THE SHIFT

I woke up before dawn the next morning. The city outside the penthouse windows was still cloaked in darkness, its skyscrapers glowing faintly like sleeping giants under a purple sky.

My body ached in places I didn't know could ache. Every muscle felt bruised, my stomach twisted with nausea, but I forced myself out of bed. I wrapped a shawl around my shoulders, tied my hair into a low bun, and padded barefoot to the kitchen.

The housekeeper hadn't arrived yet. The apartment was silent, save for the distant hum of traffic far below. I brewed myself ginger tea and leaned against the marble counter, staring blankly at the city lights.

The past three days had passed in a haze of chemo-induced exhaustion and silent tears. Logan hadn't spoken to me since our last conversation. He left early and returned late, moving around the penthouse like a shadow. But I didn't care anymore.

He had stopped existing in my world the day I decided to live for myself.

---

Later that morning, I sat on the floor of my room surrounded by canvases, tubes of paint, and scattered brushes. My arms trembled from weakness, but I forced myself to keep painting.

I painted my sickness.

I painted my grief.

I painted my rebirth.

Dark purples blended into angry blacks, streaks of gold slashing across the chaos like fragile hope. My tears fell, mixing with the colours. I didn't wipe them away.

For the first time in years, I wasn't hiding my pain.

---

"Madison."

I jumped at the sound of Logan's voice in my doorway. My brush clattered to the floor, splattering blue across my thigh.

He stood there in his tailored navy suit, hair perfectly styled, eyes sharp and cold as ever. But there was something different in his gaze today. Something that flickered behind the gray – confusion, annoyance, curiosity… I couldn't tell.

"Yes?" I said quietly, picking up my brush again.

He looked around my room, at the canvases stacked against the wall, at the paints staining my fingers and cheeks.

"You're still doing… this," he said with a slight frown.

"This?" I echoed, dipping my brush into black paint. "You mean… my art?"

He shifted, adjusting his cufflinks. "Don't you have treatment today?"

"Tomorrow." I dragged the brush across the canvas, long and slow, refusing to meet his eyes. "Today, I paint."

He didn't move. For a moment, silence filled the room, thick and uncomfortable.

Finally, he cleared his throat. "There's a dinner tonight. Investors from Dubai. You're expected to attend."

I stopped painting. Slowly, I raised my eyes to his. "I'm not going."

His jaw tightened. "It wasn't a request."

I smiled softly, feeling a strange calm settle over me. "Logan… I just had chemotherapy. My body is breaking down. I'm not going to sit there pretending to be your perfect wife while my insides feel like they're on fire."

His nostrils flared slightly. "You signed up for this marriage, Madison."

I let out a short, bitter laugh. "No. My father signed me up. You just agreed to the deal."

His eyes narrowed, but before he could say anything, my phone buzzed on the floor beside me. I picked it up. It was a text from Renee Walters, the art curator I met in the park.

Renee: Morning, Madison. Any updates on your exhibition pieces? Deadline for submission is next Friday. Let me know if you need help transporting your canvases. We're excited to showcase your work.

I felt a small, genuine smile tug at my lips for the first time in days.

"What is it?" Logan asked sharply.

"Nothing that concerns you," I replied calmly, putting my phone aside and picking up my brush again.

His gaze darkened. "Everything about you concerns me. You're my wife."

I shook my head, dragging deep crimson across the canvas. "No, Logan. I'm your contract. There's a difference."

For a moment, something flickered in his eyes. Hurt? Anger? But as always, it vanished before I could read it.

"Be ready by seven," he said coldly. "Don't embarrass me."

He turned and walked out, his expensive cologne lingering in the doorway long after he was gone.

---

That evening, I sat at my small wooden table, painting under the warm glow of my bedside lamp while Logan hosted his dinner in the grand dining hall across the penthouse.

I could hear muffled voices, the clinking of wine glasses, polite laughter floating down the corridor. At one point, I heard Logan's deep baritone addressing his guests with confidence and charm – the same voice that used to make my heart race, the same voice that now sounded empty to me.

I dipped my brush into gold paint and streaked it across the black canvas, watching it glow like hope cutting through darkness.

My phone buzzed again.

Paige: How are you today, sunshine?

I texted back:

Me: Alive. Painting.

She sent a row of heart emojis and replied:

Paige: Good. Keep painting. You're stronger than you think.

I set my phone down, staring at the glowing gold on black.

Stronger than I think.

Was I?

---

Hours later, after the guests had left and the penthouse fell silent again, I heard footsteps approaching my room. Logan appeared in the doorway, loosening his tie, his eyes hooded with exhaustion.

He scanned my paint-stained clothes, my flushed cheeks, the messy bun falling apart on my head. His gaze shifted to the canvas in front of me – a storm of blacks and reds, slashed through with brilliant gold.

"What is that supposed to be?" he asked flatly.

I met his eyes without fear for the first time.

"Me," I said quietly. "That's me. Broken. Bleeding. But still burning with hope."

His jaw clenched. For a brief moment, he looked like he wanted to say something. But then his eyes turned cold again, and he simply nodded.

"Get some rest. You have treatment tomorrow."

He turned and left without another word.

As his footsteps faded, I looked back at my painting, tears filling my eyes.

For years, I believed his love would complete me. But tonight, as I gazed at my art glowing under the lamplight, I realised something powerful.

I was already complete.

His love was never what I needed.

I needed my own.

And finally… finally, I was giving it to myself.