The doorbell rang just after noon. I wiped streaks of cobalt blue from my cheek with the back of my trembling hand and shuffled out of the studio, legs weak from painting through the night.
Maria opened the door to reveal Renee Collins, dressed impeccably in a cream silk blouse tucked into tailored black trousers, her sleek silver bob framing sharp cheekbones and kind eyes.
"Madison," she greeted, her gaze sweeping over me with a warm smile. "You look… radiant."
I laughed softly, gesturing to my paint-stained sweatpants. "Radiant isn't usually how people describe me these days."
"Nonsense," Renee said, stepping inside. "True artists are always the most beautiful when covered in their work."
We sat in the sunlit breakfast nook overlooking the sprawling cityscape. Renee flipped through her leather portfolio, sliding out printed marketing posters mockups featuring my storm woman painting.
"This is breathtaking," she murmured, tracing a manicured finger over the image. "The raw power in her stance, the way you layered red against the storm's grey… collectors will fight over this."
My heart stuttered with nervous excitement. "Thank you."
She looked up, her pale blue eyes sharp. "The board has moved your exhibition forward to six weeks from now."
I choked on my tea. "Six weeks?!"
"I know it's sudden, darling," Renee said gently, "but another artist pulled out due to funding issues, and they want to slot you in before autumn season begins. You'll have the entire west wing."
I swallowed hard, my pulse racing with both fear and thrill. "I'll do it."
Her smile widened, revealing small lines by her eyes. "I knew you would."
As we discussed canvas transport and lighting logistics, heavy footsteps approached from the hall. Logan entered, dressed in dark trousers and a navy button-down rolled at the sleeves, forearms tense as his eyes locked onto Renee, then me.
"Mrs. Collins," he greeted curtly, his deep voice like thunder in the quiet room.
"Mr. Carter," Renee replied smoothly, extending her hand. "Thank you for letting me visit Madison today. Her pieces are extraordinary."
His gaze flicked back to me, stormy and unreadable. "She's still recovering. This isn't the time for visitors."
"Logan," I snapped quietly. "Stop."
Renee raised a brow, amused by our silent battle. "If you're worried about her health, rest assured I won't keep her long."
"I'm not worried about her health," Logan said coldly, his eyes boring into mine. "I'm worried about her overextending herself for something that doesn't matter."
The words sliced through me like ice. My fingers clenched around my tea cup.
"Doesn't matter?" I whispered, tears burning my eyes. "This is the only thing that makes me feel alive right now."
His jaw clenched so hard I thought his teeth might crack. Renee stood gracefully, placing her hand on my shoulder.
"I'll leave you two to talk," she said softly. "Madison, call me tomorrow. We'll finalise framing dimensions and gallery layouts."
"Thank you," I whispered, blinking away tears as she squeezed my shoulder gently before walking out.
When the door closed behind her, silence fell over the kitchen like a suffocating fog. Logan turned to me, his eyes blazing with fury and something darker – fear.
"You're not doing this," he growled.
"Yes, I am," I snapped, standing shakily to face him. "This is my life. My choice."
He stepped closer until his chest almost brushed mine, the raw scent of his cologne wrapping around me. His hand shot out to grip my jaw gently but firmly, forcing me to look into his storm-grey eyes.
"You're sick," he rasped, his voice breaking. "Your body is failing you. And you're wasting what time you have left on this… childish dream?"
Hot tears spilled down my cheeks. "It's not childish," I whispered. "It's the only thing that gives me hope."
"Hope won't keep you alive!" he roared suddenly, his grip tightening just enough to send a shiver of fear down my spine. "Chemo will. Surgery will. Rest will. But this… painting… it won't save you."
I pushed him away with trembling hands, my chest heaving with sobs. "I don't want to be saved if it means giving up who I am."
He staggered back a step, as if I had slapped him. His face crumpled for a split second before hardening again, the ruthless CEO mask slamming down to hide the broken man beneath.
"Then do whatever the hell you want," he spat. "Just don't expect me to watch you destroy yourself."
He turned sharply and strode out of the room, his heavy footsteps echoing down the marble hallway until the penthouse fell silent again.
I collapsed back into my chair, sobbing into my paint-stained hands. The sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating my shaking body as though mocking my despair.
Finally, after what felt like hours, I stood and walked slowly back into my studio. My canvases stood lined against the wall, unfinished but alive with energy and colour.
I picked up my brush and stared at the storm woman painting. Her red dress billowed around her strong body, hair whipping across her determined face. She looked fearless.
Unbreakable.
"I want to be you," I whispered, dipping my brush into scarlet and adding a final stroke across her heart. "Strong… even if it kills me."
Late that night, as I finished cleaning my brushes, I heard quiet footsteps outside the studio door. Logan's shadow shifted under the crack of light, but he didn't enter. I could almost hear his ragged breathing through the wood, the silent war raging inside him.
"Logan," I whispered softly, my voice too quiet for him to hear. "You can't keep me locked away forever."
His shadow didn't move.
After a long minute, I heard his footsteps retreat down the hall.
I turned back to my storm woman painting, tracing her painted face with trembling fingers as tears slipped silently down my cheeks.
I didn't know if I would survive to see my exhibition come alive.
But I did know this:
I would not leave this world unseen.