arm was a dull, constant throb, a ph

like his. It smelled of turpentine and oil paint. Canvases lea

mall, velvet box on

ree years ago. He had used the entirety of his personal art fund, the money he'd been saving from private commi

Then it had gone back into the bo

be the start of his financial independence.

ng packing. Not cl

of them on their wedding day, her smile vacant. A candid shot he'd

om the bouquets she'd received and casually discarded.

red canvas in the corner. He wal

It was a masterpiece of photorealism, capturing the late Mr. Romero's kind

s daughter's cold indifference. The memory of her turning her back on him

with a sudden, clean motion, he dragged the blade across the c

t a quiet finality.

He prepared breakfast out of habit. Coffee, black. Toast, lig

ater, dressed for the day

" she asked, he

know," Ar

ould use your study if he needs to work. You don

commissions, the place where he kept his

y today, Jorja,"

rs, a flicker of annoyance on her

light. She had forgotten. Of course, she h

ter, holding a small tube. She toss

said. "For

one she had insisted on getting for

was cool in his hand. He look

on her phone, sm

the raw, blistered skin of his arm. The sting was sharp.

indifference was real.