My Mr. Artist

Chapter 7

Early winter morning. Red hues of sunrise painted the sky, the cold breeze cutting through the silent, lonely highway. Only one or two cars moved along the road, and a high-speed black Mercedes weaved smoothly among them. Inside, two men in their late twenties sat in the back seat, looking tired.

"Why are you going to the office after a long-ass flight?" the man on the right asked, yawning. "You should take a day off after a month abroad, spend some time with your family like a normal person would." He glanced at the man sitting opposite him.

The other person wasn't paying attention, lost in the beauty of the morning sky.

"Saransh," Yuvaan called, raising his voice slightly to snap him out of his daze. "Bro, can you stop spacing out? It's getting annoying. Who knows how my sister-in-law handles you?"

Hearing the word sister-in-law, Saransh's already foul mood worsened. He turned toward Yuvaan, his mother's side cousin, with a frown. Yuvaan had just returned from abroad, and his father had sent him to train under Saransh—a form of torture for both. Saransh was a workaholic; Yuvaan, the exact opposite.

"Aren't you tired? Then sleep. No need to worry about me," Saransh said through gritted teeth, controlling his irritation.

"Sorry, bhai," Yuvaan muttered quickly, closing his eyes to pretend he was asleep. Otherwise, Saransh would drag him to the office as well.

After dropping Yuvaan at his house, Saransh told the driver to take him to his studio apartment near his office. He had been away for a month and had just arrived in City R two hours ago. He didn't want to go to the mansion, filled with people and expectations he now felt uncomfortable around.

Unlocking the door of his apartment—cold, quiet, and empty—he decided on a warm shower and a few hours of sleep before a meeting with Yash for a new project. But as usual, once he lay on the bed, sleep eluded him. His insomnia had worsened over the last three years. He knew the reason but not the solution. Instead, he picked up his paintbrush. It had been a while since he had the time or the mood to paint.

The apartment had been bought by his older brother when Saransh was in high school. Back then, he would live here with Arnav, his childhood friend, as the Awasthi Group headquarters was closer than the mansion. His grandfather had once asked him to learn from his brother, so after school, he would visit the office. Everything changed when he was sent abroad for further studies in the same university his brother had attended.

Now, this apartment felt peaceful, comfortable—more than the mansion ever had. He made his way to the art room he had recently rebuilt and began splashing colors on a blank canvas. Two hours later, he had completed another portrait—one that looked just like her. He stared at his masterpiece, longing in his eyes. For the last three years, he couldn't paint anything except her—the one he loved most, yet left behind after promising forever. Guilt, regret, pain, and anger hit his chest. Shoving thoughts aside, he decided to go to the office, his only escape from the harsh reality.

_

Before lunch, he received an urgent meeting. He informed the receptionist through his secretary to ask Mr. Yash to wait and apologized for being behind schedule. After the meeting, he walked toward the next room, checking his phone along the way. Messages from Arnav, his brother, and lastly, one from his so-called wife appeared. He paused on that single message:

"You're back, right? Will you come home tonight?"

He knew she had sent it after much hesitation, probably under his mother's pressure. Their marriage was forced, not loving. He didn't reply, unsure what to say, and continued walking. His secretary was waiting outside to inform him about the arrival of the architecture team. He nodded and opened the door.