The sun rose pale and hesitant over the Manhattan skyline. I sat slumped at my easel, brush dangling from numb fingers, staring at the unfinished canvas before me.
My vision swam with exhaustion. Each breath rattled in my chest. My skin felt too tight around my bones.
But I refused to stop.
I couldn't stop.
Not when my exhibition was only six weeks away. Not when this was the first time in my life I felt truly alive.
Maria entered quietly with a tray of oatmeal, fresh fruit, and warm tea. She froze when she saw me still in the same position as last night.
"Ma'am," she whispered, her voice tight with worry. "Please. You need to rest. Eat something."
"I will later," I murmured, eyes never leaving the canvas. "I need to finish her hair today."
Tears welled in Maria's eyes as she set the tray down. "Please, don't do this to yourself."
But I didn't respond. I couldn't. Because if I did, the dam would break, and I would drown in my own grief.
I was so focused on the woman's flowing painted hair that I didn't hear the studio door open behind me. Only when his deep voice cut through the quiet did I flinch.
"Madison."
I turned slowly to see Logan standing there in a charcoal suit, hair slicked back, tie loosened around his throat. His grey eyes swept over me, filled with unspoken emotions – anger, fear, desperation.
"What do you want?" I asked tiredly.
"Pack a bag," he ordered quietly.
I frowned. "What?"
"We're leaving in an hour."
I set my brush down, chest tightening with dread. "Where are we going?"
He stepped closer, crouching in front of me. His hand reached out to brush paint off my cheek, but I flinched away before he could touch me.
"Don't," I whispered.
His jaw tightened, but he lowered his hand. "I've arranged for you to see Dr. Kline."
My heart stopped.
Dr. Evelyn Kline was the top oncologist in New York, specialising in advanced integrative cancer treatment. I had read about her clinic months ago, but her fees were astronomical, even for someone like Logan.
"Why?" I croaked, tears filling my eyes. "Why are you doing this?"
"Because you're getting worse," he rasped, his voice breaking. "Because I can't… I can't watch you die, Madison."
My shoulders shook with silent sobs. "And if I refuse?"
He closed his eyes, pain twisting his handsome features. "Then I'll drag you there myself."
The drive to the clinic was silent. I stared out the window at the bustling city, people hurrying to work, mothers pushing strollers, couples laughing over coffees.
I wondered what it felt like to live an ordinary life.
To be loved without condition. To be held without fear.
When we arrived, Logan helped me out of the car, his hand strong around my trembling fingers. I tried to pull away, but he tightened his grip, his jaw clenching in silent command.
Inside, the clinic was bright and modern, all white walls and pale wood accents. Soothing piano music played in the background, but it only made my chest ache with emptiness.
Dr. Kline entered the consultation room wearing a crisp white coat over navy scrubs, her greying hair pulled into a neat bun. Her sharp blue eyes swept over me with clinical precision before softening slightly.
"Madison Hayes," she said warmly, extending her hand. "I've heard so much about your art."
I blinked in surprise. "You… you know my work?"
She smiled faintly. "My sister is a gallery curator. She sent me photos of your storm series last night."
My throat tightened painfully.
Logan cleared his throat, shifting beside me. "We're not here to discuss paintings."
Dr. Kline's gaze flicked to him, unimpressed. "No, we're here to discuss Madison's life."
She turned back to me, her eyes kind but firm. "Your scans show rapid progression, Madison. You need to consider an advanced treatment plan immediately."
I swallowed hard, tears filling my eyes. "I… I can't. I have an exhibition in six weeks."
She tilted her head gently. "If we start treatment tomorrow, you might still be able to finish your work."
I shook my head, panic rising in my chest. "No. Treatment makes me weak. Nauseous. I won't be able to paint."
Logan slammed his fist onto the table, making both of us jump. "Enough, Madison. This isn't a choice."
I turned to him, fury blazing through my exhaustion. "It is my choice!" I shouted, tears streaming down my cheeks. "This is my life, Logan. Mine."
His chest heaved, eyes dark with anguish. "You're choosing death over life for a stupid exhibition."
"No," I whispered brokenly. "I'm choosing myself over you."
The ride home was silent. I curled up against the window, tears slipping silently down my face as Logan gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles.
When we arrived back at the penthouse, I went straight to my studio, slamming the door shut behind me. I collapsed onto the paint-stained floor, sobs wracking my frail body.
I felt his presence outside the door, his shadow shifting under the crack of light. But he didn't enter. Not this time.
I didn't know how long I lay there, crying into the cold hardwood, but when I finally sat up, the pain in my chest felt lighter.
Because I knew one thing with perfect clarity:
If I only had a few months left, I would spend them painting the truth of who I was.
Not as Logan Carter's wife.
But as Madison Hayes.
Artist.
Storm woman.
Unbreakable.
Late that night, I picked up my brush again. My hands trembled so violently the lines blurred across the canvas, but I didn't care.
I painted until the sun rose, until my body gave out and I collapsed onto the studio couch in an exhausted heap.
As sleep claimed me, I whispered to the storm woman on my canvas,
"Let me be strong… like you."
Outside, thunder rumbled across the New York skyline, as though the world itself was answering my silent prayer.