ISLA
I dabbed cerulean blue onto the canvas, watching the pigment bleed into the still-wet titanium white. The blend created something softer than sky, deeper than water. Perfect.
"Isla, are you even listening to me?"
Maya's voice crackled through my phone speaker, propped against a jar of murky brush water on my worktable. I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, leaving a smear of paint across my cheek without realizing it.
"I'm listening, bestie," I promised, stepping back to examine the piece. "You want me to wear the red dress to the gala. The one that makes me look like I'm trying too hard."
"The one that makes you look stunning, babe," Maya corrected. "There's a difference. This exhibition is your moment. Three years of work. You need to look like the artist everyone's about to obsess over."
I laughed, the sound echoing in my small studio apartment. Afternoon light poured through the industrial windows, painting everything gold. My space wasn't much—a converted loft in Brooklyn with exposed brick, paint-stained floors, and canvases stacked against every available wall. But it was mine. Every inch of it purchased with my own money, filled with my own dreams.
"I'll think about the dress," I said, mixing more paint. "But I'm not wearing those death-trap heels you keep pushing on me."
"You're impossible." Maya sighed dramatically. "What time should I pick you up Friday? The venue wants us there by six for setup."
"Six is perfect. I'll have the final three pieces ready by Thursday night." I glanced at the organized chaos surrounding me—completed canvases wrapped in protective paper, smaller works boxed and labeled, my entire soul prepared for public consumption. "I still can't believe the Bennett Gallery actually said yes."
"Believe it, Isla. You're talented. Stop acting surprised when people notice."
Warmth bloomed in my chest. Maya, my only best friend, had believed in me when I'd been nobody—when I was just Malcolm Winters' daughter playing at being an artist. She'd sat through my terrible early work, celebrated every small victory, reminded me I was more than my family name.
"Thank you," I whispered. "For everything."
"Stop getting emotional on me. Save it for your acceptance speech when you're filthy rich and famous." She paused. "I have to run. Client meeting in twenty. But seriously, think about the red dress."
"I will. Promise."
The line went dead. I set my phone down, smiling to myself as I returned to the canvas. This piece was different from my usual work—darker, more visceral. A woman's silhouette fracturing into shards of light and shadow. I'd been working on it for months, unable to articulate what it meant, only that I needed to paint it.
My fingers moved instinctively, adding depth to the shadows, highlights to suggest movement. I lost myself in the rhythm, in the meditation of creation. Minutes blurred into an hour. The world outside my windows dimmed as clouds rolled across the autumn sky.
Then my phone rang again.
I almost ignored it, too deep in my work to surface. But something made me look. Dad's name flashed across the screen.
My stomach tightened inexplicably.
Dad never called during business hours. He was always in meetings, always busy managing Winters Industries, always too occupied for his only daughter unless it was a scheduled dinner or obligatory family event.
I wiped my hands on my already-ruined jeans and answered. "Dad? Everything okay?"
"Isla." His voice sounded strange. Thin. Stretched. "I need you to come to the office tomorrow. Morning, if possible."
"The office?" I frowned, glancing at my paint-covered workspace. I avoided Winters Industries like a plague. That building represented everything I'd run from—expectations, obligations, the suffocating weight of being a Winters. "Why? What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong, sweetheart." The endearment felt forced. "Just some family business we need to discuss. It's important."
"Can't we talk about it over the phone?"
"No." The word came too quickly, too sharp. He softened his tone. "It's better in person. Please, Isla. This matters."
My pulse quickened. Dad didn't say please. Dad didn't ask—he instructed, he expected, he demanded. Something was very wrong.
"What time?" I heard myself say.
"Nine. I'll have Judith clear my calendar."
"Okay." My throat felt tight. "Dad, are you sure everything's—"
"Tomorrow, sweetheart. We'll talk tomorrow."
He hung up before I could press further.
I stood frozen, phone clutched in paint-stained fingers, staring at the canvas before me. The fractured woman suddenly looked less like art and more like prophecy. Her silhouette breaking apart, light and shadow tearing her into pieces.
A chill crawled down my spine despite the warmth of my studio.
I told myself I was overreacting. Dad probably wanted to discuss the exhibition, maybe offer funding I didn't need or wouldn't accept. Or perhaps Uncle Victor was causing problems again—he usually was. Family drama. Nothing more.
But my hands trembled as I set the phone down.
Outside, the clouds had fully obscured the sun. My studio fell into shadow, the golden light replaced by something colder, grayer. I tried to return to my painting, but the moment had shattered. The brush felt foreign in my grip.
I cleaned up slowly, methodically, trying to calm the inexplicable anxiety coiling in my chest. Everything was fine. My exhibition was in three days. My life was exactly as I'd built it—independent, purposeful, mine.
Nothing was going to change that.
I repeated it like a mantra as I locked my studio door, as I descended the stairs to the street, as I walked home through Brooklyn's familiar streets. Cold autumn wind bit through my thin jacket outside. The city moved around me—taxis honking, people rushing past—but I felt separate from it all, wrapped in invisible dread.
Nothing was going to change.
But deep down, in a place I couldn't name or explain, I felt I was lying to myself. Tomorrow waited like a door I didn't w
ant to open, like a truth I wasn't ready to hear.
Something had already begun.