Married For Convenience

Chapter Five: The Weight of a Choice

The cottage felt different now.

I sat at my small wooden table, staring at the unfinished painting on my easel. Caleb's face stared back at me, frozen in that perfect, laughing moment I'd been trying to capture. His eyes were bright, his smile wide, his small teeth showing in that gap-toothed way that always made my heart ache. The brushstrokes were incomplete. The colors were wrong. I couldn't remember why I'd thought I could paint him like this, so bright and carefree, when the real world had already stolen that version of him away.

I should have finished it. I should have finished it yesterday, when I still had the chance.

The door creaked open, and I looked up, my heart lurching. But it wasn't Andrew. It wasn't my father. It wasn't anyone coming to tell me they'd found Caleb.

It was a customer. A woman I vaguely recognized from the village. Mrs. Harlow, I thought. She was older, with kind eyes and a gentle smile that faltered when she saw my face.

"Oh, child," she breathed, stepping closer. "What happened to you?"

I touched my cheek instinctively. The bruises had bloomed overnight, purple and black and ugly. My left eye was swollen, my lip still cracked. I'd tried to cover them with makeup, but there was no hiding what my father had done.

"Just a little accident," I said, forcing a smile that I knew didn't reach my eyes. "I tripped. You know how clumsy I am."

Mrs. Harlow's eyes filled with concern. She wasn't fooled. I could see it in the way her brows furrowed, the way her lips pressed together. But she also knew better than to push. Everyone in the village knew about my father. Everyone knew what happened behind closed doors. But no one ever did anything about it.

"Are you alright? Do you need anything? I can…"

"I'm fine," I said quickly. "Really. I'm fine."

She hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. "I came to look at your paintings. I heard you had some new pieces."

I gestured vaguely around the cottage. "Take your time. Whatever you like."

She moved slowly through the space, her eyes lingering on the canvases. I watched her, my mind elsewhere, my fingers tracing the edge of the table. I could still feel the phantom weight of Caleb in my arms, the way his small body had felt so fragile against my chest. I could still hear his sobs, still feel his tears soaking through my dress.

Mrs. Harlow selected three paintings, a landscape, a still life, and a small portrait of a child that wasn't Caleb but could have been. She paid me more than I'd asked, pressing the money into my hands with a gentle squeeze.

"Take care of yourself, child," she said softly. "You're too young to carry so much weight."

I nodded, unable to speak. She left, and I was alone again.

I counted the cash. It was almost enough. Almost enough to pay the debt. But not quite. Nothing was ever quite enough.

I thought about the savings I'd hidden under my mattress. The money I'd been saving for art school. The money I'd dreamed of using to escape this place, to become something more than my father's punching bag.

I touched it yesterday. I'd pulled it out, counted it, and used it to pay the first installment.

It is gone now. All of it. I Andrew came back last night, dejected and defeated. He'd tried to follow the men, but they'd lost him in the dark. He'd apologized over and over, his face crumpled with guilt, and I'd told him it wasn't his fault. It wasn't his burden to carry.

I wanted to reach out to him this morning. I'd reached for my phone, but it wasn't there. I'd searched everywhere, under the table, between the cushions, in my paint-stained pocket but it had disappeared. I was about to put the money away when I noticed someone standing at my door.

Kevin.

He was wearing different clothes today, a simple button-down shirt and dark pants, nothing like the expensive suit he'd been wearing before. He looked almost ordinary, almost like he belonged here. But his eyes were different. They were watching me with an intensity that made my stomach flip.

I turned away instinctively, hiding my bruised face. I didn't want him to see me like this. I didn't want anyone to see me like this.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, my voice sharper than I'd intended.

Kevin stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "I wanted to thank you. For yesterday. For the shirt. For the tea."

I shrugged, still not meeting his eyes. "It was nothing."

"It wasn't nothing." He moved closer, and I could feel his gaze on me, searching. "You dropped your phone when you ran into me yesterday. I picked it up. I was going to bring it back sooner, but..."

I finally looked up, taking the phone he held out. My fingers brushed against his, and I pulled back quickly, like I'd been burned.

"Thank you," I muttered, tucking the phone into my pocket. "I appreciate it."

"I followed you," he said quietly. "I followed you to your house yesterday. I was going to return your phone, and I saw what happened. I saw everything."

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly tight. The memory of yesterday came crashing back, the chaos, the violence, the helplessness. My father's hands on me. The broken stool flying toward my face. The sound of glass shattering.

"You should forget about that," I said, my voice trembling despite my best efforts. "It's none of your business."

"I can help you get your brother back."

The words hung in the air between us, heavy and impossible.

I stared at him, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. My hands were shaking. My whole body was shaking.

"What?" I breathed.

"I can help you get your brother back," he repeated, his voice steady. "Under one condition."