Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 94092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
“Let me show you the rest of the house,” she says, her eyes lively.
I nod, grateful for the escape from the dining table.
She leads me through her immaculate home, her voice filled with pride, as she takes me from room to room. The house is a testament to Max’s wealth and her good taste—polished hardwood oak floors, soaring windows, classy modern artwork strategically placed on the walls.
A vibrant abstract in the living room catches my eye, a kaleidoscope of blues and golds, swirling like a storm, and I pause, drawn to its energy.
“This is stunning,” I murmur.
Sara beams. “Isn’t it? Max picked it out. He’s got a real eye for beauty.”
I swallow hard, avoiding the urge to glance back at him. We move on, through a cozy den with plush gray sofas, then a sleek office lined with books, and a conservatory full of light. I’m overwhelmed by the opulent life he’s built with Sara… the one I’m only visiting.
Sara guides me upstairs, her hand sure and assertive on my arm. She pauses outside a door, then, with shining eyes, opens it to a bedroom that steals my breath. It’s decorated in subtle shades of purple—my favorite color, the same shade Max painted our attic hideaway all those years ago. Deep violet drapes frame a wide window, pooling on the floor like liquid, letting in soft, diffused light. The bed is a cloud of white linens, accented with square lilac pillows, the headboard high and padded with lavender velvet. A plush white rug warms the hardwood, and a vanity sits in the corner, its mirror reflecting the room’s serene glow.
“This is your room,” Sara says, her voice soft.
I turn to her, shocked. “Me?” My voice cracks, gratitude and disbelief tangling in my chest.
She nods, smiling. “We wanted you to feel at home.”
I’m speechless, and my eyes are stinging. I don’t deserve this kindness, but she’s not done. She leads me down the hall to another door, pushing it open to reveal the family library, now transformed. Sunlight pours through tall windows, illuminating floor-to-ceiling bookshelves packed with leather-bound volumes. A chaise lounge in deep blue velvet sits by one window, a reading nook bathed in warmth. A sleek desk stands against another wall, papers neatly stacked, and in the corner—my breath catches—an easel, surrounded by art supplies. Paints, brushes, canvases, all arranged with care, the space a perfect studio. The room smells faintly of old books and fresh paint, a blend that stirs memories of my studio back home, but this space is grander, its high ceilings and rich colors a testament to a life I’m only borrowing. My heart swells, moved beyond words by this incredible gesture.
“And here is your studio,” she says. “I told you we’ll ensure you’ll be able to do your work here.”
“Sara, this is…” I trail off, my voice thick, unable to find the right words. No one has been this kind to me, ever.
She steps closer, her platinum blonde hair swinging and catching the light, her eyes searching mine with a sincerity that disarms me. “This is your home now. Please remember this. Come, sit,” she says softly, gesturing to the chaise, her voice a gentle invitation. “Let’s talk for a bit before I leave you to settle in.”
I nod, my throat tight, and follow her, sinking onto the plush seat, the fabric silky against my palms. Sara perches beside me, her posture relaxed, her hands folded in her lap, and the quiet between us feels intimate, woman to woman, a moment carved out from the chaos of the day.
“So,” Sara begins, her smile easy, “tell me about your work. I know you illustrate children’s books that Jason is obsessed with, but what are you working on now?”
Her curiosity feels genuine, and it loosens something in me, a knot I hadn’t realized was there. I lean back, my fingers tracing the chaise’s soft edge. “I’m finishing a book about a dragon,” I say, my voice warming as I slip into the familiar comfort of my art. “It’s a story about a little dragon who loses its wings after a great battle. It is grounded and broken, but it learns to find strength in other ways—through its fire, its heart, its connection to the creatures around it.”
Sara’s eyes widen, her lips parting in awe. “That’s beautiful,” she breathes, leaning forward, her hands clasped. “The way you describe it makes it sound so… alive. Do you paint the dragon on paper or canvas?”
I nod, a small smile tugging at my lips. “This dragon felt right with the gleam of oils. I’ve been working on a series of paintings for it. The dragon’s scales are emerald, but they shift in the light—sometimes gold, sometimes teal. I’ve been trying to capture that shimmer so that it feels like hope even when it’s grounded. It’s slow work, though. Each scale takes forever.”