Page 10 of Coerced

She smiled brightly at me, but it was my sister who spoke. “I said the same thing, which is why I already brought mine down for Dad to take back to the store tonight.”

“Tonight?”

He nodded. “Yes, Aria. I’m meeting the gentleman back at the store in half an hour.”

They’d already decided. My dad had set up to meet the guy with the paintings without ever discussing it with me first. What would he have done if I’d said I didn’t want to sell the paintings?

“I’ll come with you,” I offered.

Shaking his head, he insisted, “No. No, you stay here. I’ll run them over, get the money transferred, and be back shortly. It’d be a huge help if you could stay here andprepare dinner. I got back and was so excited to share the news with your mom and sister, I didn’t get a chance to cook.”

I wanted to argue.

I wanted to put my foot down and demand that Jasmine cook dinner instead. But she wasn’t much of a cook, so if we wanted something edible and at a reasonable time, it was going to have to be me who made it.

“Of course. Whatever you need, Dad.”

“Thanks, Aria. Now, why don’t you run up and grab the painting while I pull out everything you need to prepare dinner?”

Without another word, I climbed the stairs and walked to my room.

Then I pulled the painting off the wall, stared at it for several long moments in my hands, and finally descended the stairs again, my heart breaking with each step I took.

THREE

Aria

Three Years Later

If anyone had told me that I’d go from the depths of despair from the moment we learned about my mom’s diagnosis until about a year after it to this, I never would have believed them.

Even now, after having lived in this new reality for several years, I still had a difficult time coming to grips with how much things had changed.

And it had happened in such a big way.

To put it plainly, things took off.

Almost immediately after my dad had taken those four original paintings that I’d done for each of my family members as we went through the most difficult time in our lives, there was an interest in more.

Apparently, the paintings sold quickly. They’d barely had any time on display in the New York City gallery before someone snagged them. According to what the artdealer told my father, a single individual bought all four of them. If nothing else, at least I could be happy that a set of paintings, which held such tremendous meaning to me, had remained together.

I had suspected what happened with those pieces was a fluke. Even though I worked on another set—four more paintings had been commissioned—I was a bit skeptical. My belief was that I’d gotten lucky, and the next batch would surely remain for sale for quite some time before anyone purchased even one of them.

Suffice it to say, I’d been wrong.

Because within a week, those paintings were sold.

My mind was blown.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have much time to sit in my disbelief. I figured the best thing I could do for myself and my family was to continue painting with every ounce of spare time I had.

After the third batch of paintings sold and the fourth requested, my father urged me to leave my other job. He wanted me to have the time to focus on painting. And considering I was pulling in substantially more money from my art, it made sense.

My art was a hit.

Now, three years after those first four paintings were bought, I hadn’t quite managed to let that little nugget sink in. I didn’t know what it was—perhaps it was the constant state of forward movement and work—that made it impossible for me to sit back and relish the success in a way I think I might have if life had been different.

Unfortunately, life wasn’t different.