Page 57 of Duty Unbound

“Why am I still doing this?” I whispered to my image staring back at me.

The question hung in the air, unanswered. How long was I going to keep doing something I didn’t enjoy just because it was what my mother had wanted so much before she died? The weight of her dream had become my burden, and I’d carried it faithfully—but at what cost?

The truth was, I didn’t know who I was outside of Nova’s world anymore. My entire identity had been shaped around being her support system, her manager, her sister in the shadows. The few moments I felt truly myself were when I was painting—but even that wasn’t because of the act itself, but because ofwhatI painted.

Every landscape, every little house nestled in mountains with children playing outside—they weren’t just scenes. They were mydream. My secret heart’s desire, never articulated to anyone, barely acknowledged, even to myself.

In my heart of hearts, I wanted to be a stay-at-home mom, with a family and a home of my own. A dream so simple, so fundamental, yet so impossible while I was playing super-manager for Nova.

And even if by some miracle I could break free, who would want that life with me? My thoughts slipped to Ethan, to the kiss we’d shared. A man like him—dynamic, driven, commanding—would probably find the idea of a stay-at-home wife laughably quaint.

He made me feel seen, did what he could to make my life easier, but that didn’t equate to true interest. Not the kind that could withstand the reality of who I really was beneath the manager face.

I wasn’t a girl boss. Wasn’t power-hungry. Wasn’t interested in being in charge. I did it all because that’s what was needed.

But it wasn’t what I wanted.

I pushed away from the vanity. I was done for the night. Nova was onstage, the security team was in place, and for once, no one needed me for anything urgent. Thankful this particular concert venue was connected to the hotel, I could slip away to my hotel room, maybe even get a few hours of uninterrupted sleep before tomorrow’s chaos began anew.

The walk to my room was mercifully quick and quiet. I slidthe keycard into the lock, pushed open the door, and stepped inside.

I paused immediately. Something was…different.

My gaze swept the room, landing on a neat arrangement in the sitting area, and I stopped dead in my tracks when I saw it.

Painting supplies.

A compact set of acrylics, fresh brushes, a small portable easel, and a travel case that would make it all packable for the tour.

My breath caught in my throat.

Was this from Nova? A rare moment of thoughtfulness from my sister?

The exhaustion that had been dragging at my limbs all day seemed to wash away, replaced by something light and intoxicating. I dropped my bag, kicked off my shoes, and approached the paints like they were a mirage that might disappear if I moved too quickly.

I sank onto the plush carpet, spreading the paints around me like a lifeline. My phone buzzed from where I’d tossed it onto the bed, but for once, I didn’t even glance at it. Let the world wait.

The blank canvas beckoned. I squeezed out dabs of color—blues and greens, earth tones, hints of yellow for light. My brush moved almost of its own accord, seeking the image that lived in my heart.

I didn’t paint the city lights visible through my hotel window. I didn’t paint the endless highways or arena backstages that had become my reality.

I paintedhome—the dream I barely let myself believe in. The dream I so desperately wanted.

A small house nestled in mountains, surrounded by open green space. A place where children could run without security guards watching every move. A garden in the back, flowers climbing a trellis. A dog sprawled lazily in the sun.

A family. Stability. Love.

The world faded away as I lost myself in brushstrokes, in textures, in the purest expression of myself. Time slipped past in a blur of color. No demands. No schedules. Just this.

With each stroke of the brush, each dab of paint, I felt the tension in my shoulders ease. The headache that had been my constant companion receded. For the first time in weeks, I breathed deeply, fully present in the moment rather than mentally juggling a dozen crises.

I added touches of lavender to the wildflowers in the foreground, blended soft whites into the clouds overhead. The little house took shape beneath my brush—not grand or elaborate, but warm. Welcoming. The kind of place where a family could grow, where memories could be made.

There was joy in this creation, in bringing to life something that existed only in my heart. Something that was mine alone, untouched by Nova’s fame or my mother’s expectations. This vision of home, of the life I secretly yearned for—it was the most honest part of me.

I leaned back, examining my work with a critical eye. It wasn’t perfect—the perspective was slightly off in one corner, and I’d made the mountains perhaps too blue. But it captured the feeling I’d been reaching for—peace, belonging, rootedness.

Everything my current life lacked.

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