When my husband won the gold trophy at the painting competition, I rushed into the studio with the pregnancy report I'd hidden for days. But what I saw was my husband entangled on the floor with his young female apprentice.

She was unclothed, her pale skin speckled with various colors of paint. And there was my husband, Bridger Reed, pinning her down, using his paint-covered hands to meticulously "create art."

Bridger insisted they were in the midst of artistic expression. I laughed inwardly. A mediocrity I'd propped up, daring to speak of artistic creation.

Bridger pulled on his pants, irritation etched across his face. "Next time, remember to knock before you come in," he snapped.

The apprentice, Amiri Dixon, seemed flustered—so flustered, in fact, that even after all the time I'd been standing there, she hadn't managed to put on a single piece of clothing. Instead, she picked up a crumpled tissue from the floor and tossed it into the wastebasket.

"Rosemary, don’t overthink it. That was just for cleaning up where the teacher made a mess," she stammered.

I glanced at the chaotic mess they had created on the floor and chuckled coldly. "If not for your reminder, I might have overlooked that insignificant piece of tissue."

"When you first said you wanted to learn painting from my husband, I never imagined you meant every aspect of being a couple too."

What shocked me more was Bridger's reaction when he raised his hand and slapped me. "I told you we were creating art. How dare you wrongfully accuse Amiri like that?"

Amiri...

In five years of marriage, Bridger had never once called me with such familiarity. I raised my hand, intending to return the slap, but he caught my wrist.

Amiri’s eyes shone with triumph. She dressed quickly and left in an instant.

Bridger looked at my reddened cheek, a flicker of regret crossing his face. "Sorry, I didn't mean to hit you that hard," he said, reaching out to touch my cheek. I turned away, avoiding his hand.

He had no patience to continue explaining, and his pride wouldn't let him apologize again. He simply glanced at the report in my hand.

"What's that?" he asked.

I tucked the ultrasound report back into my pocket. "Nothing important," I replied. Bridger Reed no longer deserved to know about the pregnancy.

He could sense something was off with my mood, but that "sorry" was the extent of his generosity toward me. "Rosemary, you're not getting any younger. Stirring up trouble all the time is just pointless."

I laughed to myself, going along with it. "I’ll pretend that I didn’t see anything today."

Bridger, showing rare approval in his eyes, nodded. "You wanted that new necklace from Cartier, right? I'll get it for you."

As soon as Bridger stepped out, I sent a group message to all my friends on WhatsApp. "From now on, if you see any of Bridger Reed's paintings, don't bother with empty praise. Just call it what it is—junk."

Both Bridger and I studied at the London Academy of Fine Arts for college. Right from the beginning, I was acutely aware that as the sole daughter of the Wilson family, I was expected to take over the family business after graduation. Bridger, however, was different. He had an intense passion for art and was determined to turn his hobby into a career. I found this deeply moving and gradually developed a special affection for him.

As the saying goes, "A woman's pursuit of a man is like a soft veil," and sure enough, we quickly became a couple and married right after graduation. While I thrived in the family business, Bridger struggled to find his footing and remained frustrated in his pursuits. My heart couldn't bear seeing him like this, so I secretly funded his art exhibitions, pretending that a wealthy patron had discovered his untapped talent. I invited all my friends to attend and shower him with praise.

Gradually, Bridger transformed from despondent to dedicated, immersing himself in his art once more. At the time, I was moved by my sacrifices, but now I only feel like a fool.

Two months ago, I introduced Amiri Dixon to Bridger as his student. From then on, Bridger spoke to me with growing impatience, and even our time together became rushed and indifferent. Yet, he would spend hours smiling at his phone like a lovestruck teenager.

I sensed something was off in our relationship, but I refused to accept it. I had many conversations with Bridger, and he repeatedly assured me that nothing inappropriate was happening with Amiri. I believed him.

Driven by a desire for security, I decided to stop taking my birth control pills. I hoped that having a child would ground Bridger and prevent him from taking the final step with Amiri. However, today, as I planned to share the news of the pregnancy with him, I personally discovered their infidelity.

Ironically, up until that very moment, Bridger had been lying to me, insisting they were merely working on art together. Clearly, in his eyes, I was easy to deceive.

After warning my friends to stop flattering Bridger, I contacted the Wilson family's lawyer. No matter how heartbroken I was, my rationality prevailed. The Wilson family had too much at stake, and there was no way I’d let an unfaithful man take advantage of any of it.

Just after I hung up, Bridger came back home. "Honey, that necklace is a limited edition. They were sold out, but I got you a similar one. See if you like it."

“I'll look at it later.”

I wasn't about to let a necklace make me forget Bridger's betrayal, nor did I take the gift box he offered. He looked slightly displeased, but I was no longer the woman swayed by his moods, nor would I foolishly try to cheer him up.

I turned away to draw a bath when I received a message from Amiri on WhatsApp: "Can I accept such an expensive piece of jewelry from my mentor?" Attached was a photo of the very designer necklace I had been eyeing.