The sun rose too soon, spilling harsh light into my small room, illuminating the chaos I had created overnight. Empty paint tubes rolled across the wooden floor. My brush lay next to me, its bristles stiff with dried black paint. The smell of turpentine and acrylics lingered in the air, sharp and comforting.
For a moment, I simply lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling nothing. No fear. No sadness. Just emptiness so vast it almost felt like peace.
Then nausea rose in my throat, reminding me I was still alive.
I stumbled into the bathroom and threw up until my stomach clenched with cramps. My knees pressed against the cold tiles, forehead resting on my trembling arms as tears slid down my cheeks, mixing with sweat and bile.
When the wave of sickness passed, I crawled to the sink and washed my face. I looked up into the mirror.
My reflection startled me.
My skin looked dull, my lips cracked, and dark circles bruised my eyes. My braid was half undone, strands sticking out like I'd been electrocuted. But behind all that ruin, I saw something else.
Determination.
I wiped my face dry and left the bathroom. Logan wasn't home. He had probably left early for his breakfast meeting with oil investors from Texas. His schedule was always full of powerful men who shaped the country's economy, yet he couldn't spare a single moment to check on his wife after chemotherapy.
I entered the kitchen, brewed myself peppermint tea, and forced down some oatmeal. My body rejected it immediately, and I barely reached the sink in time to throw up again.
"Fuck this," I muttered, tears of frustration stinging my eyes. "I won't live like this."
---
By noon, I dressed in simple jeans and a loose black tee, pulling my hair into a messy bun. I grabbed my sketchbook and left the penthouse without a word to the housekeepers.
Outside, New York buzzed with life. The July heat shimmered over the streets, and I felt sweat dripping down my back within minutes. But I didn't care.
I took a cab to Riverside Park and found an empty bench by the river. The breeze ruffled my hair, carrying the scent of water and grass. It calmed my churning stomach slightly.
I opened my sketchbook and began to draw.
I drew the women in wigs walking their golden retrievers, the joggers with AirPods lost in their worlds, the old man feeding pigeons crumbs from his wrinkled palm. I drew the river, glistening like liquid silver under the blazing sun.
And for the first time in years, I felt alive.
Hours passed without me noticing. My nausea faded, my headache dulled, and my fingers moved swiftly, capturing life in black graphite strokes. Sweat trickled down my spine, soaking my shirt, but I felt free.
I didn't belong to Logan Carter right now.
I belonged to myself.
---
"Excuse me."
I jumped at the soft voice and looked up to see a woman standing before me. She was tall and elegant, dressed in a cream linen dress with tortoiseshell sunglasses perched atop her sleek bob.
"I couldn't help but notice your sketches," she said with a warm smile. "They're… stunning. You captured that old man and his pigeons perfectly."
Heat rushed to my cheeks. "Thank you."
"I'm an art curator," she said, extending her hand. "Renee Walters. I run The Willow Gallery in SoHo."
I shook her hand, my fingers trembling slightly. "Madison Carter."
Her eyebrows rose. "Carter… as in Logan Carter?"
I stiffened. "Yes."
She chuckled softly. "Small world. Anyway, Madison, we're hosting a charity art exhibition in two months for cancer awareness. I'd love for you to submit some of your pieces."
My heart stuttered. "I… I don't have any recent works."
"These sketches are more than enough to show your talent," she said, flipping through my book with care. "Your strokes are raw and emotional. We're showcasing pieces that speak truth, not just technique. Here's my card. Think about it."
She handed me a cream business card embossed with gold lettering before walking away, heels clicking softly on the stone path.
I sat there staring after her, my mind spinning.
An art exhibition.
Cancer awareness.
My art.
My story.
For so long, I buried my dreams under Logan's expectations. But cancer stripped away my excuses. It forced me to confront death, and in doing so, it taught me how to live.
---
When I returned home that evening, my body was exhausted, but my soul felt light.
Logan was sitting in the living room, typing furiously on his laptop. He didn't look up as I entered.
"Where were you?" he asked curtly.
"Out," I replied simply.
"Out where?" His tone sharpened slightly.
"Painting," I said, walking past him towards my room. "For an art exhibition."
That made him pause. "What exhibition?"
I turned to him, meeting his cold gray eyes with steady defiance. "One that has nothing to do with you."
His jaw tightened. "Don't embarrass me, Madison. You're my wife."
I laughed bitterly. "Your wife who you can't even bother picking up after chemotherapy?"
He flinched almost imperceptibly, but I saw it. It gave me a twisted sense of satisfaction.
"Do what you want," he said finally, turning back to his laptop. "Just remember your place."
I nodded slowly. "I will. And my place… is wherever I choose it to be."
I shut my door before he could respond. Inside, I collapsed onto my bed, tears streaming down my cheeks. But they weren't tears of sadness this time.
They were tears of freedom.
For the first time in my life, I was making a choice that was entirely mine.
And I knew, deep in my bones, that it was only the beginning.