For the first time in ten years, the weight in my chest was gone.

I reached the old brick building where my studio was located.

I climbed the narrow wooden stairs, the smell of turpentine and old wood greeting me as I unlocked the door.

I turned on the overhead lights.

The large canvas I had been working on sat on the easel, unfinished.

It was a painting of the lake, grey and wild under a stormy sky, but with a thin line of yellow light on the horizon.

I set my bag on the floor and walked over to the window.

Below, the elevated train rumbled past, its metal wheels shrieking against the tracks.

I looked at my hands, stained with faint traces of blue paint from the day before.

They were the hands of an artist, not a socialite.

I sat down at my small wooden desk and pulled out my phone.

I dialed the number for my attorney, Mr. Vance.

“Emily,” he said, answering on the second ring. “Did Clara find you?”

“Yes,” I said. “The papers are signed.”