The gallery was silent again. The lights off. The echoes gone. But Isabelle's heels still echoed in her mind.
Click. Pause. Breathe. Click.
She hadn't said goodbye to either of them—just vanished like smoke once the walls began closing in. She didn't need applause. Or explanations.
She needed space.
So now, she was here—in the apartment she once called home, surrounded by brushes, sweat, canvas, and questions. No husband. No lover. Just the scent of turpentine and a body vibrating with memory.
Isabelle stripped off the black dress and let it fall to the floor.
She didn't bother folding it.
She walked toward the mirror, bare, unflinching.
The woman looking back at her wasn't a wife.
Wasn't a mistress.
Wasn't anyone's.
And for the first time… that felt good.
---
She made tea. Loose leaf. Strong. Jasmine and bitterness.
She sat cross-legged in front of her largest canvas, pulled her hair into a loose knot, and dipped the brush into crimson.
She didn't plan.
She didn't sketch.
She painted as if exorcising.
Lust. Loneliness. The heaviness of being wanted but never held.
The ache of being touched but never understood.
The paint smeared like blood, like lipstick, like love letters soaked in rain.
And when she stepped back hours later, she realized…
The woman in the painting had her eyes.
---
The phone buzzed.
Once. Then again.
She let it ring.
Nathan.
Then Elijah.
She turned the phone face down.
This moment wasn't for them.
It was for the girl inside her who once thought love meant staying small. Staying silent. Staying soft.
She poured another glass of wine.
Not to forget.
But to remember—every inch of herself she had quieted just to keep someone else warm at night.
---
Later, she found herself on the balcony, the breeze lifting her silk robe, the city humming beneath her feet.
Her legs stretched over the ledge, careless and free.
She thought of Nathan—how his hands had grown gentler in the last year, but not deeper. How his words had turned apologetic but still cautious. How his letter had moved her… but hadn't shaken her awake.
Then Elijah.
Elijah who shook her, yes. Who knew her chaos. Who dared her into light. Who might, someday, ruin her—if she let him.
She smiled, not sad. Not smug.
Just… aware.
These men had touched parts of her.
But neither of them were her.
---
When morning came, the apartment was still.
She opened the windows wide, letting the dawn touch her bare legs and collarbones.
She didn't check her phone.
She didn't write back.
She painted again.
This time softer.
Not red—but gold.
Warm, sun-touched, rising.
It was a self-portrait. But not her face. Just her back—strong, bare, spine arched.
Not seducing.
Not begging.
Just… standing.
Free.
---
That afternoon, she finally called someone—but not Elijah. Not Nathan.
She called the woman she'd once sobbed to in the back of a bookstore, three years ago, over coffee and shame. Her best friend, Camille.
Camille picked up on the second ring. "Isabelle?"
Her throat tightened. "Can I come over?"
Camille didn't hesitate. "Always."
---
They drank wine on the floor of Camille's messy living room. Records playing softly. Candles flickering between laughter and confessions.
"I thought I needed to be chosen," Isabelle said quietly.
Camille handed her another glass. "You don't. You just need to choose yourself and stop apologizing for being too much."
Isabelle smiled.
"I think," she said, "I'm finally starting to like who I am outside the role."
Camille nodded. "That woman at your exhibit wasn't someone trying to be desirable."
"She wasn't?"
"She was desire."
---
That night, Isabelle slept in Camille's guest room with no makeup, no tension in her jaw, no fantasy echoing in her spine.
She dreamed of painting again.
But not for attention.
Not to be remembered.
Just because she could.