Married For Convenience

The brush moved soft, intentional and alive. I watched the blue bleed into the pale sky on my canvas, and for a moment, the world outside the cottage didn't exist. There was only me and the paint and the quiet rhythm of brush strokes. Grandma used to say painting was organized chaos, that you had to know exactly when to stop forcing and start trusting. I never really understood that until she was gone. The painting was almost finished. I'd been working on it for three weeks, layering colors and textures, trying to capture something sacred. It was the hills behind the cottage, the wild roses climbing the stone walls, the old oak tree where Grandma used to sit and sketch. The light was wrong in my memory, too golden, but I painted it anyway. Some things deserved to be remembered more beautifully than they really were. My hand ached. I'd been at it for hours, the sun sliding from morning to afternoon without me noticing. The cottage was quiet except for the whisper of bristle against canvas and the occasional creak of the old floorboards. This was the only place I could paint without interruption. The only place where the world outside didn't seem to worry me anymore. I set down my brush and stepped back. The woman in the painting was almost done. I'd been working on her for days, layering the skin tones, the shadows beneath her cheekbones, the slight downturn of her lips. She looked like Grandma. She looked like me. She looked like something in between. I exhaled slowly as I flexed my fingers a bit. Three pieces sold today. The woman at the market had bought the painting of the cottage at sunset, the one that made her cry. She'd paid more than I asked, pressing the money into my hands with a whisper, “You have a gift, child." The money was enough to keep us going for a few and enough to buy more supplies and keep my father's creditors at bay for just a little longer. I was so absorbed in my work that I didn't hear the footsteps until a soft knock sounded against the wooden frame. I turned. Andrew was leaning against the doorframe, a familiar, easy smile on his face. He was holding a small package in his hands, and his eyes swept over the painting behind me with genuine appreciation. "Working on something new?" he asked, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. He knew he didn't need one. He'd been the only person who made me feel like I wasn't drowning. "Almost finished," I said, wiping my hands on my paint-stained apron. "You came all the way out here just to bring me paint?" He shrugged, holding out the package. "It was on my way. I was in the village dealing with the suppliers anyway." His eyes drifted to the canvas. "It's beautiful, Carrot. You're getting better." I unwrapped the package carefully, revealing the tubes of pigment I'd been needing. The quality was night and day. I could almost feel the richness just by looking at them. "This is too expensive," I said, frowning. "You shouldn't have." "Consider it an early birthday present." "My birthday is in eight months." "Then consider it a very early birthday present." I couldn't help the smile that crept onto my face. Andrew had a way of making the heaviness in my chest feel just a little lighter. "I have something to ask you," he said, his tone shifting. He was trying to sound casual. "What is it?" "There's a man in town. He's looking for local artisans. He's been scouting for weeks, and I heard he's willing to pay well. A lot more than the market." Andrew paused, watching my reaction. "I mentioned to you and told him about your paintings. He seemed interested." I set the paint down, my smile fading. "I don't want to leave my grandmother's cottage and my little brother unguarded for a mere gig." Andrew sighed, running a hand through his hair. He'd expected this answer. "It's not a 'mere gig,' Carrot. It could be a real opportunity. This man has connections. Resources. He could get your work in front of people who…” "I don't care," I said flatly. "I've been burned before by promises. I'm not putting my family at risk for another one." "You're not putting them at risk by trying something different. You're putting yourself at risk by staying exactly where you are." He moved closer, his voice softer now. "You're talented, Carrot. You could be so much more than this. I just don't want to see you waste it." I looked at him, really looked. There was something in his eyes, a kind of desperate hope that made my chest ache. He believed in me. He always had. But belief didn't pay the debts. It didn't make the world any less terrifying. "I appreciate it," I said quietly. "I do, but I can't leave, not now." Andrew was silent for a long moment. Then he nodded, resigned. He dropped the paint on the table, patted my shoulder gently, and turned toward the door. "I suggest you head back home," he said, his voice heavy. "Gale was throwing a whole lot of tantrums. I think he's drunk again." My stomach dropped, then he was gone. I stood there frozen, the weight of his words pressing down on me. I cursed under my breath, untying my apron in quick, jerky movements. I shoved my hair into a messy bun, grabbed my bag, and locked the cottage door behind me. The cottage that was also my shop. The walk home felt endless. The village was quiet in the late afternoon. Children played in the dust. Women gathered water from the communal well. The air smelled of cooking fires and drying hay. Ordinary life. The kind I'd always wanted but never quite managed to have. My steps quickened as I neared our small house. The yard was empty but the front door was left ajar. My chest tightened. "Caleb?" I called out, my voice echoing. No answer. I rushed forward, pushing the door open, and found my little brother sitting on the front step. His head was down, his shoulders hunched, and his small hands were drawing aimless lines in the dirt. "Caleb?" He looked up. His face was bruised. His left eye swollen nearly shut. A cut on his lip still bleeding sluggishly. Purple-black welts covering his cheek, his forehead and his jaw. My vision went red. "Did he touch you?" My voice sounded strange like it belonged to someone else. Caleb nodded, his face crumpling. The tears came, great, heaving sobs that shook his small body. He launched himself at me, pressing his face into my stomach, and I wrapped my arms around him, pulling him close. I patted his back gently, my mind racing. This was why I couldn't leave. This was why I had to stay. Because if I wasn't here, there would be no one to protect him. "Shh," I murmured, smoothing his hair. "I've got you. I've got you." The door creaked open behind me. "You stupid bitch." I shivered in fear.