Chapter 189 Chapter 189 The Painting
Trevor smiles so wide when he opens the door that it almost catches me off guard. I shift my weight from one foot to the other, suddenly unsure of myself for the first time all morning.
“You changed your mind?” he asks, though it’s obvious he already knows the answer.
“I guess I did.”
“You won’t regret it,” he says, stepping aside to let me into the loft. “I promise.”
The loft looks different today somehow. The sunlight pouring through the giant industrial windows is softer, muted by the San Francisco fog rolling through the city. Paintings lean against every wall. Some finished, some half done, some nothing more than rough charcoal outlines waiting to become something meaningful. Everything for the gallery already set aside.
Trevor guides me farther inside.
“You can change in the bathroom,” he says casually.
Change.
That’s a funny way to put it.
I’m not changing clothes.
I’m getting completely naked.
The only thing staying on my body is my wedding ring.
Ironically, that’s the whole point.
This painting is supposed to become a giant fuck you to Ivan. I don’t even want the finished piece for myself. I want it displayed at the gallery. Sold to some stranger. Hung in some collector’s penthouse where Ivan might one day accidentally see it and realize another man saw me clearly while he spent a year pretending not to.
Inside the bathroom, I stare at myself in the mirror while slowly removing my clothes.
For a moment, insecurity creeps in.
But I still look good. Better than good.
My body is strong. Feminine. Athletic. My waist still curves sharply. My breasts still sit high. My skin still glows. Years of workouts, expensive facials, skincare routines, healthy food, and chasing children around have kept me looking younger than I am.
Ivan used to worship this body.
I wonder if he still does.
I push the thought away immediately.
No.
I’m not here for him.
I walk back out wearing nothing except my wedding ring.
Trevor doesn’t react the way most men would.
No lingering stare.
No awkward pause.
No smirk.
His expression shifts instantly into focus.
Professional.
“Perfect,” he murmurs softly.
He walks me toward the cerulean couch near the windows and gently positions me exactly how he wants me. Arms above my head. Legs draped over the back cushion. Hair spread beneath me.
His hands move my limbs carefully, respectfully.
“Comfortable?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
I’m actually surprised by how comfortable I feel.
Trevor steps back toward the massive ten-foot canvas set up across from the couch. Beside him sits a table covered in paint tubes, brushes, palette knives, varnishes, and little chaotic explosions of color.
He still looks like a teenager pretending to be an artist. Baggy jeans hanging low. Oversized black shirt splattered with paint. Dark messy hair falling into his eyes. Same as yesterday.
Too young.
Way too young.
And somehow still more emotionally intelligent than half the men I know.
He lifts a brush, grinning slightly.
“Let’s see if I can paint the fire inside you.”
Then he starts.
The first hour passes quietly except for the swishing sounds of his brush against canvas and soft music playing somewhere in the background. The loft is cool, and every so often a shiver moves over my exposed skin from the breeze drifting through the old windows.
“You cold?” he asks without looking up.
“No.”
Every now and then he asks me questions while he paints.
Not invasive questions.
Not rude questions.
Personal enough to matter but careful enough not to cross a line.
“What made you fall in love with art?”
“What’s your favorite city?”
“What scares you most?”
I answer honestly but never fully. Little fragments. Tiny truths. Enough to satisfy curiosity without handing over the entire ugly mess of my life.
At one point he pauses, studying me carefully.
“You look scary when you stop talking.”
I laugh softly. “Maybe I am.”
“Good,” he says before returning to the canvas.
I blink at him. “Good?”
“The best paintings need honesty.”
Hours pass strangely fast.
At some point the shipping team arrives to collect the paintings for the exhibit. Massive wooden crates get carried through the loft while Trevor argues about handling procedures like a protective parent sending children off to school.
Watching him work is fascinating.
He’s intense when it comes to his art. Completely consumed by it.
During a break, he orders pizza.
He laughs openly when I grab a third slice.
“You eat carbs?”
“I eat cake like it’s a main course,” I laugh.
“That’s honestly comforting.”
We sit on the floor eating greasy pizza surrounded by million-dollar paintings.
Normal.
Easy.
Simple.
For the first time in longer than I can remember, I don’t feel like somebody’s wife.
Or somebody’s mother.
Or somebody trying desperately to hold together a collapsing marriage.
I just feel like me.
And maybe that’s what hurts the most.
Because somewhere along the way, I disappeared.
Did Ivan stop seeing me as a woman?
Did he only see “mother of his children” when he looked at me now?
Was I more exciting when I was wild and impossible to catch?
Or maybe once there was no chase left, he got bored.
Stop.
The voice inside my head comes sharp and immediate.
It’s not you.
It’s him.
I inhale slowly.
Before Ivan, I was someone too.
Wild.
Beautiful.
Athletic.
Unapologetic.
Fearless.
I existed before him.
And I will exist after him too.
There was a version of me before Ivan Pavlov walked into my life and turned everything upside down.
I want her back.
No.
I need her back.
By the time Trevor finally lowers his brush hours later, the sun is beginning to disappear behind the city skyline.
He looks exhausted but proud.
“I’m done.”
I carefully sit up, stretching my stiff muscles before slipping back into my clothes.
I walk toward the canvas instinctively, but Trevor immediately steps in front of it.
“Nope.”
“What?”
“You don’t get to see it yet.”
I laugh. “Why not?”
“Because I said so.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s also happening.”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself.
“Do you want it?” he asks suddenly.
The question catches me off guard.
I think about it for a second.
About hanging it somewhere private.
About keeping it hidden.
About staring at myself through someone else’s eyes.
Then I shake my head slowly.
“No.”
Trevor looks genuinely confused by that answer.
“Send it with the others to the gallery,” I tell him quietly.
And for the first time since filing for divorce, saying something out loud doesn’t feel like destruction.
It feels like freedom.