Publication date: August 26th 2026
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Thriller, Women’s Fiction
What if the life you fight to save is the life that keeps you from becoming free?
It is 2001, and renowned artist Isabella unveils a triumphant solo exhibition at Boston’s prestigious modern art gallery. While critics have hailed her talent for creating spectacular color-saturated canvases, her career, marriage, and finances are crumbling.
Determined to save her family’s historical house by the sea as well as her psychiatrist husband’s reputation during his court trial in Europe, Isabella must somehow care for her daughter without a steady income. After she demands that her former lover, Angel, support her passion project, Isabella promises him one night in return. Restoring the house and obtaining financing are both part of the project. This depends on tracking down her missing best friend, Nina, whom she had put forward to a wealthy sponsor for adapting his memoir into a novel.
Now trapped in a love triangle and a deepening financial crisis, Isabella must find a way forward as the conflict between love, legacy, and survival compels her to question her deepest beliefs while her reputation hangs in the balance.
Thirty Grains of Love is the tale of long-time friends who must piece together their broken personal lives while pursuing their dreams, defining their identities, and experiencing authentic love for the very first time. Set against the backdrop of history and generational echoes of secrecy and social limitations, it explores the route to happiness and its price across four marriage models—trad wife, double career, open relationship, and unequal income.
An uplifting story with a dual timeline showing that the hardest yet most rewarding decision in midlife is to embrace one’s true self.
Excerpt
ISABELLA
The Exhibition
Boston 2001
Here I am on another continent, living my dream—a dream I had forgotten and now need to save. Beau Isabella conquered the art world—only to lose everything she ever had. What a deal. And what a mess. Me, as usual, but this time it's for real.
People are gathering outside the exhibit at NAGA, Boston's prestigious modern art gallery, welcoming the snowflakes on their faces and eager to get in. Above the entrance hangs a banner adorned with vibrant, shimmering purple letters: ISABELLA. I picture the stars skating far above, poised to illuminate the city in pristine white once the clouds clear.
I wish I fit in here. I wish I were free.
My first exhibition in North America. Pressure, a heavy weight, mingles with pride. TV reporters speaking at the entrance about explosions of color, enchanted faces, and innovative art. Behind them, a poster depicts my auburn hair and pale shoulders as I turn around in a sweeping movement. The New York Times featured an extensive review last week, and I keep rereading my favorite part:
It is hard to believe that Boston discovered this incredible talent first. Visitors say they haven't experienced colors like this since the Impressionist era. Isabella's compositions spark countless interpretations; the public and the critics have fallen in love with her.
I hope I can keep the palette bright if Nina is still missing. I need her for my project, and I need her as a friend. She always finds the right words. And then Lucy's school bills arrive, as punctual as a Japanese train. How could Chris be so sure we can afford it all?
Yesterday was different. I stood near the gallery entrance in my burgundy evening dress, trying to appear both graceful and casual amid the camera flashes—I'm not ready for celebrity just yet. My gallery partner, Alicia, took me aside to meet another journalist.
Meanwhile, I handled the press questions with ease. They've become routine, even on television. I only make them put on more rouge to hide how pale my skin is from no sleep and daily exhaustion. Some journalists worship me and submit to my presence just to serve the public—even if they haven't seen my work. Others are looking for a juicy detail that might make me more intriguing, trying to chip away at my "art goddess" halo.
Still, this time, a humble man from a local magazine, at first distracted and absorbed in his notes, brought me out of my shell with his last question:
"How has your talent remained, even after you ignored it for decades? Is there someone in the family from whom you inherited this gift?"
I took a deep breath. The walls started moving, like each time I tried to approach the tripod hiding in a corner at home. We had long sacrificed the atelier. Feeling miserable for not having painted in years, I didn't need a gray-suited journalist to remind me of that. I'm thirty-eight, not retired. And it's a question I never answer in public. So, despite the subtle provocation, I responded with a smile.
"It's not as if I completely ignored it—books with my illustrations flew off the shelves like hotcakes. I enjoy children's books the most because they encourage kids to give wings to their imagination before they can read longer texts. The most important thing in life is to touch someone with what you do. If you give somebody a lesson, valuable advice, a beautiful song, or a new life, then you've been present in this world." I shook my head, letting my earrings swing, to give him a sign that the interview was over.
After that, I enjoyed the peacefulness of my natural surroundings—an exhibition hall filled with paintings and new ideas. I knew I had one last chance to preserve it all, but it felt good not to think about reality for a while. After all, Nina must still be alive—she left of her own free will—and for the time being, I somehow serve my debt and Chris' lawyers' bills. If only he could silence the media… What was his psychiatrist's training for? He employed the wrong assistant, and now she is destroying his reputation.
However, you need a free heart to create, so instead of diving into accounting, I keep dreaming of restoring the seaside villa. An art object, it would be my perfect retreat.
It was a pleasant surprise when the next visitor entered the room. Maybe he could contribute to achieving my dream. Angel's height and wavy dark hair seized everyone's attention. He surveyed the space like a panther, searching for a suitable place to start. I bounded over to him.
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