Time, like paint on a brush, blends and flows across the canvas, and in the blink of an eye, a year had passed. This year, like a stretched canvas, was tense and full, eventually revealing a picture I had never dared to imagine.

At my graduation ceremony, Damian sat in the audience, not in the front-row VIP seats but among ordinary parents. When the principal called my name and announced that I had graduated with highest honors, I saw him stand up and clap vigorously. Those black eyes, which had once only revealed calculation and cold possession, were now filled with unreserved and pure pride. That pride was for me, only for me, Isabella Rossi, and not for any of the subordinates under his protection.


Three months later, my first solo exhibition, "Birth," opened at an avant-garde yet low-key gallery in Soho. I declined Damian's suggestion to use his connections to secure a spot in one of the top commercial galleries. I told him that what I wanted was not a feast packaged by capital, but a genuine dialogue with art. He remained silent for a long time, and in the end, he simply looked at me deeply and said, "Alright, as you wish."

On the day of the opening ceremony, the gallery was packed with people. Among them were my classmates, Professor Finch—who looked a bit older but whose eyes reignited with that familiar spark of passion for art when he saw my work—and many top art critics and collectors I had only ever seen in magazines. Damian arrived, dressed in an understated dark gray suit, standing quietly in the corner of the crowd like an ordinary visitor. He didn't greet me or try to steal the spotlight, but simply looked at my paintings one by one with those deep eyes of his, taking in each piece with earnest attention.

My "Genesis" series documents my entire journey from hell to the mortal world. There are the twisted female bodies struggling in the darkness on the canvas, which represent me burdened with the shame and self-loathing of financial transactions; there is the lonely silhouette gazing at the free sky through a window in a cold mansion; there are scenes filled with blood and tears, depicting the pangs of labor and the cries of a newborn; and finally, there is a work titled "Dawn"—a naked woman standing on a stretch of ruins, her body still bearing scars, but in her arms, she tightly holds a peacefully sleeping baby, while a ray of golden sunlight spills through a crack in the sky, illuminating the serene face of the infant.


A white-haired, notoriously harsh art critic stood in front of the painting titled "Dawn" for a long time without speaking. Finally, he turned to the reporter beside him and said, "It's been a long time since I've seen a work so filled with raw vitality. Her technique may still need refinement, but her soul is complete and utterly honest. She is not depicting pain; she is depicting the light that pierces through the pain. A true artist has been born."

At that moment, all the spotlights were on me. I stood in the center of the crowd, listening to the praise and congratulations around me, yet my heart remained calm. I searched for Damian's figure, and at the edge of the crowd, I saw him. He was looking at me, his eyes devoid of the delight of a victor, only a gentle reassurance, as if saying, "You see, you did it." Between us was a sea of bustling people, but our gazes met in the air. At that moment, the world fell silent. I knew I had won—not over him, but over myself.


The art exhibition was a great success. All the works were sold out within three days, and the buyers didn’t even know that the name Blackwood had any connection to the exhibition. Using the old set of paintbrushes my father left me, I reclaimed the dignity of an artist—for myself and for him. I donated the largest portion of the earnings anonymously to my alma mater, establishing the "Rosie Scholarship" dedicated to supporting impoverished art students.

That once cold, domineering Damian Blackwood, who saw the world as a chessboard, also spent this year clumsily learning a brand new role. He was no longer the emperor accustomed to issuing commands, but a man striving to learn how to love and how to give— a father.

I will never forget the night our son, Leo, was born. When the nurse placed the tiny, wrinkled bundle in front of him, the man who controlled the global economic lifeline reached out with hands that trembled slightly. With an almost sacred and cautious gesture, he took hold of that small life. Leo suddenly let out a loud cry in his arms, and Damian froze instantly, his face displaying unprecedented panic and helplessness. He looked at me like a child who had done something wrong.

“What’s… what’s wrong with him? Did I hurt him?”

I couldn't help but laugh at his appearance. This man, who could make Wall Street tremble, was now completely defeated by a baby's cries. From that day on, his life included a task more important than signing billion-dollar contracts—learning how to be a father.

He would clumsily change Leo's diapers, often putting them on backward, leaving both himself and the baby in a mess. He would be woken up by Leo's cries in the middle of the night, insisting on getting up to prepare the milk formula himself, only to be scolded by me for getting the water temperature wrong. He would decline all unnecessary social engagements just to hold Leo in the garden and watch the sunset in the evening.

The directors of the Blackwood Group could probably never imagine that their chairman, during an important cross-border video conference, would immediately say, "Meeting adjourned for ten minutes," and rush out of the study upon hearing a cough from the baby’s room. I once secretly watched as his tall figure awkwardly cradled little Leo, gently patting his back, humming a disjointed yet oddly tender lullaby in the most uncomfortable, soft tone. That scene moved me more deeply than any famous painting I had ever seen.

He kept his promise. When I immersed myself in creative work, he would be the quietest guardian. He would prepare warm water and snacks, placing them by my side, and then sit on the sofa not far away, handling his documents or quietly watching me. He never disturbed me, nor did he ever comment on my work. His mere presence provided me with an incredibly reassuring creative environment.

Sometimes, I would paint late into the night, and he would stay with me until the late hours. When I put down my paintbrush and turned around, I would always see him look up and give me a gentle smile. He would walk over, wrap his arms around me from behind, rest his chin lightly on my shoulder, gaze at the canvas, and then whisper in my ear, "Tired? My artist."

"My artist," that was how he addressed me. Not "my darling," not "my woman," but "my artist." This title contained all his respect and affection.

Our relationship entered a completely new and unprecedented phase for me. The passion did not fade due to the trivialities of life; instead, it became even more intense and lingering because of this profound understanding and respect.

He would explore my body as if it were a rare treasure, every touch filled with inquiry and reverence. He liked to embrace me from behind while I painted, his warm lips trailing down my neck, kissing the butterfly bone. His heavy breath sprayed behind my ear as he asked in a low voice, "May I? My artist... Would you be willing to burn for me alone today?"

My body always reacted faster than my reason. When his strong hands, with calloused fingertips, gently glided over my skin that carried the scent of turpentine, a familiar, thrilling current would instantly spread through my limbs. I would put down the brush, turn around, and meet his dark eyes burning with deep desire.

"Damian..." I lifted my head, actively kissing his lips, swallowing all his questions into the depths of my being.

He would be like a released beast, yet with a strange tenderness, picking me up and pressing me onto the wide, soft-blanketed sofa in the studio. He would strip off my clothes, admiring my body illuminated by the sky light with a nearly worshipful gaze.

"You are so beautiful, Bella," he would murmur repeatedly in my ear, his voice hoarse and seductive, "more beautiful than any painting you've ever made."

His kiss, wild yet tender, carried an undeniable possession while cautiously cherishing my feelings. His large, scorching body enveloped me, and the weight was no longer oppressive but a comforting embrace. I could clearly feel the strength of his tensed muscles and the intense beating of his heart. When he finally entered me, we both let out a satisfied sigh. He was no longer the reckless dominator who only cared about himself; he had learned to wait, to guide, and to climb the peak of desire together with me.

He would look into my eyes, whisper the most explicit praises in my ear, telling me how much he loved and needed me. He would demand that I look at him, feel him, and call out his name over and over again. In the height of ecstasy, I saw a Damian who had shed all pretense, a real Damian. He was no longer that lofty god; he was a man, a man of flesh and blood who loved me. Every union was like a dance of souls, where we faced each other with complete honesty, offering our most vulnerable and authentic selves to one another without reservation.

Today, the final scene of the story unfolds here.

This is a private studio in the suburbs of New York, a formal wedding gift from Damian to me. It was built entirely according to my dreams, with massive floor-to-ceiling windows that allow sunlight to flood in unobstructed, illuminating every corner of the studio. The interior has no unnecessary decorations, only tall green plants, artfully arranged bookshelves, and my scattered easels and canvases. The air is filled with a comforting mix of turpentine, earth, and greenery.

Holding our nearly one-year-old son Leo, I stand in front of a nearly completed large painting. Leo looks more like Damian, with the same deep black eyes, but now he’s grinning at me toothlessly, making "giggling" sounds.

This little life in my arms is warm and soft—he is my vulnerability and my armor.

The painting before me is the final punctuation mark in my "Birth" series. Its size surpasses any of the previous works. In the image, a woman tightly embraces a newborn amidst mottled ruins. Her body is scarred, yet her gaze is unwavering and serene. A beam of intense light penetrates the layers of broken walls from the top of the canvas, precisely illuminating the mother and child, forming a sacred halo. The name of this painting has long been decided—it will be called "The Sovereign."

A pair of strong arms encircled Leo and me from behind, drawing both mother and child into a warm, solid embrace. I didn’t need to look back to know it was Damian. His familiar scent of cedar enveloped me, his chin resting gently on my shoulder as we gazed together at the painting before us.

"Beautiful," his deep voice rang in my ear, tinged with a hint of wonder. "Is this how you see us?"

I smiled, gently patted Leo's little bottom, then turned my head to meet his tender and affectionate gaze. "No," I said, "This is how I see myself."

Damian paused for a moment, then smiled as well. He lowered his head, placing a soft kiss on my temple, and then kissed Leo's chubby cheek. In his eyes, there was no trace of displeasure, only deeper understanding and love.

"Yes," he gazed at me, his black eyes clearly reflecting the figures of Leo and me, as if we were his entire world. "You, Isabella Rossi Blackwood, you never belong to anyone. You belong only to yourself."

The sunlight streamed through the grand floor-to-ceiling windows, casting the shadows of the three of us long and stretched across the floor of the studio, warmly imprinted on the ground. I held the giggling child in my arms, leaning against the man I deeply loved, gazing at the painting before me that represented my entire past and future.

I turned back and gave him a heartfelt, radiant smile.

Yes, I am Damian Blackwood's wife, the nominal mistress of the Blackwood Group, but I am more than that. I am Isabella Rossi. An artist, a mother, and the sole master of my own life.