The gallery was unfamiliar.
Not Julian's. Not anything tied to her past.
A new space—raw, industrial, still smelling of fresh paint and opportunity.
Amelia stood in the center, Resurrection hanging behind her, commanding the room like a storm held in a frame. Around her, whispers floated. Viewers drifted in slow circles, drawn in by the gravity of the piece. Some tilted their heads, trying to decipher the layers. Others just stared, quiet, unsettled.
She wasn't showing under Julian's name anymore.
She wasn't belonging to anyone anymore.
Daniel stood near the back, dressed in black, watching her not like a protector—but like someone witnessing a woman step into her full weight.
An interviewer approached.
Young. Nervous. Clutching a recorder.
"Ms. Hart," she said, "This piece… it feels like a confrontation. Is it political? Personal?"
Amelia smiled, slow and deliberate.
"It's both," she replied. "It's what happens when a woman reclaims the narrative someone else wrote for her. It's about autonomy. About rebirth. About turning pain into authorship."
The girl blinked, clearly shaken but moved.
Behind her, more flashes from cameras. More murmurs.
The gallery's curator appeared with a red dot—the mark of a sold piece.
"I have a buyer," he whispered. "They offered above asking."
Amelia's eyes stayed on the painting.
"Not for sale," she said.
The curator blinked. "I—I thought this was the point?"
"No," she said calmly. "The point was showing it. Owning it. Not giving it away."
He hesitated, then nodded.
And in that moment, Amelia felt something strange surge through her—not pride, not validation. Something quieter. Stronger.
Rootedness.
After the show, as the crowd thinned, Daniel came to her side.
"You looked like you were breathing fire up there," he said softly.
"I was."
"And now?"
She turned to him.
"Now I'm finally breathing."
Daniel reached for her hand, brushing his fingers against her knuckles like an anchor. "What happens next?"
Amelia looked at Resurrection one more time.
"Whatever I choose."