"Mara! Mara, come look, I've finished it!"
The artist stood, paint-splattered and triumphant and gleeful, in the doorway of his studio, wildly gesturing for the woman in the other room to join him. The studio, and the apartment it was in, were both lovely; an expensive place to live, for certain, but he could afford it. His paintings were the toast of the town, and he had more than enough money to buy whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted.
None of that mattered to Mara, and he knew that was why he loved her.
He'd been completely uninspired until she'd come into his life, and suddenly the world had made sense. He'd seen form and beauty in everything around him, painted it, and sold it all for hundreds of thousands of dollars. He owed her everything, and throughout it all, the only thing that she'd ever demanded of him was that he keep painting.
"The beauty you create is more important than me," She'd insisted one evening, those dark green eyes flat and serious, brooking no arg