Chapter 1

Aaliyah

I wipe my sweaty palm on my skirt before pushing open the heavy glass door to Sapphire Studios. The interior hits me with a blast of cool air and the distinctive scent of clay, paint, and possibility.

"Mommy, it's so big!" Elias tugs at my hand, his eyes wide as saucers as he takes in the expansive white-walled space.

"Remember what we talked about, little man?" I squeeze his hand gently. "Inside voice, and no touching the art without permission."

"I know, I know." He bounces on his toes, barely containing his excitement.

The studio is breathtaking—high ceilings with exposed industrial beams, polished concrete floors, and strategically placed skylights that bathe everything in natural light. Canvases in various stages of completion line the walls, while sculptures dot the open floor space. It's the kind of place I've dreamed of working in since art school.

"Aaliyah Marshall, as I live and breathe!"

I turn at the sound of that familiar voice, and there she is—Katheryn Caldwell, gliding across the room in a paint-splattered jumpsuit. Her locs are piled high on her head, secured with what looks like a repurposed paintbrush, and her smile is exactly as warm as I remember.

"Kathy!" I release Elias's hand for a moment to embrace her. She smells like sandalwood and success.

"Look at you!" She holds me at arm's length, her dark eyes scanning me from head to toe. "Still gorgeous as ever. And who is this handsome young man?"

Elias steps halfway behind my leg, suddenly shy. "This is my son, Elias. Can you say hello to Ms. Katheryn?"

"Hello," he mumbles, peeking around my thigh.

Katheryn crouches down to his level. "Well hello there, Elias. I have a feeling you're going to love it here. We have a special corner just for young artists like you."

His eyes light up. "Really? Do you have clay? I love clay."

"Do we have clay?" Katheryn laughs, the sound echoing through the studio. "We have every kind of clay you could imagine. And paints and markers and all sorts of things to create with."

I squeeze Elias's shoulder. "What do you say?"

"Thank you!" He's bouncing again, excitement overriding his shyness.

"Come on, let me give you the grand tour." Katheryn loops her arm through mine, gesturing broadly with her free hand. "I still can't believe you're actually here. How long has it been? Six years?"

"Seven, almost," I correct, letting her lead us deeper into the studio. "Not since that group show."

"God, that was a disaster! I was just telling Teddy about that the other day."

I smile, the memory pulling a genuine laugh from me. "How is Theodore?"

"Busy as always. The company takes up most of his time, but he's the one who pushed me to open this place." Her expression softens. "He's determined I help other artists the way I wished someone had helped me."

We pass through a section of the studio where several artists are working at stations spaced comfortably apart. Some nod in greeting, others remain lost in their creative worlds.

"This is the communal area," Katheryn explains. "And through here—" she pushes open a set of double doors, "—are the private studios."

The hallway beyond is lined with doors, each bearing a nameplate. She stops in front of one that's blank.

"This one's yours." She produces a key from her pocket with a flourish. "Thirty-five square meters of creative space, north-facing windows, storage for materials."

I take the key from her hand, my fingers trembling slightly as the weight of it settles in my palm. The cool metal represents so much more than just access to a room—it's opportunity, legitimacy, a space to call my own after years of painting at kitchen tables and in cramped corners of rented apartments.

"Katheryn, I can't thank you enough. Seriously, I—"

"Oh, stop." She waves away my gratitude with a flick of her wrist, silver bangles jingling. "Just promise me you'll use the hell out of this space."

"I..." My voice catches. "I can't afford this right now. With Elias's school supplies and rent, I'm barely—"

"Did I mention payment?" Katheryn cocks an eyebrow, her expression daring me to continue this line of protest. "Artists need space to create. You have talent. I have space. It's that simple."

Elias tugs at my skirt. "Can we go inside, Mommy?"

"Just a second, baby." I turn back to Katheryn, lowering my voice. "It's not that simple and you know it. This kind of studio space costs—"

"I want to see artists like you thrive, Aaliyah." Her tone becomes earnest, her eyes holding mine. "Besides, you've got this little man to take care of. Consider it an investment in both your futures."

I glance down at Elias, who's now tracing the outline of a painting on the opposite wall with his finger hovering carefully an inch away from the canvas, adhering to our "no touching" rule. My heart swells with a familiar mixture of pride and responsibility.

"Thank you," I manage, not trusting myself with more words.

Katheryn's face softens. "Go on, check it out. I'll take Mr. Elias here to see the clay station while you get acquainted with your new creative home."

Elias's head whips around. "Clay station?"

"The most awesome clay station in all of New York," Katheryn confirms with exaggerated seriousness. She holds out her hand to him. "Shall we?"

To my surprise, he takes it immediately, all traces of earlier shyness gone. "Can I make a dinosaur?"

"You can make a whole dinosaur family if you want."

I watch them walk away, Elias already chattering about the T-Rex he plans to sculpt. With a deep breath, I slide the key into the lock and push open the door to my studio.

The space steals my breath. Light pours through the large windows, illuminating wooden floors worn smooth by years of artists' footsteps. Built-in shelves line one wall, empty and waiting. A large sink gleams in the corner. And the space—so much space to move, to breathe, to create.

Leaning against the doorframe, I let the reality wash over me. This is mine. For now, at least.

Six years of hustling for freelance gigs, of setting up my easel after Elias goes to bed, of squinting under inadequate lighting in too-small apartments. Six years of being mother, father, provider, protector. Seven years of doing it all alone.

I close my eyes and Colin's face appears unbidden—the way he looked the last time I saw him, confused and hurt as I walked away. What would my life look like now if I'd stayed? If I'd told him about the positive pregnancy test, only days after I decided that we weren't meant to be?

Maybe we'd be in his Manhattan penthouse, Elias growing up with private tutors and hand-tailored clothes. Maybe Colin would have stepped up, defied his own expectations, chosen us. Or maybe not. Maybe I'd still be alone, but with the added weight of rejection.

I brush my fingers across a patch of sunlight on the wall. There's no point in these what-ifs. I made my choice when I got on that bus and left Colin behind. When I decided that raising my child in uncertainty was better than subjecting us both to inevitable heartbreak.

Still, in quiet moments like this, I wonder. Does he ever think of me? Would he recognize himself in Elias's smile, in the determined set of his jaw when he's concentrating?

Or was I only a game to him? A conquest? Someone to keep his bed warm while he planned a future with someone else?

I sigh. There's no use torturing myself like this. Not when I have a mouth to feed and bills to pay.