The morning light spilled softly across her studio floor, pale gold seeping into the corners where her canvases leaned against the wall. The scent of turpentine and wet paint filled the air — familiar, grounding, safe.
Gigi had spent most of the week painting in silence, letting color speak where words had failed. The peonies from the gallery still stood on her kitchen counter, now beginning to droop, their petals curling inward like secrets too heavy to hold. She hadn’t thrown them out yet.
Maybe she didn’t want to.
Her phone buzzed mid-stroke. The notification was from Isabella.
ISABELLA: Answer your phone, woman. Big news.
Gigi smiled faintly, brushing her paint-smeared hands on an old cloth before picking up. “Morning, Isa.”
“Don’t you morning me,” Isabella’s voice came through,
