Julian has no idea who I really am. He thinks I am just a plain housewife who paints for fun. He doesn’t know that once, I was a renowned painter. That my exhibitions sold out in hours. That I gave it all up to cook for him, clean for him, love him.
I look at my hands. The same hands that once held brushes and created worlds. They itch now, like they’re remembering.
I close my notebook and stand. “Rowan,” I say quietly, “we go home now. I’m ready to paint again.”
--
The flight was long, but Rowan made sure no one paid us too much attention.
No public greetings, no fanfare. Just two quiet passengers slipping through the VIP exit of El Prat Airport in Barcelona.
As soon as we stepped into the arrival hall, Rowan leaned close. “Abuelo already sent a car. Security team’s outside.”
I paused for a second, my hands tightening around my bag. Security. A car waiting for me. Those words used to be normal in my life, but now they felt almost… foreign. Julian never allowed anything like that. He always said, “It’s just for show. You’re not some princess. Stop acting entitled.” So I stopped expecting safety.