Chapter 6 - The Canvas of Tomorrow
Three months later, the sun was shining brightly over the rolling hills of Geneva.
My new design studio, Olivia Hart Designs, was located in a beautiful, light-filled brick loft overlooking the Fox River. The walls were covered with my own large-scale abstract paintings, filled with bold, vibrant strokes of blue, gold, and silver—a stark contrast to the muted, polite neutrals Lorraine had always insisted I use.
My divorce from Nathan had been finalized in record time. With the security camera footage from my laptop and the Ring doorbell, his lawyers had advised him to settle immediately, giving me full ownership of our design business assets, our savings, and a substantial settlement from his remaining personal accounts.
Nathan had pleaded guilty to accessory charges and was currently serving two years of probation, his professional reputation entirely destroyed. Lorraine’s trial was scheduled for the fall, and with the mountain of physical and digital evidence against her, she was looking at a minimum of three years in a state penitentiary.
The bell above the studio door chimed, and Miles Bennett walked in, carrying two large cups of iced coffee and a box of fresh pastries.
"Morning, boss," Miles said, his face bright and smiling as he set the coffee down on my drafting table. "The final proofs for the riverfront art installation just came in from the printer. They look absolutely stunning."
"Thanks, Miles," I said, taking my coffee and looking at the vibrant, colorful designs on the screen.
The city council had awarded my firm the public arts contract for the new riverfront district—the very project Richard Cole had tried so hard to win. Instead of concrete and luxury condos, the riverfront would now feature an open-air community art park, designed by me and curated by local artists.
Clara walked out from the back office, her hair pulled up in a messy bun, a tape measure slung over her shoulders. "Are we celebrating? Because I heard the word 'stunning' and I expect pastries."
"Always, Clara," I laughed, pushing the box toward her.
I walked over to the large mirror hanging near the entrance of the studio.
My hair had grown out slightly, the short, feathered layers of the pixie cut framing my face in a soft, modern style that felt entirely my own. The red scrape marks on my neck had healed, leaving no scars behind—only a quiet, permanent reminder of the strength I had found in the darkest night of my life.
The bell chimed again, and a customer walked in—a young woman with long, beautiful brown hair, looking nervously around the gallery.
"Hi," she said, her voice hesitant. "I... I saw your paintings in the window. They're so powerful. They look like they're breaking free of something."
May you like
I smiled, stepping forward to greet her, my hand resting gently on the sharp, beautiful angle of my new hair.
"They are," I said, my voice warm, clear, and filled with a future I had written myself. "Welcome to the studio. Let me show you around."
