Chapter 1

Elizabeth

Light streams through the dusty windows of my studio, catching the dust motes that dance in the air. I sit cross-legged on my paint-splattered floor, surrounded by a forest of canvases—some leaning against the walls, others propped on easels, all in various states of completion. My latest series explodes with cobalt blues bleeding into fiery oranges, reflecting the tumultuous emotions I've been riding these past few months.

"Not quite right," I mutter, tilting my head at the canvas before me. The center lacks something—that indefinable spark that separates good art from great art. That spark that gets you noticed in this city.

I reach for my palette knife, scraping away at a section that feels too controlled, too safe. The paint curls away from the canvas like skin peeling after a sunburn. Better to start fresh than to keep something mediocre.

My phone buzzes somewhere beneath a stack of art magazines. I ignore it. Probably Mom checking if I've eaten today. Or my sister reminding me about a new fashion trend. Or worse—the gallery calling to reschedule my meeting. Again.

The thought sends a fresh wave of anxiety through my chest. I glance around my studio—this tiny, overpriced Brooklyn space that swallows half my income from the graphic design gig that pays my bills while my true work sits unsold, unseen, unappreciated.

"C'mon, Elizabeth," I tell myself, running my fingers through my curls, leaving behind a streak of ultramarine that'll take three washes to remove. The evidence of my obsession is everywhere—paint under my fingernails, splattered across my overalls, even embedded in the spiral of my hair.

My brushes lie scattered across every surface like casualties on a battlefield. Some stand upright in murky jars of water turned the color of sewage. Others lie abandoned, their bristles hardened with forgotten paint—a cardinal sin for any artist serious about their tools. But organization has always taken a backseat to creation in my world.

I crawl across the floor to retrieve a specific brush—my favorite sable that cost a week's worth of lunches—from where it's fallen between canvases. My knees press against dried paint splatters from previous frenzies of inspiration.

"You need to get it together," I whisper to myself, surveying the chaos. My space mirrors my mind—bursts of vibrant color interrupted by blank spaces of doubt. Half-finished ideas fighting for attention. Potential without follow-through.

New York doesn't care about potential. New York only cares about what you've done, who you know, and what gallery has your name in their roster.

I push myself up and walk to the window, wiping a clean streak through the dust with my thumb. Seven stories below, the city pulses with its relentless energy. People move with purpose. They have places to be, people waiting for them. Success stories in progress.

What do I have? A collection of paintings no one has seen. A folder of rejection emails from galleries across Manhattan. And this gnawing, desperate hunger to make my mark before I'm forced to admit defeat and return to Massachusetts with my tail between my legs.

I turn back to face my work. In the afternoon light, the colors look different—more alive than I remembered. Despite everything, pride stirs in my chest. These pieces came from me. They might not be perfect, but they're honest. They're mine.

My phone buzzes again. This time I dig it out.

Eighteen notifications. Half from my family group chat. The rest from the art community forum where I've been following a thread about an upcoming showcase for emerging artists.

For a moment, hope flickers. Maybe someone mentioned my work. Maybe someone important saw my portfolio online.

The hope dies as quickly as it bloomed. The notifications are just likes on a comment I left yesterday about application deadlines.

I toss the phone onto my ratty couch and stretch my arms overhead, feeling the pleasant ache of muscles that have been still too long. The self-doubt creeps in—that familiar demon that whispers I'm not good enough, that I never will be, that this city chews up dreamers like me every day and spits them out without a second thought.

"Shut up," I say out loud to the empty room, to the demon, to myself. "Just shut up and paint."

I grab a fresh brush, sharpen my focus, and return to the canvas. My doubt can wait. The city can wait. Right now, there's only this moment, this color, this chance to create something that might—just might—be extraordinary enough to make New York City learn my name.

As I swirl cobalt into a hint of cadmium red, creating a vibrant purple that reminds me of twilight, my mind drifts back to last spring. The memory hits me with such clarity it might as well be happening all over again.

The Kessler Gallery. The crown jewel of the art district. Walking through those gleaming glass doors felt like entering a cathedral—a sacred space where careers were made and artists transformed from nobodies into somebodies overnight.

I'd worn my one good dress, black with tiny white dots, and my aunt's vintage leather jacket. Professional but still me. My portfolio trembled in my sweaty hands as I approached the front desk, where a woman with geometric glasses and razor-sharp cheekbones looked up with practiced indifference.

"I have an appointment with Marcus Kessler," I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

Twenty minutes later, I sat across from Kessler himself—salt-and-pepper beard, tortoiseshell glasses, reputation for discovering the next big thing in contemporary art. The man who could change everything with a single nod.

He flipped through my portfolio with clinical efficiency. No reaction. No emotion. Just the methodical turning of pages containing pieces of my soul.

"Your technical skill is evident, Ms. Myers," he finally said, closing my portfolio with a quiet finality that made my stomach drop. "But I'm not seeing anything... necessary here."

Necessary. The word cut through me like a knife.

"What do you mean?" I asked, my voice smaller than I'd intended.

"Art should be unavoidable. It should make demands. It should force the viewer to confront something." He slid the portfolio back across his minimalist desk. "These are pleasant. Skilled. But they don't demand anything from me."

I'd nodded, thanked him, somehow made it out of the building before the tears came. Six blocks I walked in a daze before collapsing onto a bench in a tiny park, sobbing while businesspeople on lunch breaks pretended not to notice.

Not necessary. A year later, those words still haunt me.

I jab my brush into the canvas now, channeling that rejection into a forceful stroke that cuts across my planned composition. The result is jarring—a lightning bolt of pain across an otherwise harmonious sky.

"Shit." I step back, assessing the damage.

But it's not damage at all. It's... exactly what the piece needed. That conflict, that disruption of beauty. That rawness I've been trying to hide.

My gaze drifts to the largest canvas in my studio—four feet by five feet of organized chaos that I've been working on for months. I call it "Becoming" in my head, though I haven't titled it officially. Layers upon layers of paint—some thick and textural, others thin and ghostly. Parts scraped away to reveal what's underneath, like archaeological excavation of my own process.

I approach it slowly, brush still in hand. This piece contains everything—my hope when I first moved to New York, my fear of failure, my stubborn refusal to give up. It's the most honest thing I've ever created, which is precisely why I can't seem to finish it.

What if I pour everything into this canvas and it's still not enough? Not necessary?

The setting sun streams through my windows now, casting everything in amber light. My white walls glow golden. The dust motes become flecks of shimmering possibility. My canvas transforms in this magic hour—shadows deepening, highlights gleaming with unexpected warmth.

"I'll make you see me," I whisper to the canvas, to New York, to Kessler, to everyone who's ever doubted. "I'll make you all see me."

The thought of Leyla suddenly pops into my mind. My best friend since college—the ultimate Manhattan socialite with connections in every industry that matters. Her father, Andrew Walton, collects art the way some people collect vintage wines or sports memorabilia. His annual charity auction is legendary in certain circles.

I could ask her for an introduction. A word in her father's ear. A shortcut past all these closed doors.

I shake my head, dismissing the thought as quickly as it came. No. That's not how I want this to happen.

"This has to be about the work," I tell the empty studio, my voice echoing against the paint-spattered walls. "About what I can create, not who I know."

But still, the thought lingers in my mind like a stubborn paint stain that won't wash away. What if? What if Andrew Walton—with his impeccable taste and industry clout—notices my art and recommends me to the museum directors he knows? What if those piercing blue eyes of his see something worth championing in my canvases? What if he can help kickstart my career with just a few powerful words?

It's a far-off dream, I know. The kind that feels almost ridiculous to even consider. But dreaming feels nice, especially when my life has been filled with failures, setbacks, and disappointments. One rejection letter after another. Galleries that won't even look at my portfolio. Maybe I'm being stubborn. Maybe I need a little boost to get where I want—just enough to get my foot in the door before my talent does the rest.