The canvas stood in the corner, wrapped in muslin, heavy with the weight of what it represented—grief, rage, and submission. Julian had stolen it from her space, her sanctuary, and tried to deliver it like a gift.
It wasn't a gift.
It was a claim.
That night, Amelia sat across from it, knees tucked beneath her on the studio floor, Daniel nearby but silent. A glass of red wine in her hand, her eyes fixed on the linen like it might blink first.
Finally, she moved.
She pulled back the fabric slowly, like peeling off skin.
The painting glared back. It was rough, raw, the strokes jagged and angry—her own work, but made in a state that no longer felt like her. A woman bent backward, caught in chains of gold and light, eyes wide but empty. Powerful, but trapped. Beautiful, but broken.
Amelia let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
"I remember when I painted this," she said softly. "It felt like survival. But now... it just looks like surrender."
Daniel stepped closer, kneeling beside her.
"So reclaim it."
She looked at him.
"Destroy it?"
"Transform it," he said. "It's yours. It always was."
And that was the moment something shifted.
Amelia stood. She didn't think. She moved on instinct—reaching for gesso, thick and white, dipping her wide brush into the paste. Without hesitation, she dragged it across the canvas.
One stroke. Then another.
She didn't erase the woman—she buried her, layered over the chains with thick, bold texture. A new story. A new skin. She worked late into the night, Daniel watching her the way he always did—not like a man waiting to be invited in, but one holding the door open.
By dawn, the painting had changed.
The figure was still feminine—but now standing upright. No more chains. No more vacancy in the eyes. The light behind her wasn't trapping her anymore. It was hers.
Amelia stepped back, breathing hard. Her hands and arms were covered in white, charcoal, and crimson.
Daniel came to her side.
"You named it?" he asked quietly.
She looked at the finished piece.
"Resurrection."