Chapter 8
The moment I stepped off the plane, a crisp chill met my skin. England.
I closed my eyes and inhaled the foreign air–cleaner, freer somehow. The roar of jet engines faded behind me as I pulled my coat tighter and reached for my phone. My fingers trembled–not from the cold, but from the weight of everything I had just walked away from.
I dialed Rain.
She picked up on the first ring. “Tell me you’re out of that hellhole.”
A smile tugged at my lips. “I’m in England. Just landed.”
“Oh my God, you actually did it!” Rain squealed. “Alicia! You left that bastard!”
I laughed softly, the sound foreign to my own ears. “I did. And… thank you, Rain. For everything. It it weren’t for you-”
She cut me off, fierce as ever. “Don’t. You did this. You finally chose yourself. But don’t get to sappy on me now, girl. Next up: hot strangers, rooftop bars, and a sexy accent or two.”
“God, you’re impossible.” I chuckled. “Let me breathe for now. The flings can come later.”
We said our goodbyes, and I dropped the call. Immediately, Denver’s name flashed across my screen–again. Missed calls. Messages.
Alicia, where are you? Stop this. We can talk.
You’re overreacting. Come home.
You don’t get to leave me like this.
I didn’t even read the rest. My thumb hovered over the screen, then I blocked the number. Permanently.
With no more hesitation, I popped the SIM card out of my phone and tossed it into the nearest bin. My new number, a fresh start.
By the time I arrived at the apartment Rain had helped me rent in Oxfordshire, night was creeping in. It was a modest place, clean and quiet. I stood in the center of the empty living room, staring at my suitcase like it might unpack itself.
I hadn’t lived alone in so long. I didn’t even know what to do with myself.
For years, I’d been Denver’s wife. A title that came with silence, obedience, and betrayal disguised as affection. Housewife duties were my full–time job. And now? Now I had no job, no plan–just freedom.
I needed air.
The night was brisk and full of unfamiliar sounds. I walked without a destination, until I found myself wandering into a park. Children’s laughter echoed faintly from the distance, and I followed it, needing something pure, something untouched.
And that’s when I saw it.
A group of artists sat beneath a grove of trees, their easels set up, brushes gliding across canvas. My steps slowed. My breath caught.
A boy with copper–stained hands laughed as he dabbed the corner of his friend’s painting with.
Chapter 8
2/2 32.0%
2:55 pm DDDD
blue. The light bounced off their faces, and for a moment, I was sixteen again–before the Montero name had stolen my future.
Painting.
It had always been my dream, my escape. Before I became a placeholder in someone else’s life. Before Paula–my real mother–insisted I bury my passions for business school. Before Patrícia took the spotlight.
I used to paint for hours. I used to-
The memories stung. My parents–the ones who raised me with love, not lies–they believed in me. They framed my first painting. Cheered at my exhibits. They were gone now, buried in a cemetery too far away. Tears welled, but I blinked them back.
I kept walking.
Moments later, I stood in front of a quaint little art store tucked between two buildings. It looked like it had existed for centuries. The display window showcased vibrant canvases and shelves of oil paints.
I stepped inside. A bell rang overhead, and the scent of varnish and aged paper greeted me. A woman behind the counter looked up and smiled.
“Evening. Looking for something special?”
I glanced around, my fingers brushing over the spines of sketchbooks and boxes of watercolor tubes.
“I need… a fresh start,” I whispered. Then I cleared my throat. “Art supplies, actually.”
The woman nodded knowingly. “Are you an artist?”
I paused. The words were hard to say, but they came. “Yes. I am.”
For the first time in years, I believed it.
She helped me gather what I needed–charcoal pencils, a sketch pad, acrylics, and a set of brushes that fit perfectly in my palm. I paid in cash and walked out, the weight of the bag grounding me in this strange new life.
As I turned the corner, my past haunted me one last time. Patricia’s voice echoed from memory cold and mocking.
“You’ll never be anything more than a shadow. Even your paintings? I made sure no one knew they were yours.”
She had torn my canvases. Taken credit for my exhibitions. But not anymore.
No more lies. No more stolen dreams.
This was my life now. And no one–no one–was going to take it away from me again.
