Isabelle didn't sleep the night after the exhibit.
Not because of regret.
But because the world wouldn't let her.
Her inbox was flooded.
Praise. Condemnation. Offers. Warnings.
Headlines screamed:
> "THE DEVOTED SEDUCTRESS SHOWS HER SCARS—AND HER SKIN."
"ART OR EXHIBITIONISM? ISABELLE'S CONTROVERSIAL SHOW DIVIDES CRITICS."
"FEMINIST OR FAME-SEEKER?"
She should've expected it.
She had.
But it still stung to be dissected like a corpse on a media table.
She sat in her kitchen, staring at her untouched coffee, when her phone buzzed.
A name she hadn't seen on her screen in months.
> Nathan.
She stared at it.
Froze.
Then answered.
"…Hello."
A pause. Then:
"I saw it," he said, voice tired. "I watched the whole gallery. Twice."
She didn't know what to say. She didn't owe him understanding. But maybe… maybe they both needed to bleed a little more.
So she said nothing.
Nathan cleared his throat. "You once said I never really saw you."
Her silence encouraged him.
"I think I did. Once. But I loved the idea of you more than the truth of you. And when that truth grew teeth… I panicked."
"You made me feel small," she said quietly.
"I know," he whispered. "I didn't know how to love a woman I couldn't contain."
Tears burned, uninvited.
"I tried so hard to be good, Nathan. I wanted to be enough."
"You were, Isabelle," he said. "You just weren't mine. Not really. And I hated you for it."
---
The silence that followed wasn't heavy.
It was holy.
A burial ground for the love that almost was.
---
"Why are you calling?" she finally asked.
"I wanted to say thank you."
"For what?"
"For showing me your truth. Even if it came too late."
She swallowed. "You weren't the villain, Nathan."
"And you weren't the perfect wife."
They both chuckled, the kind of laugh you only share after surviving a wreck.
"What now?" he asked.
She exhaled.
"Now I finish what I started."
---
She hung up. Not out of anger.
But peace.
Some things don't need closure in the form of reconciliation.
Just recognition.
---
Elijah came home hours later, his expression unreadable.
"I saw Lucian outside my building."
Isabelle blinked. "What?"
"He didn't say anything. Just stood by his car, staring."
"He's pushing."
"Yes. But he's not in control anymore," Elijah said firmly. "We are."
She nodded.
But her hand trembled slightly as she reached for her wine.
Because while Nathan's ghost was fading…
Lucian's was getting bolder.
---
Later that night, Isabelle returned to her studio and found something she hadn't placed there:
A canvas.
Blank.
But with red words scrawled across the middle:
> "Paint your final truth. Or I will."
No name.
But she didn't need one.