After I Threw Away My Sketchbook, I Became the Gallery Star Chapter 05

After I Threw Away My Sketchbook, I Became the Gallery Star Chapter 05

The train raced along the tracks, blurring every stretch of landscape outside the passenger window into smudged streaks of color.

A bank alert popped up on my phone screen.

[Notification: Your personal checking account has been permanently closed.]

This was the separate bank account I’d opened independently with my part-time art income, all its funds transferred to a brand-new account I’d set up earlier that week.

The family-linked bank card I’d abandoned on the table had already been fully unlinked from every payment app.

My new city sat twelve hundred kilometers south of the old town. The air carried soft, damp coastal humidity, no thick cloying turpentine fumes hanging heavy everywhere.

I dragged my suitcase out of the station exit and drew in a deep, unburdened breath.

Starting today, I was only Rachel Wright. Not anyone’s event coordinator, not anyone’s lesser shadow.

Ten p.m. at the Wright household, Mom and Dad dragged themselves through the front door, carrying the exhaustion and quiet glory of Catherine’s successful exhibition opening.

“Cathy delivered such a flawless artist talk today; she handled all the press cameras with perfect composure,” Dad said while kicking off his dress shoes.

“Naturally—she learned everything from me.” A rare genuine smile tugged at Mom’s lips.

Catherine balanced an armful of fan gifts and pouted slightly. “But Rachel never showed up. Do you think she’s mad at me?”

“Pay her no mind.” Mom hung her wool blazer on the coat rack. “She’s only throwing a childish tantrum to grab attention. Ignoring her outburst is the best disciplinary measure. She’ll come crawling back to apologize once she cools off.”

The living room fell unnervingly silent. No pre-poured glasses of room-temperature water, no pre-cut fruit platters waiting on the table, like there always had been before.

Dad frowned, scanning the empty space. “Rachel? Rachel!”

No reply echoed through the house.

He wandered down to my old bedroom, then returned to the foyer confused. “Probably hiding down in the basement painting again. How thoughtless—she can’t even remember to leave a light on for the rest of us.”

Mom crossed to the table to set down her car keys, and her movement froze mid-step. Centered perfectly on the tabletop lay my bank card and full set of house keys, lined up neatly side by side.

“Mason, come look at this.” Mom pushed her glasses higher on her nose.

Dad stepped over and lifted the key ring in his palm. “She left the front gate pass and spare house keys here—what’s this supposed to mean?”

“That’s the bank card we deposit her monthly allowance into.” Mom’s tone stayed clinical, but her brows pinched tight with unease. “This is her childish way of staging a protest, a completely immature coping mechanism for her negative emotions.”

“Running away from home?” Dad let out a scoff. “She doesn’t even have three hundred dollars to her name in cash. We’ll cut off every secondary card linked to her; she’ll come begging back in a few days once she can’t afford meals.”

“I already deactivated all her linked accounts.” Mom sank onto the sofa. “This extreme outburst needs to be firmly corrected, or she’ll never learn how to regulate her emotions in professional adult environments. We’re teaching her accountability here.”

Catherine wandered over to peer at the abandoned keys and card. “Mom, Dad… do you think Rachel doesn’t want to live with us anymore?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Dad ruffled her hair gently. “She’s just stubborn and staying with a classmate for a couple nights. You’ve had a long day entertaining reporters—go wash up and get ready for bed.”

Catherine nodded obediently and retreated to her bedroom.

Day two passed, then day three. I never returned to the house.

The kitchen trash bin overflowed, unemptied. Catherine’s paintbrushes piled up unwashed in the studio sink. Mom hunted everywhere for her favorite silk blazer one morning, only to find it crumpled and unironed in the laundry hamper.

“When is Rachel coming back?” Mom stood staring at the broken washing machine, a flicker of rare irritation breaking through her usual collected demeanor. “The house cleaner isn’t scheduled to arrive until tomorrow—am I supposed to handle all this menial labor myself?”

Dad sat at the dining table picking at a takeout sandwich, his expression darkening with frustration. “I tried calling her yesterday.”

“Did she answer?”

“The line’s disconnected.” Dad set down his coffee mug sharply. “She canceled her cell phone number entirely.”

Mom’s hands stilled mid-fold. “Canceled her line?”

“Not only that—I checked her university student records this morning. She never requested to delay graduation. She submitted formal paperwork to drop out entirely.”

Mom spun around to face him, voice sharp with shock. “Drop out? Who authorized that decision? It completely derails the career trajectory we mapped out for her!”

“Her academic advisor said she signed all the paperwork calmly, no yelling, no hesitation at all.” A faint, unfamiliar panic seeped into Dad’s voice. “Callista… I don’t think she’s just throwing a fit anymore.”