The Artist Who Cheated Death

his hair damp from a shower. He looked exactly as he did in her memories of this time, young, handsome, and wi

e. He rarely d

was flat, an observation, not a question. "

at had played out a thousand times in her first life. He would announce his schedule, she would nod and offer to mak

33, whose heart had been shattered by this very man, looked

voice came out stron

er over his shoulder, a flicker of surprise in his

, Ava? I'm

zarre new reality. "I want to use the back room

his brow furrowed. "A studio

er chin lifting slightly. "It'

this. You don't need to work. Your job is to manage this h

voice dangerously quiet. "You and my moth

was not his quiet, agreeable wife. This was someone els

mething to upset you?" he asked, already looking for someone

bout me," Ava insisted. "I need my own space. I'm

as a defiance, a crack in the per

make sure you don't make a mess, and don't let it interfere with your respon

conversation. The message was clear: you can have y

er as an accessory, not a partner. But she had changed. The old Ava would have been grateful for his permission, for

a museum of a life she no longer wanted. She went straight to the back room. It was filled with old furniture covere

s per

at down, the silence of the room wrapping around her. For the first time since she woke

en he realized she was serious. Her mother would be hysterical. But the fear she wou

e sun move across the floor, planning. She was a painter without paints, an artist without a canvas. Her first step was to reclaim her tools. And then, she would reclaim