Chapter 2

The scent of turpentine hit me.

The students chattered, crowding around me. The gallery owner was the first to step forward, handing me a paintbrush.

"I knew it. You couldn't stay trapped in that golden cage forever."

I took the brush and sincerely said, "Thank you!"

In the three years I was married to Hunter, I truly made him my entire world.

From the smallest task of managing the household to the biggest sacrifice of shielding him from life's storms, I gave up the most vibrant passion of my life.

Thankfully, I finally realized that love alone cannot be everything.

After finishing my last painting, I returned home late at night.

The dim light elongated Hunter’s desolate silhouette. I didn't notice his expression, only the mess in the living room.

He'd been drinking.

This was the first time in three years, outside of company events, that he'd drunk alone at home.

I suppressed my shock, placing my painting supplies by the door.

He rushed over and grabbed me.

"Where were you?"

I didn't answer, just took off my shoes.

"I asked you, where were you?!"

His voice unconsciously rose. He saw my paint-splattered clothes, then his face registered a sudden understanding.

"Audrey, Audrey, are you serious? So intent on fighting with me that you run away, and you know oil paint is bad for the baby, you know how much I hate the smell of it, but you deliberately went to a gallery to spite me! When are you going to grow up?"

I stared at his pale face, momentarily speechless. Finally, a cold scoff was all the answer I gave to his questions.

"What do you mean?" He grabbed me from behind.

"Is it still about that bra?"

"I already explained it, it was for a new product launch. Besides, I bought you the same one. What more do you want?"

Dried paint pricked uncomfortably under my fingernails. I indifferently pulled my hand free.

"Yes, what more do I want?"

"Are you done talking? Because I'm going to sleep."

He suddenly kicked over the shoe rack. Wooden clogs clattered against the wall. Plaster dust mixed with the turpentine scent.

"Always with that deadpan face!"

"You have a perfectly good life, but you insist on getting involved with those crazy artists, Audrey. What exactly does our marriage mean to you?!"

His hysterical accusations were as grating as the cold wind howling outside the window.

But I still said nothing.

In the face of his illogical arguments, I always believed silence was my strongest weapon against his twisted logic.

That night, the crisp pop of a can opening sliced through the stillness of the night.

I sat on the bed, staring at my phone, listening to Hunter’s deliberately hushed voice from the living room.

"When will she ever be like you?"

The next day, I opened my bedroom door.

Hunter was slumped over a pile of empty cans, his head drooping. A mountain of cigarette butts leaned precariously in last night's spilled alcohol.

Normally, I'd quietly clean up the mess and carefully create an escape route for both of us.

Even if my heart ached with injustice, I'd use the gentlest smile and actions to paint this argument as just another ordinary part of life.

But now, I walked straight past the cans and out the door.

Before closing it, I heard Hunter’s low growl,

"If you're so capable, then never come back!"

And that's exactly what I intended.

Since quitting my gallery job three years ago, I hadn't picked up a brush for outdoor sketching.

Now that I had the chance, I wouldn't betray this turpentine-scented freedom.

Holding Mr. Davies's letter of recommendation, I signed up for the Perrotin Gallery exhibition, three days away.

"It's a long journey; you'll be gone for a while. Are you really not going to discuss it with him?"

Mr. Davies's voice crackled through the phone. I traced the unfinished "Morning Mist on the Seine" on my screensaver.

It was a sketch from three years ago, for my Perrotin application, a path I’d stopped walking for Hunter.

But now,

"No need to discuss. We're getting divorced soon."