The studio reeked of linseed oil, turpentine, and despair.
I stood in front of my easel, brush clutched so tightly my knuckles turned white. My storm series was coming to life – each canvas a testament to my pain, each brushstroke a rebellion against the darkness consuming my body.
But I was running out of time.
My hands trembled as I layered cobalt blue over grey, creating depth in the storm clouds above my painted woman. Nausea twisted my stomach, sweat beaded at my hairline, and black spots danced at the edges of my vision.
But I couldn't stop.
Not now.
Not when I was finally becoming me.
Maria entered quietly, carrying a steaming bowl of vegetable broth.
"Ma'am, please eat something," she pleaded, her eyes filled with worry. "You haven't eaten all day."
"I will later," I murmured, never looking away from the canvas.
She sighed softly, placing the bowl on my work table before retreating, leaving the door slightly ajar.
Hours passed in a blur of colour and pain. When I finally lowered my brush, exhaustion slammed into me like a brick wall. I staggered back, clutching the easel for support as darkness clouded my vision.
"Madison!"
Logan's deep voice thundered across the studio. Strong arms wrapped around me before I hit the floor. I felt my body lifted effortlessly, cradled against his hard chest.
"Let go," I rasped weakly, tears blurring the dim studio lights. "I need to finish…"
"Shut up," he growled, carrying me out of the studio. His voice trembled with barely restrained fury. "You're killing yourself."
He placed me gently on the living room sofa and draped a soft blanket over me. Kneeling beside me, he brushed damp hair from my face, his grey eyes stormy with anger and something deeper… something like fear.
"Why are you doing this to yourself?" he whispered hoarsely.
"Because it's the only thing I've ever wanted," I said, my voice breaking. "And you're not taking this away from me too."
His brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"
I turned away, tears sliding down my cheeks. "You take everything, Logan. My health. My freedom. My dignity. But you won't take this."
Silence fell between us, thick and suffocating. Finally, he stood abruptly, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
"Get some sleep," he ordered, his voice cold and flat.
The next morning, Renee called as I was rinsing my brushes in the utility sink. My hands froze at the tremor in her usually calm voice.
"Madison, darling," she began, hesitating. "I… I just got off the phone with your husband."
My blood ran cold. "What?"
"He visited Haven Gallery early this morning," she said quietly. "He offered to donate a large sum to our cancer support fundraiser… if we postponed your exhibition."
My heart dropped into my stomach. "What… what did you say?"
"I told him that I decide what art deserves to be shown," Renee said firmly, anger simmering beneath her poised tone. "But Madison… he's worried about you. He said you're too sick to handle the pressure."
Tears pricked behind my eyes, hot and humiliating. "I can't believe him," I whispered. "I trusted him to leave this alone."
"He loves you, darling," Renee said gently.
"No," I choked out, gripping the sink edge so hard my fingers ached. "He wants to own me. That's not love."
When Logan returned home late that evening, I was waiting for him in the living room, arms folded tightly across my chest. My storm woman paintings surrounded me, their fierce colours glowing under the dim chandelier light.
He froze in the doorway, eyes narrowing as he took in my rigid stance and tear-streaked face.
"You went to Haven Gallery," I said flatly.
His jaw ticked, but he remained silent.
"You tried to cancel my exhibition," I continued, my voice trembling with rage. "How could you?"
"I was protecting you," he snapped, stepping forward. "You're too weak to handle this stress."
"I don't need your protection!" I shouted, my voice cracking. "I need your respect. Your support. But you can't give me that, can you?"
His fists clenched at his sides, his grey eyes burning with a storm of emotions. "This will kill you, Madison."
I shook my head, tears falling freely now. "No, Logan. You're killing me. Every time you treat me like a fragile doll instead of a woman with dreams… you kill me a little more."
He staggered back as if I had slapped him, pain flashing across his face before his walls slammed back up. Without another word, he turned and walked out of the room, his footsteps heavy against the marble floors.
I collapsed onto the couch, sobbing into my paint-stained hands. The storm women around me seemed to watch silently, their fierce gazes filling me with both strength and grief.
Finally, I stood and walked slowly back into my studio. I picked up my brush and faced my largest canvas – the unfinished piece that would be the centrepiece of my exhibition.
I dipped the brush into midnight blue and whispered to myself,
"Paint, Madison. Paint until there's nothing left. Because even if you die… at least the world will finally see you."
Late that night, as I worked under the dim studio lamp, I heard quiet footsteps behind me. I didn't turn. I didn't need to.
"Go away, Logan," I said softly, my voice empty.
Silence stretched thick between us before his hoarse whisper broke it.
"I don't know how to let you go."
Tears blurred my vision as I continued painting bold strokes across the stormy sky.
"Then watch me leave."
The studio door closed with a quiet click, leaving me alone with the scent of oil paint and the relentless thrum of my own heartbeat.
Outside, lightning split the sky, illuminating my storm woman's fierce painted eyes.
Unbreakable. Unafraid.
Just like I would be.