ill text the details. And Sebastianthe advance goes to the same account.”
I hung up.
Edward set the canvas down carefully, as if it were glass.
“Whatwhat was that? What commission? What studio?”
“The daubs you despised, Ed.”
He laughed nervously. “Your *art*? Whod buy it?”
“Someone already did. Enough for a studio. And never needing your money again.”
I walked to the bedroom for my 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 silly with a paintbrushis gone. Mines just begun. Shelves for tyres belong in garages. Living rooms are for creating.”
He stared, calculations failing. Talent, inspirationthings he couldnt quantify.
“Butwhat about *us*?” His last playguilt.
“There *is* no us. Just you. And your convenience.”
The gallerys van arrived. Two men in gloves packed my work meticulously.
As I slid into the car, my phone buzzedthe advance, six figures.
Two years later.
The first months were like surfacing from deep water. Learning to breathe. Some nights, Id wake panicked
