Chapter 4 4

Sunlight poured in through the tall windows of my new workspace, bouncing off the white walls and gathering on the bare wooden floor. I stood in the centre of the room, looking at the blank canvas while holding a paintbrush. This was supposed to be a fresh start, a chance to start over and transform all of my doubts and anger into something positive.

But in reality, I felt confined.

The studio was too silent. I was surrounded by noise when I worked in my previous flat: the hum of the city, the muffled sound of my neighbor's television and the honking cars outside. This place was really calm. The loneliness seemed to be heightened by the way every brushstroke and chair movement seemed to resonate.

I picked up a tube of scarlet paint and squeezed it into the palette in an irregular swirl. My hands moved instinctively, creating shapes on the canvas. But something didn't feel quite right. The strange realm I had experienced had left my mind disorganised. Married to a man I barely knew, living in a home that felt more like a theatre, and now trying to force unsuspected creativity.

A knock on the door interrupted the silence.

My voice reverberated around the room as I called, "Come in."

Richard came in looking as sharp as ever in a well-tailored suit. He stared at the canvas, his face unreadable. "How are things going?"

My displeasure was evident as I exclaimed, "It's... going." "Are you here for a specific purpose, or are you just making sure I'm keeping my end of the bargain?"

Ignoring the jab, he stepped forward, hands in his pockets. I remarked, "Maybe you need something,"

I turned to face him with my arms crossed. I need to feel as though this mausoleum of a house isn't driving me insane. Is that acceptable?

Adrian's forehead furrowed slightly, as if my words had surprised him. "You were aware of what you were getting into."

"Did I?" I returned fire. "Because it feels more like I pledged to be a prisoner than a partner."

He sighed, his shoulders starting to stiffen. What do you want, Claire? Tell me, and I'll make it happen.

Richard gave the usual response: transactional, effective, and completely emotionless. I shook my head and turned back to the canvas. "Ignore it."

There was a little lull during which I thought he may depart, and then he said, "Why don't you go for a little while? Go to the city. Seek inspiration.

I paused and glanced at him over my shoulder. "You think I can just go back to the art world like nothing happened? Here's some good news, Adrian: people remember failure. The only way I'll get pity is if I show myself.

Adrian's jaw tightened. So don't let them see you fail. Now prove to them what you can do. I said I would cover all of your expenses. relationships, resources, and publicity. Use me.

There was a strange honesty about his directness, but it also hurt. As if he were giving something to me instead of to him.

"Use you," I said again, in a tone that was obviously tinged with bitterness. "This is all for you, isn't it? Another bargain.

With unblinking gaze, he stepped forward. I made a promise to you, Claire. I'll keep it. Whether you like the way I do it or not is up to you.

Before I could respond, he turned away, leaving me alone with my racing mind and unfinished painting.

---

The next day, not because I wanted to, but because I desperately needed anything to help me break through the creative block I had been having, I decided to do as he suggested. I left the estate early and travelled to the city's core, where the art scene was thriving.

Richard offered to drive me wherever, but I declined, preferring to use the tube instead. I had to recall who I was before everything happened and get my sense of reality back.

As I walked through galleries, my fingers stroked the cool glass of display cases, admiring the colours and textures of the artwork produced by different artists. It was frightening and empowering, a reminder of my strengths and what I thought I had lost.

I was about to leave the last gallery on my list when I heard a familiar voice.

"Claire?"

I turned, gasping for air. Ethan, my ex-boyfriend, stood a few paces away. The one who departed when things became tough.

"Ethan," I said in an inflexible tone.

He smiled, albeit it fell short of his eyes. "The fact that it's you is astounding. I am aware that the gallery exists. I regret that things did not turn out as planned.

I stiffened. "Yes, well, life continues."

He hesitated, then took a step closer. "I assume you continue to paint? You've always been so talented, Claire. You must still be going strong, I hope.

I recognised the irony in his statement. One of the reasons I had almost given up was because of Ethan's constant doubts and criticisms, which had undermined my confidence.

Neutrally, I stated, "I'm working on something new." "It's a new beginning."

With a nod, he said, "Good." "You know where to find me if you ever want to catch up or... discuss your work."

He handed me a business card and walked away, leaving me standing there with a knot of unresolved sentiments twisting in my breast.

---

When I returned to the mansion that evening, Richard was in the living room, waiting for me with a glass of whisky.

"How was the city?" he asked, his eyes sharp and his voice informal.

"All right," I replied, dropping my bags to the floor. I saw someone I used to know. It was... unexpected.

Adrian's eyes clouded somewhat, but he didn't ask for details. "And? Have you found your motivation yet?

I stopped, remembering the galleries, the conversations, the emotions I had been forced to confront. "Perhaps."

He nodded as if it were the only answer he needed.

He said, "Claire," as I turned to head upstairs.

I looked around, startled by how quiet his voice was.

"For what it's worth, I think you're capable of more than you realise," he said, his face incomprehensible. "Don't be persuaded to think otherwise."

The words hit me harder than I'd expected, and I wasn't sure how to respond. Instead, I just nodded and went to my room, his voice echoing in my mind.

---

Late that evening, I sat in my studio and stared at the blank canvas that had been taunting me for days. As they played again and again, memories of Ethan, the galleries, and the quiet commotion of the city mingled with Adrian's words.

Finally, I picked up a brush and began painting. The strokes were cautious and uncertain at first, but they grew bolder and more confident over time. In order to produce realistic and pure shapes and shadows, the colours were blended together.

I was so preoccupied with my work that I failed to hear the footsteps outside the door.

When I finally looked up, I saw Richard standing at the doorway, his face unreadable.

"What are you doing?" I asked, breaking the silence with my voice.

He took a while to answer. Instead, he walked into the room and examined the photograph.

Finally, he added, "I thought you would be asleep."

I put down my brush and muttered, "I couldn't." "I've been thinking about something."

Richard stared at the painting for some time before turning to me. "Claire, you're more open than you realise."

"But so am I," he added before I could ask what he meant. Something you should know about.

The weight in his voice made me feel nauseous. "What is it?"

He hesitated for a second, the first crack in his polished veneer I'd seen, and then he replied, "This arrangement... It's not just about the company. It's related to something much more important.

My heart pounding, I stared at him, waiting for him to continue.

But he didn't. He just turned and walked away, leaving me with more questions than answers and the unsettling feeling that I was standing on the edge of something I wasn't prepared for.