“Sir, the paperwork’s ready. We just need your signature,” came a familiar woman’s voice.
Not paperwork. An invitation.
I heard a baby cry faintly in the background.
His tone softened completely. “I’m coming now.”
He placed the bowl in my hands. “Something urgent came up. Eat while it’s warm.”
I forced a small smile. “Go. I’ll manage.”
He studied me, puzzled that I wasn’t clinging to him. Then the pull of the child won. “You’re alright,” he said, patting my head before leaving.
When the door closed, I picked up my own phone.
I recorded a message to Rowan, the assistant who had kept my gallery alive for years.
“Find me a cornea donor. Also, reserve me the earliest flight out the day after tomorrow.”
My eyes had once been my livelihood—every hue, every glimmer of light passing through them before it reached canvas. Julian had taken them for his lover.
So I would take everything back.
But first, I needed to see.
I used to believe in beauty. In love. In color. I believed in Julian, the way I believed in my art.
Paint fades. So does devotion.
He had chosen.
Now I would too.
---
Light seeped faintly through my closed lids when I woke again. The silence told me it was late.