Cracks in coldness

The next morning, sunlight streamed through the blinds, painting warm golden stripes across my blanket. My body felt heavy, every bone aching from yesterday's chemo. My head throbbed dully, but the nausea was manageable for now.

I pushed myself up slowly, leaning against the headboard as I caught my breath. My eyes fell on the tray of untouched soup and water on my bedside table from last night.

He actually sent it.

A bitter smile curved my cracked lips. Too little, too late.

I shuffled into the bathroom and stared at my reflection. Hollow cheeks. Pale skin. Hair duller than usual. My braid had come undone in the night, strands falling limply around my shoulders.

I should have felt broken looking at myself.

But all I saw was strength.

Because I was still here.

Still breathing.

Still fighting.

By noon, I forced down a few spoonfuls of oatmeal and sipped ginger tea to settle my stomach. Then I set up my easel by the window, where sunlight flooded the small room, illuminating my brushes and paints like tiny treasures.

I picked up a blank canvas, inhaling deeply as the crisp smell of gesso filled my lungs. My fingers itched to create. To express the chaos swirling inside me.

Today's painting was softer – warm pastels, gentle strokes of rose and lilac blending into pale blue. A girl standing on a cliff, her hair whipping in the wind, arms outstretched towards a blazing sunrise.

Freedom.

Hope.

Rebirth.

Tears blurred my vision as I painted. My body hurt, my joints screamed with pain, but my soul felt light.

---

"Madison."

His voice startled me. My brush slipped, dragging pink across blue, but I didn't care.

I turned slowly to see Logan standing in my doorway. He wore a crisp black suit and silver tie, hair styled perfectly as always. His eyes scanned my flushed cheeks, paint-streaked arms, and trembling fingers wrapped around the brush.

"What do you want?" I asked quietly.

He ignored my question, stepping further into the room. His gaze fell on the canvas, lingering there for a moment.

"What is it this time?" he asked softly, and for the first time, his voice wasn't cold.

"It's me," I whispered, my throat tight. "The girl I used to be before… before everything."

His eyes flicked to mine. Something flickered in them – a fleeting sadness? Regret? I couldn't tell.

"You have an appointment at the gallery today," he said after a pause. "Maria told me."

My chest tightened. "How do you know about that?"

He looked away, jaw clenching. "I… I saw the email when you left your laptop open yesterday."

A wave of anger rose in me. "You read my emails now?"

"I was making sure you weren't doing anything… reckless," he snapped defensively.

I laughed bitterly. "What's reckless, Logan? Living my own life for once?"

His face hardened again. "Get ready. I'll take you."

I blinked. "What?"

"I said I'll take you to the gallery."

"I can go by myself."

"No." His tone left no room for argument. "You're weak. And I… I have a free hour."

I narrowed my eyes at him, searching his expression for lies. But all I saw was cold determination. Not care. Just control.

"Fine," I said stiffly, cleaning my brushes. "Give me fifteen minutes."

---

The ride to SoHo was silent. Logan stared out the window, his jaw tight, fingers drumming impatiently on his knee. I kept my eyes on the passing streets, ignoring the nausea curling in my stomach from the car's motion.

Finally, we pulled up in front of Willow Gallery. It was a small but elegant building with tall glass windows displaying abstract paintings framed in soft gold.

"Wait here," I said quickly, reaching for the door handle.

"I'm coming with you."

I froze. "Why?"

His eyes locked onto mine. "Because I want to."

Before I could argue, he was out of the car, walking around to open my door. He extended his hand. For a moment, I stared at it, stunned. Then, reluctantly, I took it.

His grip was firm and warm, and my chest ached at how long it had been since he last touched me willingly.

Inside the gallery, Renee Walters greeted me with a bright smile. She wore a navy pantsuit, her hair tied in a sleek ponytail.

"Madison!" she exclaimed. "I'm so glad you're here."

Her eyes flicked to Logan, widening slightly. "And you must be…?"

"Logan Carter," he said coolly, shaking her hand. "Her husband."

Something in his voice sounded territorial, possessive. I pulled my hand away from his grip subtly, but he didn't miss it.

Renee led us through the small gallery to a private back room where several artists were busy arranging their pieces.

"This is your space," Renee said, gesturing to an empty white wall. "You can hang five pieces here. Do you have them ready?"

I nodded, unrolling the canvas protectors I had carried. One by one, I revealed my paintings – the storm of blacks and reds slashed with gold; the faceless girl screaming into the void; the girl on the cliff with outstretched arms.

Renee gasped softly. "They're… breathtaking."

Heat rose in my cheeks. "Thank you."

I felt Logan's gaze boring into me as I arranged them carefully against the wall, deciding their sequence.

"These will sell well," Renee said confidently. "Especially the gold-slash piece. It's raw and powerful. Buyers love vulnerability."

I smiled softly, feeling a warm flutter of pride in my chest.

For the first time in years, I felt seen.

---

When we left the gallery, Logan was unusually quiet. He helped me into the car without a word and slid in beside me, staring out the window with a pensive expression.

"What is it?" I asked finally.

He turned to me, his eyes shadowed with something I couldn't read. "Why didn't you ever tell me you could paint like that?"

I laughed softly, bitterly. "Because you never asked."

His jaw tightened. "That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" I said, looking away. "You married me to fulfil a contract, Logan. Not to love me. Not to know me. Just… to own me."

Silence filled the car, heavy and suffocating.

When we reached the penthouse, he helped me out again, his grip lingering on my waist a moment longer than necessary. His fingers trembled slightly against my sweater.

"Madison…" he said quietly, his voice rough.

I turned to him, tears burning my eyes. "Don't, Logan. Don't pretend to care now."

And with that, I walked away, leaving him standing there alone in the marble foyer, staring after me with haunted gray eyes.

---

In my room, I collapsed onto my bed, sobs breaking free from my chest. I pressed my face into my pillow, muffling the sounds.

Why did his touch still affect me?

Why did his voice still break me?

Why… did my heart still yearn for him, even now?

But deep down, I knew.

Because love isn't something you can just turn off.

Even when it's killing you.