The night she stole back Her name

The morning sun streamed through the sheer curtains, brushing gold against my eyelids. For a brief moment, I pretended I was waking up in a different life – a life where I wasn't counting my remaining days, where my husband loved me, where I wasn't trapped in a dying body with a heart still desperate to be seen.

But reality returned with a stabbing pain in my chest.

I sat up slowly, feeling every bone protest. Chemo two days ago had left me with splitting headaches, bone-deep exhaustion, and a nausea that refused to subside.

Yet today, none of it mattered.

Today was my exhibition day.

Today, I would stand under bright lights, surrounded by strangers, and reveal the rawest parts of myself.

I would finally be seen.

Not as Logan Carter's wife.

Not as a dying patient.

But as Madison Hayes – an artist.

Maria helped me dress in a silky rose-beige gown that fell to the floor in a graceful sweep. It clung to my fragile shoulders but floated away at the waist, giving me the illusion of strength. She pinned my hair up in a low bun, leaving curled tendrils to soften my pale face. A dab of peach blush, sheer gloss, and mascara transformed me from ghostly to ethereal.

When I looked in the mirror, I almost didn't recognise myself.

"Beautiful," Maria whispered, tears shimmering in her eyes. "He won't know what hit him today."

I didn't reply. My chest twisted painfully at the thought of him.

At exactly five-thirty, Logan knocked on my door. I inhaled shakily and opened it.

He stood there in a fitted charcoal suit, silver tie perfectly knotted against his crisp white shirt. His hair was styled back, jaw freshly shaved, making him look impossibly regal and intimidating.

But his eyes… his stormy gray eyes widened the slightest fraction when they landed on me. For a fleeting second, something like awe flickered there before his usual cold mask slammed back in place.

"You're ready," he said flatly.

"Yes," I replied softly, gathering my shawl and purse. I brushed past him, feeling his eyes follow me like a silent storm cloud.

The ride to Willow Gallery was silent. Outside, the city blurred past under the evening glow, neon lights flickering on in shops and skyscrapers. Inside the black Rolls Royce, tension thickened the air.

At a red light, Logan finally spoke.

"Eat something before you faint on stage."

I turned to him sharply. "Why do you care if I faint? Won't that give you more pity votes for being such a devoted husband to your sick wife?"

His jaw clenched, a nerve ticking near his temple. "That's enough."

"No," I whispered, voice trembling with emotion. "You don't get to silence me today."

His grip tightened on the steering wheel, but he said nothing else as the car moved forward.

The gallery was buzzing with elegantly dressed guests, champagne flutes clinking softly as jazz music drifted through the bright space. Renee Walters greeted me with a wide smile and an enthusiastic hug.

"Madison! My god, you look radiant," she gushed. "Come, your wall is ready."

I followed her down the hallway, ignoring Logan's heavy footsteps behind me. When I turned the corner, my breath caught in my throat.

Five of my paintings hung under warm golden spotlights on pristine white walls. They looked… alive. Each canvas screamed my pain, my anger, my fear, my hope.

The faceless girl screaming into the void.

The raging storm slashed with gold.

The delicate cherry blossoms floating against turquoise.

The woman glowing golden in darkness.

And the cliff girl with arms outstretched towards sunrise.

Tears burned my eyes as I whispered, "They're… beautiful."

"No," Renee corrected softly. "They're powerful. Just like you."

For the next hour, I spoke to guests who admired my work.

A young woman in an emerald gown clutched my hand with tears brimming. "This one… the screaming girl… it feels like how depression swallows you alive. Thank you for painting it."

An elderly man in a tailored suit studied my gold-slashed storm. "This is grief and hope in one breath," he murmured. "It's… extraordinary."

"Thank you," I whispered, tears threatening to spill. Every word from them felt like a balm to wounds I didn't know could heal.

I felt his gaze on me before I turned.

Logan stood at a distance, hands in pockets, eyes dark and hooded as he watched me interact with the guests. His expression was unreadable – part anger, part awe, part… something else.

He looked at me like he was seeing me for the first time.

And it terrified me.

At one point, Daniel Price, a tall investor with kind brown eyes, approached me.

"Madison, your work is breathtaking," he said warmly. "Have you ever considered an international collection tour? I have galleries in London and Paris."

My breath caught. "I… no, I've never even thought of that."

"Let's talk soon," he said, handing me his card with a charming smile. "Call me anytime."

Before I could reply, a cold hand gripped my elbow.

Logan's towering frame loomed beside me, his eyes locked onto Daniel with a razor-sharp glare.

"She'll think about it," he said curtly.

Daniel blinked, glanced between us, then nodded politely. "Of course. Lovely to meet you both."

When he walked away, I yanked my arm from Logan's grip. "What the hell was that?"

His eyes burned into mine, dark and furious. "You're not going to London. Or Paris."

My chest tightened painfully. "Why? Because I might actually live my life for once? Because I might succeed without you?"

His fingers curled into fists at his sides. "Because you're sick, Madison. You can barely stand. You think you can travel across the world alone?"

"That's not what this is about," I whispered, tears filling my eyes. "You just want to control me."

His nostrils flared, his voice dropping low and dangerous. "You belong here."

I laughed bitterly, shaking my head. "No, Logan. I belong to myself."

As I turned to walk away, his hand caught my wrist again, pulling me back against his chest. His scent enveloped me – sharp cologne and faint mint.

"Don't," I choked out, trembling. "Don't pretend to care now."

His grip tightened, his breath hot against my ear. "Maybe I've always cared," he whispered, his voice breaking ever so slightly.

I froze.

For a brief, flickering moment, my heart dared to hope.

But then logic returned like ice water to my veins.

"No," I said softly, pulling away. "You don't care. You're just scared to lose what you own."

His eyes darkened, jaw tightening. "Madison—"

"Enjoy the exhibition, Mr. Carter," I said coldly, turning my back on him. "Tonight isn't about you."

And as I walked away, surrounded by my glowing paintings and murmurs of admiration, I felt something shift deep inside me.

For the first time, his absence from my heart didn't feel like an empty wound.

It felt like freedom.