Brush- strokes and Bombshells

Monday Morning – Art Department Office

Clara hadn't been expecting much when she opened the plain envelope in her mailbox — maybe feedback on her studio proposal or another invite to a campus showcase. But what she pulled out made her breath catch.

A letter. On thick cream paper. Embossed with the seal of Galerie LaVoix — one of the most renowned modern art galleries in Paris.

She read the words twice, heart thundering.

"We are pleased to offer you a featured slot in our emerging international artists residency program, beginning next month…"

Paris.

An entire summer.

Fully funded.

Mentored by real-world artists.

A debut gallery show.

It was everything she'd dreamed of since she was fifteen.

But it meant leaving. Leaving the city. Her apartment. Her friends.

And Lucien.

Monday Afternoon – Studio

Lucien was already there, head bent over a contact sheet of black-and-white prints. Clara hesitated in the doorway, still clutching the letter like it might vanish.

He looked up and smiled. "Hey, you okay?"

She crossed the room slowly. "I got something today."

He raised an eyebrow. "Good something or bad something?"

She handed him the letter. "You tell me."

His eyes moved over the page. Slowly. Carefully. When he looked back up, the smile was still there — but thinner. More practiced.

"This is huge, Clara."

"I know."

"You have to go."

"I didn't say I would."

Lucien stepped closer. "Don't stay for me. Please."

"But what if—"

He touched her cheek, gently. "If we're real, this will hold."

She wanted to believe that. She really did.

That Night – Rooftop Bar

Clara met Lou and May for drinks. The air was cool, lights shimmering over the skyline.

"I'm still spinning," she admitted. "Paris. A solo show. It's insane."

May clinked her glass. "It's also you. You earned this."

Lou raised an eyebrow. "But why do you look like someone just killed your dog?"

Clara hesitated. "I'm scared if I leave, I'll lose him."

Lou was quiet for a moment. "Then maybe you should talk to him about the things you're not saying."

Clara blinked. "What do you mean?"

Lou looked at her, dead serious. "You know that girl Sylvie who showed up? I overheard her again. She was talking to a guy. Tall, sleeves of tattoos. Kept glancing over his shoulder like he didn't want to be seen."

Clara's skin prickled. "You think Lucien knows him?"

Lou nodded. "The guy said something like, 'Tell Lucien his father's out. And looking for him.'"

Clara's heart dropped.

Lucien never talked about his father — only ever said he was "out of the picture." A vague phrase she'd never pressed on. Until now.

Tuesday – Lucien's Apartment

He opened the door shirtless, camera strap around his neck, like he'd been mid-edit.

But one look at Clara's face, and he sobered instantly.

"What's wrong?"

She stepped inside. "You need to tell me about your father."

Lucien froze. "Why?"

"Because I know he's out of prison."

Silence.

"Lou overheard Sylvie talking to someone. They mentioned you. And your dad."

Lucien sat down hard on the edge of the couch, running both hands through his hair.

"He wasn't supposed to be out until next year," he whispered.

"What did he do?" Clara asked, softer.

Lucien looked up. "He went to jail for assaulting me. When I was seventeen."

Her breath caught. "Lucien—"

"He broke my collarbone. Said I was nothing. Said I was just like my mother — weak."

Tears burned behind Clara's eyes. "Why didn't you ever tell me?"

"Because I didn't want you to see that part of me."

"I see all of you," she said fiercely. "And I'm not going anywhere."

He leaned into her, forehead against hers. "He could ruin everything."

"Then let's not give him the chance."

Later That Night – Studio

Clara sat at the canvas, hands shaking slightly. This piece wasn't just art anymore — it was truth. A lifeline between her and Lucien.

She dipped the brush in gold, tracing it over the dark fragments of Lucien's shadowed photos.

Turning trauma into light.

That was their story.

But as she stood back, she noticed something new — a torn edge in the corner of one of Lucien's photos she hadn't seen before.

She peeled it back gently.

And underneath… another photo.

Of a man.

Staring directly into the lens.

Eyes sharp.

Smile twisted.

A match to Lucien's.

And scrawled on the back, in faded ink:

"YOU CAN'T ERASE BLOOD."