Carter's POV
The gallery buzzed with a quiet hum—muted jazz playing in the background, footsteps echoing against polished concrete, and the occasional murmur of admiration rising near the displays. Spotlights illuminated each canvas like tiny suns, casting golden halos around the anonymous art that had somehow become a mirror for every soul who wandered in.
She hadn't signed her name. No artist's bio. No curated backstory.
Just pain.
Just honesty.
And it was breathtaking.
I stood at the back, away from the light, my hands tucked deep in my coat pockets. My heart thudded with a mixture of pride and apprehension. All these strangers were now witnesses to her darkest moments, her brightest hopes, her rawest truths. I watched them stop in front of her pieces and stare. Some tilted their heads, some whispered, some took their time. One older woman just stood still, eyes glistening, in front of the piece Aishwariya had almost burned three weeks ago.
That one had nearly broken her. I remembered finding her that night, paintbrush trembling in her hand, tears streaming down her face as she whispered, "No one can ever see this. It's too much of me."
I knew the story behind every painting, every color choice, every frantic line she'd etched in midnight silence. I'd seen the versions before she dared to believe in them. I'd watched her pour pieces of her caged heart into each canvas, afraid someone might actually see. I'd watched her hands shake as she mixed colors at 3 AM, desperate to capture something she couldn't put into words.
"I don't know why I keep doing this," she had confessed one night, clutching her brush like a lifeline. "These paintings are just... reminders."
"Reminders of what?" I'd asked, though I already knew.
Her eyes had met mine then, dark and fathomless. "Of who I was before him."
And now, they were being seen. Loved.
She hadn't wanted to be here, not at first. Too risky. Too many what-ifs. But something in her changed after that therapy session, where I told her not to stop drawing, not to lose herself behind silence.
"Even if you have to hide behind a fake name," I'd said, "Don't disappear."
"What if he finds out?" she'd whispered, the fear evident in her voice. "What if he comes?"
I'd taken her hand then, felt the calluses from hours of gripping brushes. "Then we'll face it. Together."
And she hadn't disappeared.
But she wasn't standing beside me now.
She was hiding.
In the shadows across the gallery, near the staff hallway, wearing a dark shawl and wide glasses that did little to mask the flicker of anxiety in her eyes. But there was something else there too—hope. The fragile kind. The kind you hold your breath for. I could feel it radiating from her, even across the room. That tentative wonder at watching strangers connect with pieces of your soul and not turn away.
I was about to move toward her, maybe brush my fingers across hers—quietly, gently—when I saw him.
Aaron.
His frame cut through the crowd like a shard of glass. He looked too sharp for the soft lighting, his tailored coat stiff, his eyes scanning until they landed on one particular piece.
Her signature style.
Her brushstrokes. The way she layered blue with red as if trying to stitch a wound together.
I saw it hit him. Recognition.
And then rage.
His jaw clenched, and I started walking—fast. My pulse quickened, adrenaline flooding my system. Not tonight. Not here. Not when she was finally beginning to believe she could be free.
He didn't wait. He stormed through the people as if they were invisible, pushing past a young couple and knocking into a display. Gasps followed him. A low rumble of confusion built like a wave about to crash.
"Excuse me," he snapped at a woman standing too close to the painting he now glared at. "Who painted this?"
She blinked. "It's... anonymous. No one's—"
"I know who painted this," he said through gritted teeth. "Where is she?"
I stepped between him and the wall of stunned faces before he could search any further. My stance was relaxed but immovable, my heart anything but.
"Aaron."
He turned, nostrils flaring. "Carter," he spat my name like it tasted bitter. "What are you doing here?"
"Appreciating art," I replied coolly. "Unlike you."
His eyes flicked past me, searching. "Where is she?"
"Who?" I raised a brow. "The artist?"
"Don't play dumb," he hissed, leaning closer. The scent of expensive cologne couldn't mask the sour edge of his anger.
"Not playing. You seem to be the only one making a scene in a place meant for silence."
His face reddened. "She's mine."
The words were vile. Loud. They echoed through the gallery like a curse.
I didn't flinch, though something inside me coiled tight with disgust.
"You don't own anyone," I said, voice low, steady. "Not her. Not her art. Not her life."
"She wouldn't have anything without me," he seethed, eyes wild. "I gave her everything."
"Except freedom."
His face contorted. "You think you understand what she needs? You think you know her better than I do?"
"I know she doesn't need to be possessed."
"You think I don't recognize her work? You think I don't know what this is?" His hand gestured wildly to the paintings, to the very heart of her laid bare. "This is rebellion. This is betrayal. And you—" he jabbed a finger at me—"you're helping her destroy everything."
"No," I said, maintaining eye contact despite the acid burning in my throat. "I'm helping her live."
He laughed, a hollow, cruel sound. "Live? She was nothing before me. She'll be nothing without me."
"Maybe you should let her decide that."
"She doesn't know how to decide anything," he snapped. "She needs—"
"Not you," I cut in, the words sharp but quiet. "She needs to breathe."
Gasps rose behind us. Gallery staff moved closer, concerned but unsure. I could see her, in the corner, frozen. Pale. Like a hunted bird. Her eyes wide with that familiar terror that made my chest ache.
I gave her a look. Just one.
Go.
In that silent exchange, I tried to convey everything: You're safe. Run. I'll handle this. You deserve this moment. He can't take it from you.
She didn't move at first, but then she did. Slipping out a side door, vanishing before anyone could connect the dots. Relief washed through me like a cool wave.
Aaron didn't notice. He was too busy choking on his own fury, his accusations unraveling in public.
"You have no right," he continued, voice rising. "No right to interfere in our lives."
"Our lives?" I echoed, the phrase bitter on my tongue. "There is no 'our' when one person is suffocating."
"You don't know what you're talking about," he snarled.
"I know what I've seen," I replied simply. "And so does everyone else now."
His eyes widened slightly as he registered the crowd watching, the murmurs, the judgment in strangers' eyes.
I stayed calm.
Let the tension burn itself out in him.
Let it turn the crowd against him.
Let it protect her.
Because that's what mattered.
Her.
Aishwariya's POV
I didn't breathe until I was four blocks away.
Even then, it felt like my lungs were still trapped in that gallery, backlit by the paintings I once promised myself no one would ever see. The night air was sharp, cutting through my thin shawl, but I couldn't feel the cold. All I could feel was the phantom weight of Aaron's eyes, searching, finding, condemning.
I'd risked everything. For art. For truth. For one moment of freedom.
And he showed up.
Just like I knew he would. Just like I feared he would. Just like I told Carter he might.
"He'll find me," I'd whispered last week as we hung the final piece. "He always does."
Carter had looked at me then, his eyes soft but determined. "Maybe. But this time, you'll be stronger."
"How do you know?"
"Because this time, you're not hiding yourself," he'd said, gesturing to the paintings. "You're just hiding your name."
Aaron always knew how to find the thing I feared most and turn it into a weapon. But tonight, something shifted. He didn't control the narrative. He didn't silence the storm.
Carter did.
He stood between me and destruction. He didn't call out my name. He didn't force me into the light. He shielded me.
And now I sat on the curb behind a quiet bakery, heart hammering, eyes wet, the city spinning around me.
I should've felt shame.
But I didn't.
I felt seen.
I pulled my phone from my pocket, my hands still trembling. Three missed calls from Carter. A text message: Are you safe?
Such a simple question. One he'd asked dozens of times before. But tonight, something about it broke something loose inside me.
Was I safe?
No. Not completely. Not yet.
But for the first time, I felt like I could be.
I dialed his number before I could talk myself out of it. He answered on the first ring.
"Aishwariya?" His voice was tense with worry.
"I'm okay," I said, surprised by how steady I sounded. "I'm by that bakery on Maple."
"Stay there. I'm coming."
And soon after 15 minutes he was there
"Was it... was it terrible after I left?"
He paused. "No," he said finally. "It was just... over."
"Did he follow you?"
"No. Security showed him out." Another pause. "Your artwork is still there. Still anonymous. Still beautiful."
I closed my eyes, letting tears spill down my cheeks. "I saw their faces, Carter. They were looking at my deepest wounds and they didn't turn away."
"No one could turn away from your truth," he said softly. "Not even him, though he tried."
"He'll be waiting at my apartment."
"Then don't go there tonight."
"Where should I go?" I asked, though part of me already knew the answer.
"Somewhere you feel safe," he replied.
"Somewhere you can breathe." I thought about it, studio,o or a tiny part of me wants to say Carter. But I didn't because I know it's the time.
I took a deep breath, feeling something shift inside me.
"No," I said finally. "I think it's time to face the demons."
Carter's eyes widened. "Aishwariya, you don't have to—"
"I do." My voice was steadier than I expected. "I can't keep running. That's why I put those paintings out there, isn't it? To stop hiding?".
I looked up at the night sky, stars barely visible through the city lights. But they were there. Hidden. Constant.
I thought about the painting I almost burned, the one the older woman had stared at with tears in her eyes. I'd titled it "Invisible" in my private notes. But I was wrong.
I had never been invisible. Just waiting to be seen. By others. By myself. And now, finally, I was.
Not through someone else's eyes. But through my own.