Chiaroscuro Chapter 8

Are Emery's dreams finally within reach?

Dearest Cultured Readers, 

Welcome back to another instalment of Chiaroscuro. Thank you for your patience while I’ve taken a little extra time to circulate this chapter. I’m excited to share more of Emery Steele’s journey as she navigates the emotional and professional challenges ahead of her, and I appreciate your continued support as her story unfolds.

In Chapter 8, Emery finds herself caught in the swirling tension between her art, the looming gallery visit from Rupert and Quentin, and her upcoming meeting with Liv, the mysterious woman she believes to be Olivia Madden. Emery has been painting feverishly, losing track of time as she dives deeper into her work, hoping to find answers buried in the paint. As the early morning light filters into her studio, she receives the long-awaited message from Liv, confirming their meeting. Hopeful yet anxious, Emery knows that Liv could hold the key to unravelling the truth about her mother’s downfall and Cliff Hersain’s role in it.

Amid the whirlwind of emotions, Rupert and Quentin arrive at her studio to assess her new work. Emery is desperate for validation and success, but finds herself feeling numb, detached from the excitement she expected. As Rupert scrutinizes her paintings, Emery’s vulnerability intensifies, wondering if her raw, emotional pieces are enough to secure the gallery representation she’s been dreaming of. The chapter closes with uncertainty—Rupert’s ambiguous reaction leaves Emery questioning whether she can sustain this level of artistic intensity, and if the answers she seeks will bring her the peace she so desperately craves.

Until next time, 

Joey

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Chapter 8

Once she fell into it, time dissolved in the dank garage-cum-studio. Bending and warping around her like the wet paint she spread on her canvas. The birds outside stirred her from her trance, their discordant calls piercing the early dawn stillness. The sun was only starting to flirt with the idea of rising, inching toward the horizon as the summer solstice approached.

The message had come at six in the morning. Her phone sat face down on the floor, buzzing intermittently, finally drawing her attention. She reached for it, her paint-covered fingers leaving streaks of violet and black on the screen. She swiped, and found the message waiting, stark against the dim light of her studio.