Chapter 5

~ Emily~

My eyelids fluttered open, and the soft morning light spilled in, illuminating the empty space beside me. Andrew’s early departures for work had become a comforting routine, a gentle start to my day.

I stepped into the bathroom, the warm glow of the lights enveloping me as I began to run a bath. The sound of the water cascading into the tub was soothing, but as I slipped into its warm depths, my mind betrayed me. Memories of the past few days came flooding back - Thomas's lips on mine and the feeling of helplessness as he forced a kiss on me. The two men appearing and one of them addressing Thomas as “ Boss"

Thomas had handed me a business card before leaving, “Call me, we have unfinished business" he had said.

I tried to push the memories away, finishing my bath in a daze. After slipping into a cotton dress, I headed to the house library, seeking solace in my familiar ritual. I had always loved reading, and Andrew had made sure to include a library in our mansion. I remembered the way he used to look at me, his eyes filled with adoration. He had been head over heels in love with me back then. Those were good times.

Pushing open the library door, I was enveloped by the familiar scents of paper and ink. The sleek, modern shelves, packed with books of every genre, rose majestically to the ceiling, creating a sea of literary treasures. Every book had been handpicked by me, each one a reflection of my eclectic tastes. I navigated the narrow aisles, my fingers trailing over the spines of the books until they paused in front of a shelf filled with classic novels. With a practiced motion, I pulled a row of books off a shelf, revealing a small, discreet panel. I pressed my thumb against the cool surface, and the panel slid open with a soft click releasing a whisper of secrets.

A hidden compartment came into view, filled with an array of art supplies: sketchpads, pencils, chisels, and half-finished sculptures that seemed to hold their breath in anticipation. My secret sanctuary, hidden in plain sight.

Here, I poured my soul into creating masterpieces that would be hailed as some of the most breathtaking works of art in the world. Critics and collectors alike would marvel at the skill and emotion that flowed from every brushstroke, every chisel mark. But none of them knew the truth - that the creator of these stunning pieces was a timid and devoted housewife, lost in the eyes of the world.

My art was my only voice, the one thing that allowed me to express the thoughts and emotions I couldn't verbalize. It was my escape, my sanctuary, my confidant. Through my drawings and sculptures, I spoke of the things that mattered most to me, of the secrets I kept hidden, of the desires I dared not utter.

My art was a phenomenon, a sensation that had taken the art world by storm. People speculated about the identity of the elusive artist, known only by their pseudonym. Some thought it was a man, a genius with a tortured soul. Others believed it was a collective, a group of artists working together to create something truly remarkable. But the truth was much simpler, and yet, much more complex. I was the artist, the creator, the mastermind behind it all. And I was living a lie, a double life that was both exhilarating and suffocating. The thrill of this secret existence sent a shiver down my spine.

And yet, I had no intention of ever revealing my true identity. My secret would remain forever hidden, locked behind the mask of my ordinary life. I was content to remain in the shadows, my art speaking for me, while I remained silent, forever anonymous.

But for now, my focus was on my latest sculpture, the one that had been consuming my every waking thought. I couldn't help but feel that it was my best work yet, a true masterpiece that captured the essence of my inner world.

WOMAN, my latest work.

The sculpture stood before me, a breathtaking masterpiece that embodied the essence of vulnerability and beauty. The woman's form was crafted with precision and passion, her body a fluid, organic shape that seemed to pulse with a soft, inner radiance.

Her hands, slender and expressive, cradled her breasts with a tender reverence as if shielding a precious treasure from the world. The gentle curve of her fingers and the soft pressure of her palms all conspired to convey a sense of quiet protection, of vulnerable intimacy.

Yet, even as she protected herself, her lower form unfolded like the petals of a flower, vulnerable and exposed, inviting the viewer to bear witness to her intimate beauty. The subtle contours of her body, the gentle swell of her hips, the delicate indentation of her navel, and the soft, rounded curves of her thighs all seemed to whisper secrets, to share hidden truths.

The marble itself seemed to glow with a soft, ethereal luminescence as if infused with the gentle warmth of candlelight. Shadows danced across her skin, accentuating the subtle nuances of her form, drawing the viewer's eye on a journey of discovery and wonder.

There was a sense of quiet contemplation, of introspective self-awareness, as if the woman were lost in her own thoughts, her own desires. And yet, there was also a sense of vulnerability, of exposure, as if she were surrendering herself to the world, her secrets and desires laid bare for all to see.

Women, I thought, had a way of drawing attention to themselves, no matter the state they were in. Whether they were clothed or unclothed, confident or vulnerable, they seemed to possess an innate ability to captivate and enthrall. It was as if they were magnets, drawing all eyes and hearts towards them with an irresistible force.

And yet, despite this power, women were also vulnerable, fragile, and easily hurt. They were like delicate flowers, requiring gentle care and nurturing to bloom. The sculpture before me seemed to capture the dichotomy perfectly, conveying the complex, multifaceted nature of women with breathtaking accuracy.

One final thing remained: paint. The sculpture was complete, except for this last detail. I'd spend the next few days applying layers of color, bringing her to life in vivid hues. Next week, she'd be gone, sent out to captivate the world, and take the art world by storm again.

Just as I dipped my brush into the vibrant paint, a loud banging echoed through the library door. I froze, my heart skipping a beat. The door was always locked, a safeguard against interruptions.

I hastily set aside my paint and rushed to the door, swiftly securing the secret compartment with a soft click. I flung open the door, and Andrew's broken form stumbled into my arms. His eyes were two dark wells of despair, his face contorted in grief that seemed to be suffocating me. " Father..is dead" he whispered, his words dissolving into a sob that shattered the air.