A single drop of vermilion slipped from the edge of my brush and splattered onto the floor.
Just a single flick of paint that bled from my brush onto the floor.
I bent to wipe it and knocked over the jar of turpentine with my elbow.
The glass spun, caught the edge of the table, and crashed to the floor in a slow-motion symphony of chaos. I cursed and reached for a rag, but then
The canvas tilted.
And fell.
Right onto the palette tray.
Paint splattered everywhere, across the floor, the table, my legs, my shirt. Ochre, black, cerulean. A dozen colors exploded across my front like war paint.
I stared down at myself.
Then at the mess.
And for some reason, maybe it was the absurdity, or the silence, or the fact that laughter had become a stranger to me, I burst out laughing.
A real laugh. From deep in my chest. Loud, reckless, ugly even.
“Are you dying?” came a voice behind me, dry as ash.
I froze and turned.
Misha stood in the doorway, arms crossed, one brow arched. There was something dangerously close to a smile playing at the edge of his mouth.
“You’re bleeding paint,” he said flatly. “Is this a ritual sacrifice?”
I blinked at him, breathless from laughter. “If it was, it backfired. I’m the one who got sacrificed.”
He stepped into the room, eyes scanning the carnage. “I gave you a studio. You turned it into a crime scene.”
I wiped a streak of crimson from my cheek with the back of my hand, which only made it worse. “Some people work with inspiration. I work with chaos.”
“No argument there.” He bent down, picked up a shard of glass with two fingers, and dropped it into the trash. “You’re lucky you didn’t set the place on fire.”
“Give it time,” I said sweetly. “It’s only my second day.”
He made a sound—half-scoff, half-laugh—and moved to the sink, grabbing a towel and tossing it to me.
I caught it midair. “Thanks, Mom.”
“You’re welcome, gremlin.”
I grinned and wiped my face. “You know, this was almost a good painting. Before I ruined it with a palette dive.”
Misha stepped over to the easel and studied it, head tilted. “I’ve seen worse. In museums.”
“You’re lying.”
“Of course. But it’s the thought that counts.”
I rolled my eyes and turned back to the canvas, a smile tugging at my lips even as my chest twisted.
Because I knew what today was.
