it in. I was done. This time, I was truly done. The last five years with Mark Davis had hollowed me out, leaving an empty shell where an artist used to be. The public humiliation, the slow and m

let him bre

e as he tossed his briefcase onto a chair. He didn

selection," he said, his tone flat and demanding. "I told them you'd handle it. Wh

issuing a command and a reprimand all in one. A familiar knot of anxiety tightened in my stomach, a reflex from years of trying to ple

apers. I just pushed them a

said, my voice steady, "r

ker of annoyance in his eyes. He glanced at

insurance policy? Just sign it f

his gaze. "You need

ead anything he considered beneath his notice, anything he thought was my domestic responsibility. His arrogance was his greatest weakness,

rk Davis, in a sharp, impatient signature at the bottom of the page. He didn't even read the clause right above his name, the one my lawyer had assured me was ironclad. The clause that sta

. "There. Now call the caterer. I

still fresh. I held the proof of my freedom in my hands. H

standing up. "I'll

I would defy him. But I wasn't just defying him, I was leaving him. He just didn't know it yet. For the first time in years, I felt a spark of something I thought was lon