11. Amara
AMARA
The studio space swallows me whole. Twenty-foot ceilings, south-facing windows flooding the floors with late morning light, the sharp bite of turpentine mixing with linseed oil.
I've been here since seven, working on a canvas that refuses to cooperate, slashing burnt sienna across what was supposed to be a study on erasure but keeps turning into something uglier.
The white peonies sit on the supply cart behind me.
I told Katheryn to toss them. She didn't listen. Instead she brought them to my studio space with a note scrawled on Sapphire letterhead: "Too beautiful to waste. Use them if inspiration strikes."
So now they're mocking me from their crystal vase, petals perfect and white and entirely too expensive for flowers that should've ended up in a dumpster.
I tried ignoring them for three days. Kept my back turned, focused on other pieces, pretended they didn't exist. But this morning I gave in. Grabbed the vase, positioned it on a wooden platform I built from scrap lumber, and started building something around it.
Not a painting. A sculpture, maybe. Installation art. The flowers become the focal point, three-dimensional and alive, jutting out toward viewers while I construct the background in layers of torn canvas and mixed media. Displacement made physical. Beauty emerging from wreckage.
My hands move without thinking now, muscle memory taking over. The work consumes me in that way only art can, where hours disappear and nothing exists except color and form and the desperate need to make something that matters.
June asked questions this morning. Endless questions while she colored another iteration of her butterfly squid at the kitchen table.
"Mama, why was that tall man here? Who was he?"
"Just someone I used to know, baby."
"Did you used to be friends?"
I held back my grimace. "Something like that."
"Are you still friends?"
I'd paused, brush halfway to my mouth with a bite of toast. "No, honey. We're not friends anymore."
"Why not?"
"Sometimes people grow apart, sweet girl. It happens."
She'd accepted this easily, then she'd gone back to her drawing, humming that ocean documentary theme, unaware that the tall man at the door was her father.
I tear another strip of canvas, glue it to the backing. The peonies watch like witnesses.
My phone vibrates loudly. I ignore it. It vibrates again. Then a third time, which finally makes me set down my materials. I wipe my hands on my jeans and check the screen.
Three texts from Katheryn.
"Office. Now. We need to talk."
"It's urgent."
"Don't make me come drag you out of your workspace."
I frown at the messages. Katheryn's not one for drama. If she says urgent, she means it.
I clean my brushes quickly, toss the fabric scraps into a bin, and head toward her office. The hallway connecting studio spaces to administrative areas is narrow, lined with photographs from past exhibitions. My footsteps echo on polished concrete.
Katheryn's office door is open. She's behind her desk, tablet in hand, wearing a black blazer over a cream silk blouse. Golden hoops hang from her ears.
"Close the door," she says without looking up.
I do. My stomach tightens.
"Sit."
I sit in the chair across from her desk, hands clasped in my lap. "What's going on?"
She sets the tablet down, meets my gaze straight on. "I just got off the phone with Lucian Griffin. CEO of Black Lake."
My mouth goes dry. Griffin. Cassian's father. The man who built a fashion empire and expects his son to maintain it.
"O…Okay," I say carefully. "Where is this going, Kathy?'
"He wants to discuss a collaboration. Black Lake and Sapphire Studios.
Specifically, he wants your work to inspire their next clothing line.
" She leans back, fingers steepled. "It's a massive opportunity, Amara.
We're talking major exposure, significant financial investment, a partnership that could redefine both brands. "
I can't breathe properly. "What… When did this come in?"
"This morning. He called me directly."
"Did he say why?"
"He said his son recommended you. That Cassian attended your preview event, was impressed by your work, and brought your name to the executive team." Her eyes narrow slightly, studying me in a way that makes me squirm. "Is there something I should know about you and Cassian Griffin?"
Everything. She should know everything. That we were together in college, that I left him without explanation, that he showed up at my apartment and discovered the daughter I've been hiding from him for five years.
That his fingerprints are all over this proposal and if he tries to act as if this is only for business reasons, then he's talking out of his ass.
"We knew each other in college," I say instead. "Briefly."
Katheryn furrows her brows. "Briefly."
"We dated for a few months. It ended badly. We haven't spoken since. Well, we hadn't, until recently."
Katheryn takes a few moments to absorb this. She's brilliant at reading people, at seeing through whatever surface they present. I can feel her dissecting my answer, weighing what I'm not saying against what I am.
"This proposal," she continues after a beat, tapping her fingers on the desk.
"It's legitimate and it may be the best thing to happen to your career.
I'm being pragmatic, Amara. Black Lake's serious.
They're offering the funding, full creative control for you, a revenue-sharing model that's actually favorable. It's good business, Amara."
"But?"
She sighs. "But I need to know if accepting it is going to blow up in our faces. If there's history with Cassian Griffin that's going to complicate a professional partnership, I need to know now before we move forward."
I close my eyes, take a breath, and open them again.
"There's history," I admit. "More than I initially let on. But I can handle it."
"Can you?" she whispers, a hint of sympathy seeping through.
"Yes."
She studies me for a long moment. Then she picks up the tablet again, swipes through something I can't see. "Lucian wants a meeting next week. You, me, him, and Cassian. Preliminary discussion about vision, logistics, and timeline."
My hands clench into fists. They're becoming clammier by the second. "I need to think about it."
"Amara… I know this is complicated, but this is the kind of opportunity that doesn't come twice. Black Lake has reach and a legitimacy that could take your career from established to iconic. You'd be a fool to turn it down without serious consideration."
"I know."
"So what's holding you back?"
A five-year-old daughter with hazel eyes who deserves a stable life without her parents' mess exploding around her.
"Just personal stuff," I say instead. "Nothing that affects the work."
Katheryn sets the tablet down again, leans forward.
"I'm going to be blunt. I brought you on as lead artist because your work is extraordinary.
Because you have something to say and you say it without apology.
This collaboration could amplify that. It could put you in front of millions of people who've never heard your name. "
"I understand."
"But if this is going to compromise your wellbeing, or the exhibition, or Sapphire's reputation altogether, tell me now. I won't push you into something that's going to destroy you."
The concern in her voice catches me off guard. Katheryn's tough, demanding, expects excellence because she won't settle for less and because she, as an artist, has always exuded excellence on her own. But underneath it all is genuine care for the artists she represents.
"I won't let it destroy me," I murmur.
"Do you promise me that, Amara?"
"Promise."
She nods once, satisfied. "Then I'll set up the meeting. Next Tuesday, ten AM. Black Lake headquarters. Wear something that shows them that you're capable of inspiring a brand new fashion line with an iconic company."
Despite everything, I almost smile. "Got it."
"By the way… I get it. Even if it seems like you're going through something impossible right now." She waits until I meet her eyes. "Whatever happened between you and Cassian Griffin, don't let it define this. You're in control here. This is your work and your terms. Don't forget that."
I stand, legs unsteady beneath me. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. This is going to be hard work."
"I know."
I leave her office, walk back down the hallway toward my studio space. The peonies are still there when I return, white petals catching the light, standing upright in their expensive vase.
Cassian's doing exactly what I knew he would. Pushing, maneuvering, using every resource at his disposal to stay in my orbit, but he's sneaky about it since he wrapped it in business, in a legitimate opportunity that would change my career trajectory entirely.
I pull out my phone, open my contact list, and scroll until I find his name.
His number's still saved from six years ago.
I never deleted it. Some pathetic part of me couldn't bring myself to erase that last connection.
I tap on the button to compose a message, sucking in a deep breath as the blank text screen appears.
My thumbs hover over the keyboard. What do I even say? I know this collaboration was your idea and I'm onto you? Stay away from me and my daughter or I'll make you regret it? How dare you use your father's company to force proximity?
None of it sounds right. None of it captures the tangle of fury and fear and terror that's been living within me since he showed up at my door.
Instead, after seconds of silent frustration, I close the text screen without sending anything.
The canvas waits. Torn fabric, white flowers, the sculpture taking shape around Cassian's guilt offering. I pick up the adhesive, tear another strip of canvas, and keep building. Because that's what I do. I take the wreckage and make something beautiful out of it.
Even when the wreckage is wearing a gorgeous suit and has my daughter's eyes.