His Contract Bride for Christmas

Ten

Dani:

The next day, I found myself standing at the studio's entrance, waiting for Julian. The air smelled like paint and turpentine, familiar and grounding. I wasn't sure I was ready for what I was about to do, but I had made up my mind.

When Julian arrived, his usual confident air was tempered by something quieter. He looked around the space, his eyes drinking in every piece that filled the walls and corners—every brushstroke of my life.

"You're sure about this?" he asked, his voice soft but clear.

I nodded, the lump in my throat making it hard to speak. "I need to sell them. All of them. The house… I can't hold on to it without the money."

He glanced at the stack of canvases, his fingers brushing lightly over the edges. "These are more than just paintings, Dani. They're pieces of you. You don't have to give them all away."

"I don't have a choice," I whispered, my arms wrapped tightly around myself. "But I want them to mean something. If they go to the gallery and reach people… maybe it won't feel like losing them entirely."

Julian's eyes softened with understanding. He studied my face for a long moment before he spoke again. "I want to buy them. Not just for the gallery. Some for myself—and we'll auction the rest. You'll get what you need. More than enough."

I stared at him, the weight of his words settling over me. "Why would you do that?"

He smiled faintly. "Because I believe in your work. And because your story deserves to be told. Besides, when you get famous, I can say I had one of the firsts."

I snorted.

My eyes drifted to the corner where the portraits of my abuse were stacked. A pang of failure twisted in my chest. I could barely bring myself to look at them without feeling everything I had poured onto the canvas—every fleeting moment, every heartbreak, every memory.

"Not those," I said firmly. "They stay with me."

Julian followed my gaze, a flicker of understanding crossing his face. He didn't press the matter. "Understood."

We spent the rest of the afternoon selecting the pieces that would go to the gallery. Some were easier to part with than others. The landscapes and still lifes held no emotional ties. But the others—the portraits of Ryan, of moments I had hidden from the world—those cut deeper.

When Julian uncovered the large painting of Will driving his fist into my face, I felt my heart slam against my ribcage. I had tried to hide it behind stacks of others, hoping it would stay forgotten.

He didn't say anything at first. His fingers hovered just above the surface of the canvas, just over my face. His eyes darkened with recognition.

"Dani," he murmured, his voice barely a breath. "This…"

"It's not for sale," I said quickly, the words sharp and defensive. "None of the ones like that are."

He looked up at me, his expression unreadable. "You don't have to sell this one. But people need to see it."

I shook my head vehemently. "No. It's too personal. Too… much of a reminder."

"Exactly," he said gently. "It's real. It's truth. And it could help someone else who's been through the same thing."

I hugged myself tighter, my nails digging into my skin. "It's not about them. It's about me. And I'm not ready for anyone to see that part of me."

Julian sighed, his expression full of empathy. "You're the only one who can decide. But don't bury it forever. Sometimes, the things we hide are the things that set us free."

I didn't answer. I couldn't. My gaze dropped to the floor, my chest tight with a thousand unsaid words.

When Julian finally left, the studio felt hollow. I stood alone, staring at the paintings that remained. Ryan's face stared back at me from across the room, every line and shadow a reminder of what I couldn't say.

My fingers trembled as I reached out to touch the nearest canvas, the brushstrokes familiar under my hand. Julian had seen the truth in my work—the pain, the love, the survival. Maybe one day, I'd be strong enough to share it with the world.

But today wasn't that day.

When Julian left with the paintings, he handed me fourteen thousand dollars—an upfront p*****t for the pieces he bought for himself and to showcase in the gallery. The remaining works would go to auction, and if Julian's estimations held true, the proceeds would cover the mortgage balance, including the arrears that had accumulated during my grandmother's illness.

I sank into the worn embrace of the couch, wrapping myself in the quilt my grandmother had lovingly stitched together. Exhaustion settled over me, but the quiet of the house carried an eerie weight. The only artwork remaining within these walls were the portraits of pain—fragments of my darkest moments immortalized in oil and canvas. The oppressive atmosphere tightened around me until I could no longer breathe under its weight.

Driven by a sudden, desperate need to reclaim my space, I bolted through the backdoor, clutching the harrowing remnants of my past. I dragged them to the firepit, my movements sharp and determined. Piece by piece, I snapped the canvases, my hands trembling as I tore through the memories they held. Striking a match, I set them alight, watching as flames consumed the anguish I had poured onto those frames. The fire danced wildly, crackling with the energy of release, and I sank into one of the patio chairs, mesmerized as my past dissolved into smoke and ash.

The momentary sense of peace shattered later that night.

I woke to the unmistakable sound of glass breaking, my heart lurching into my throat. Fear rooted me to the mattress before instinct forced me into action. I grabbed the closest object—an old lamp—and crept toward the noise, my breath shallow and my pulse a drumbeat in my ears.

The intruder moved quickly, a shadow among shadows, rifling through drawers and overturning furniture. Before I could react, a rough hand shoved me backward, a fist planting squarely into my left eye, sending me sprawling onto the floor. Pain exploded across my side and face as I scrambled to my feet, only to be met with another punch that left me winded, then another that left darkness dancing in my vision, but I had done this before, forced myself to stay awake through hit after hit, I was good at it.

Panic surged, and I lost any fight I had left through the disorientation as I watched the figure snatch the cash Julian had left, the envelope from Ryan, and both the jars I had saved up from the bed and breakfast—the sum I had pinned my hopes on—and vanish into the darkness.

When silence returned, it brought a heavy, suffocating stillness. I sat trembling on the floor, my chest heaving and my body aching from the struggle. The realization hit me like a blow: every cent of the money meant to save my home was gone.

In the firepit, the last embers of my paintings glowed faintly. The ashes of my past had been destroyed, but now the future I had begun to hope for lay stolen and out of reach. The sense of loss weighed heavier than I could bear as if the very air had thickened with despair.

I called Julian after I called the cops, I didn't know who else to call, but while I waited for the police, I begged him to rerun the numbers in hopes of the auction saving me. The line went dead when I finally told him the truth behind my questions, and I broke down in sobs.

I don't know what I was expecting. People care until it involves them, and then the weight of your situation becomes uncomfortable. I knew better than to let him in, knew better than to tell the truth. I just wanted the numbers... I just needed something good to focus on.