Chapter 3. Resistance

Sienna

I sat cross-legged on the floor, spreading the black paint across the woman’s face with my hand. Then, with careful precision, I added flower patterns in shades of gray and white. The contrast brought her face to life, the flowers giving it an ethereal quality. I layered the petals, smoothing them, adding depth—one layer, then another, and another.

Ruined Daisy.

The name for the piece struck me like lightning, clear and undeniable. I whispered it aloud, testing the sound of it. Yes, Ruined Daisy.

I’d been struggling to name this portrait for weeks. I’d even talked to Ryatt about it, though that conversation had gone nowhere. To be fair, Ryatt never showed much interest in my work anymore. He’d stopped coming to exhibitions entirely, though he used to attend when we first got together. Maybe he found art boring—some people did. And I couldn’t really blame him for that.

As I worked, the buzz of an incoming video call pulled me from my though