The Gift
1293 Words
Arwen didn’t leave her room for an entire day.
She told the staff she wasn’t feeling well, told Marcelline she needed rest, and sent Caelum a text about a headache.
All lies.
The truth was she couldn’t face any of them, couldn’t put on the smile and play the part and pretend that everything was perfectly fine when her entire world felt like it was crumbling around her.
She wandered her suite restlessly until she saw them—her art supplies, shoved in the back of the closet when Isolde’s things had taken over.
Arwen pulled out the box and before she could think better of it, she was setting up by the window where the light was best.
She hadn’t painted in weeks, but now she needed it desperately, needed to be herself for just a few hours.
The brush felt right in her hand the moment she picked it up. She started with blues, layering ocean colors and building them up with whites and grays. Hours passed without her noticing. The painting emerged slowly—an abstract piece that was all movement and emotion.
“What are you doing?”
Arwen spun around, nearly dropping her brush. Caelum stood in the doorway, still in his work clothes, tie loosened.
“I knocked several times,” he said. “You didn’t answer, and I started to get worried.”
“I was just painting and lost track of time.”
He moved into the room slowly. “Can I see?”
She stepped aside reluctantly. He studied the canvas without saying anything.
“It’s good,” he said finally.
“It’s not finished.”
“Still good.” He looked at her now instead of the painting. “You told me you hated painting.”
Arwen’s heart skipped. “I... changed.”
“When did you start again?”
“I never really stopped.”
“But you quit art school because you weren’t good enough. That’s what you told me.”
“No, Isolde told you that.” The words slipped out before she could stop them. “I mean, I told you that, but I was wrong about the reasons.”
Caelum went very still, and she could see him processing her slip, filing it away with all the other inconsistencies he’d been noticing. “What were the real reasons?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.” His voice was almost gentle. “Everything about you matters.” He stepped closer. “Even the things you’re trying to hide.”
“I’m not hiding anything.”
“You’re covered in paint after locking yourself in here all day. If that’s not hiding, I don’t know what is.” He paused. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Why did you really marry me?”
“What do you mean? You know why—the merger, our families, all of it.”
“No, not the official story that everyone knows,” he said, his voice dropping even lower. “I’m asking you for the real reason, why did you say yes to this when you so clearly don’t want to be here?”
“I never said I don’t want to be here,” Arwen said. “I’m just struggling with everyone’s expectations.”
“Whose expectations? Mine?”
“Everyone’s. Your mother, my parents, the press. Everyone watching and waiting for me to fail.”
“And painting helps?”
“When I paint, I’m just me. Not performing for anyone.”
Silence fell between them.
“I should let you finish,” Caelum said finally, moving toward the door.
“You don’t have to go.”
“Yes, I do. Before I ask something we would both regret.” He looked back at her. “Because I think the answer would destroy both of us.”
He left.
-----
The next morning, a knock woke her early.
A staff member held an enormous box. “A delivery for you, Mrs. Ravencroft. A courier said it was urgent.”
“From who?”
“He didn’t say.”
Arwen took the box to her bed and opened it. Inside was everything an artist could dream of—professional-grade oil paints, real sable brushes, pristine canvases, all organized in a beautiful wooden case.
At the bottom was a small card. One line in sharp, precise handwriting:
For the woman you are when you’re not performing.
No signature. But she knew that handwriting.
Caelum.
Another knock. “Mr. Ravencroft asked me to tell you the supplies came from Maison d’Art on Fifth Avenue. He said you mentioned loving that shop in an interview.”
An interview? Then she remembered—three years ago, a college magazine piece. She’d mentioned Maison d’Art once, in passing.
And Caelum had found it.
Arwen sat surrounded by paints and brushes and started crying. Not because of the gift, but because Caelum had seen her. Really seen past the performance to something real.
He’d done this without demanding explanations or asking for anything in return.
She picked up the card again and read the note.
He knew she was performing. And instead of confronting her, he’d given her this. A permission to be real.
She spent the day painting with her new supplies. That evening, Caelum knocked on the connecting door.
“Come in,” she said.
He stood there in jeans and a sweater, more relaxed than she’d ever seen him.
“You’re using them,” he said, looking at the canvas.
“You got me the most incredible supplies I’ve ever seen. It would have been rude not to.”
“Are they good?”
“Perfect. I’ve never had paints this nice.”
He moved closer. “What is it?”
“I won’t know until it’s finished.”
“Can I watch you work?” The question was quiet. “I’d like to see you do something you actually love. Is that allowed?”
Arwen’s throat tightened. “Yes.”
He sat by the window. She painted. Hours passed in comfortable silence.
Finally, he spoke. “Why did Isolde hate painting?”
Arwen’s hand went still on the canvas. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I was just wondering why she felt that way when you clearly love it so much.” His eyes were still on the painting.
“I don’t know. She just did.”
“But you love it.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She set down her brush. “Because painting is the only time I feel like myself. Like I’m creating something that’s mine.”
He stood and moved closer. “What if you could paint seriously? Take classes, work with a mentor, build something that’s yours. Would you want that?”
“Why would you offer me that?”
“Because I’m starting to realize I married someone I don’t know. And I’d like to know her. Not the performance.”
“Caelum...”
“You don’t have to answer now. Just think about it.” He moved toward the door. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For letting me watch. For being real for a few hours.” He looked at her. “It’s the most honest thing that’s happened between us.”
He left.
Arwen stood alone with her paints and half-finished canvas and the terrifying realization that she was falling for her husband.
The man she was lying to.
She looked at the note again. That sharp, precise handwriting.
For the woman you are when you’re not performing.
And when he figured that out, what then?
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