Chapter 1
I had barely stepped through the front door when my husband told me my studio was no longer mine.
"Brooke needs the room," Grant said. "I already had the paintings cleared out."
A minute earlier, he'd been taking my coat in the entryway.
He'd gently asked if I was tired after the three-hour drive, just as he had throughout the past seven years.
The smell of beef stew drifted from the kitchen.
Everything was as thoughtful as always.
Until I looked up and saw the hallway upstairs.
It was piled with brown cardboard boxes.
The sharp smell of packing tape stung my nose.
I skirted the boxes and pushed open the door to the sunlit room.
No smell of turpentine.
No custom-made worktable.
No easel.
Other things filled the room.
Plastic shelving stretched from floor to ceiling.
The shelves were crammed with cheap earrings, synthetic lace dresses, and shipping boxes bearing barcodes.
All I could smell was the harsh odor of plastic.
I stood in the doorway, my nails digging into my palms.
"Where are my paintings?"
Steady footsteps sounded behind me.
Grant came up the stairs, still carrying a glass of warm water he'd just poured.
"Have some water first, Tessa."
His expression hadn't changed, as though this were some tiny, inconsequential matter.
"I asked you where my paintings are." My voice was shaking.
Grant lowered the glass and gave me a resigned smile.
"The rent on Brooke's storage space for her online store suddenly went up."
"She's young, just starting out. She can't afford it."
"This room sits empty most of the time, so I told her she could move her stuff in until she gets things sorted."
I stared at his handsome, untroubled face.
"Sits empty?"
I could hardly believe what I was hearing.
"When we bought this house, we agreed this would be my studio."
"And I already told her no last week."
Grant frowned slightly.
"Tessa, she's my sister."
"She can't afford the rent. I couldn't just let her dump her inventory out on the street."
"So you threw out my things instead?"
"I didn't throw them out."
His voice was still gentle, but beneath it lay an arrogance that allowed no argument.
"I just had them cleared out."
A chill crept up my spine.
"Where did you send them?"
Grant looked away.
"They were taking up too much space, so I had the cleanout crew haul them away while they were here."
A roar filled my head.
"There were more than a dozen oil paintings." I stepped toward him. "Two of them were going into an exhibition in Portland next month. I'd already put the exhibition labels on them!"
Grant sighed and reached for my wrist.
I jerked away.
His hand hung in midair, a flicker of displeasure crossing his eyes.
"There'll be plenty of other exhibitions. Brooke's business can't wait."
"They're just a few paintings. Why are you making such a big deal out of this?"
A few paintings.
Every early morning and late night I'd put in over the past three years, reduced to "a few paintings."
"This is my work, Grant."
"I know you love painting," he said, softening his voice as though soothing a petulant child. "But some things have to take priority."
"You can paint at the dining table for now."
"Once she's making money and finds another storage space, you'll have the room back."
I looked at the man I'd shared a bed with for seven years, making it sound as though taking over my space was a favor to me.
"What gives you the right to decide for me?"
Grant didn't answer.
He turned and pointed toward the main living room wall, directly opposite the stairs.
A small painting of lilies hung there.
It was a quick study I'd painted the year we met, the edges of the canvas already a little faded.
"Look," Grant said, smiling at me, even looking a little pleased with himself for being so thoughtful. "My favorite is still right there, where everyone can see it."
"I went through them and saved the best one for you. Tessa, it's not that I don't care about your paintings."
I looked at that one old painting hanging alone, then at the room full of another woman's cheap merchandise.
Apparently, hanging one painting he liked in the living room made up for stripping away everything I poured my heart into.
A laugh escaped me.
My eyes stung, but my chest felt frozen solid.
"Your favorite."
I looked at him and asked, each word deliberate, "So you even decided which painting was worth keeping for me. Is that right?"