A Chance to Be Seen

The days after Arthur left were no easier.

His parents stayed at the estate for several days, and I quickly learned that being his wife meant answering to them even when he wasn’t around. Victoria expected me to appear at breakfast and dinner, while Mr Oliver watched me whenever we crossed paths. I became careful about where I went and how long I stayed there.

When they finally left, I thought the house might become easier to live in.

It didn’t.

Arthur returned from his trip, and life settled into the same miserable routine. He continued treating me like an obligation he had been forced to accept, while expecting me to behave like a devoted wife whenever other people were watching. Julian was still around often enough to remind me that I couldn’t let my guard down.

I kept my head down and did what I had to do.

Months passed that way.

My sketchbook remained hidden beneath a loose board at the back of my wardrobe. I took it out whenever I found a moment alone, careful to put it away before anyone could catch me. My old pencils were worn down, and several pages had become too crowded with drawings, but I refused to throw any of them away.

I had no money for new materials. Whatever little I managed to save went toward the things I might need when I finally escaped.

Then, one afternoon, Arthur called me into his study.

I found him behind his desk, reading through some documents. He didn’t look up immediately.

“There’s an event next week,” he said. “You’ll be attending with me.”

I stood near the door. “What kind of event?”

“A luncheon for a technology programme we’re supporting. Several business owners and investors will be there.”

I waited for him to say more.

He finally looked up.

“My family is one of the sponsors. The programme also supports a creative development initiative for young artists. I expect you to behave appropriately and make a good impression.”

“All right.”

“Don’t embarrass me, Sophie.”

“I won’t.”

He returned to his papers, making it clear that our conversation was over.

I left the study without asking any more questions. Attending another gathering with Arthur was the last thing I wanted, but refusing him would only make things worse.

On the morning of the event, a maid helped me get dressed in a simple cream-coloured dress. I tied my hair back loosely and slipped my small sketchbook into my handbag before leaving the room.

Arthur was waiting downstairs.

His eyes moved over my dress.

“At least you know how to dress properly,” he remarked.

I said nothing.

He took his keys from the table, and we left together.

The luncheon was being held at a private venue in the city. Unlike the Harrington estate, this place was more modern, with glass walls, wide balconies, and large screens displaying information about the technology programme.

Businessmen and women moved between the tables, exchanging greetings and discussing investments. Several people recognised Arthur and approached him almost immediately.

He introduced me to a few of them as his wife.

I smiled when expected and kept my answers short.

After a while, Arthur was called away by one of the organisers. He glanced at me before leaving.

“Stay here. I’ll be back.”

I nodded.

Once he was gone, I moved toward an empty table near the side of the room. I was tired of standing around pretending to enjoy conversations that meant nothing to me.

A few minutes later, I noticed a display of paintings and illustrations arranged beside one of the programme booths. The exhibition was part of the programme’s creative development initiative, showcasing young artists whose work explored traditional and digital art.

I stopped to look at them.

The drawings reminded me of the things I used to imagine creating if I ever had the right materials. I reached into my handbag and took out my sketchbook.

There was a blank space on the page I had been working on the previous night. I turned to it, picked up my pencil, and began sketching the arrangement of flowers on the table in front of me.

For a little while, I forgot where I was.

My hand moved naturally across the paper. I added the curves of the petals, the leaves, and the shadows beneath the glass vase. I was so focused on the drawing that I barely noticed someone approaching.

“That’s quite good.”

I looked up.

A man stood beside the table, looking down at my sketchbook. He was tall, dressed in a dark suit without a tie. His dark hair was neatly styled, and his green eyes settled briefly on the drawing before returning to my face.

I closed the sketchbook halfway.

“Thank you.”

“Did you draw that?”

I glanced down at the page. “Yes.”

He looked at the drawing again.

“You have a good eye for detail. Have you studied art?”

I shook my head. “No. I taught myself.”

“Really?”

I nodded.

He seemed genuinely interested, which made me uncomfortable. I wasn’t used to people asking about my drawings without making fun of them.

“Do you draw often?” he asked.

“When I have time.”

His gaze moved to the worn pencil between my fingers.

“Have you ever considered developing your work professionally?”

I almost laughed.

Professional art was something I had only imagined while sitting alone in the attic. I had never considered that anyone might take my drawings seriously.

“I don’t have the materials for that,” I admitted.

“I’m Alexander Kane,” he said. “I’m involved in supporting the programme’s creative development initiative. We want to give talented artists opportunities to develop their work.”

I looked at him with renewed interest.

He glanced at my sketchbook again.

“Don’t let a lack of materials stop you from drawing.”

Before I could respond, someone called his attention from across the room.

He turned slightly.

“I won’t keep you,” he said.

He reached into his jacket and brought out a business card.

“Alexander Kane.”

I accepted it and glanced at the name.

“I’m Sophie.”

His eyes returned to mine.

“Nice to meet you, Sophie.”

Then he stepped away to join the people waiting for him.

I looked down at the card again before slipping it into my handbag. I didn’t know much about him, but his interest in my drawings stayed with me long after he had walked away.

Arthur returned a short while later.

“Ready?”

I put my sketchbook away. “Yes.”

He didn’t ask what I had been doing or who I had spoken to. He simply placed a hand against my back and led me toward the exit.

By the time we returned to the estate, I had almost convinced myself that the conversation meant nothing.

A few days later, a package arrived.

I was coming down the stairs when the housekeeper stopped me near the entrance.

“Mrs Martins, this was delivered for you.”

I looked at the box in her hands.

“For me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I accepted it, surprised. Nobody usually sent me anything, and I certainly hadn’t ordered a package.

I carried it upstairs and placed it on my bed. My name was written clearly across the label. I opened it carefully.

Inside were several sketchbooks, a complete set of drawing pencils, charcoal sticks, erasers, blending tools, and a collection of coloured pencils. There were also tubes of paint and brushes, all neatly arranged beneath protective wrapping.

A small card rested on top of the materials.

I picked it up and read the message.

You shouldn’t have to stop drawing because you lack the right tools. I hope these help.

— Alexander Kane.

I read it again.

So he had remembered our conversation.

I couldn’t understand why he had gone to such trouble for someone he had only just met, but knowing where the gift had come from made me feel less uneasy about accepting it.

I picked up one of the sketchbooks. Its pages were thick and smooth, nothing like the cheap paper I had been using for years.

I opened another package and ran my fingers over the pencils.

For a moment, I simply stared at everything spread across my bed.

Then I selected a clean sheet, sharpened one of the pencils, and began drawing.

My hand moved more freely than it had in a long time. I didn’t have to struggle with a broken pencil or worry about the paper tearing beneath my fingers. I could finally work with materials that allowed me to do what I wanted.

I lost track of time.

When I finished, I leaned back and examined the drawing. It was a woman standing beside an open window, her hair falling over her shoulders as she looked toward the world outside.

I stared at it for a while.

That woman was me.

A knock sounded at the door.

I quickly closed the sketchbook and looked toward the entrance.

“Sophie?”

Victoria.

She had returned to the estate that morning to oversee the preparations for Elena’s arrival. I gathered the loose pencils and pushed them back into the box. Then I slid the box beneath my bed before opening the door again.

Victoria stood outside, looking impatient.

“What are you doing in here?”

“Nothing. I was resting.”

Her eyes moved past me, briefly examining the room.

“Come downstairs. Elena is coming back tomorrow, and there are things that need to be arranged.”

My fingers tightened around the edge of the door.

Elena was coming back.

I nodded, but she had already turned and walked away.

I closed the door and looked toward the box beneath my bed.

I didn’t know what Alexander Kane wanted from me, or why he had taken such an interest in my drawings. But I knew I wouldn’t stop drawing again. Whatever happened when Elena returned, I wouldn’t let this family take that away from me.