Iris's POV

I walked toward the gallery entrance, looking at Luke's paintings one by one.

I'd set this space up myself, staying up through the night. Even though the frames had been empty when I hung them, I'd poured my heart into imagining how Luke would portray me, his mother. That hope had kept me going.

The first painting was a meadow scene.

A woman shielded the sunlight with a parasol, sitting on a picnic blanket, peeling an orange for a child. The boy was laughing, practically tumbling into her arms.

I stopped.

The woman's face wasn't mine.

Instinctively, I reached up and pressed the surgical mask higher against my face. I blinked hard, holding back the tears.

The second painting was a nighttime beach.

Wind swept through the woman's long hair as she held Luke's hand at the water's edge.

Luke gazed up at her with bright, adoring eyes, hugging her leg.

I stared at the ocean in the painting, and alarm shot through me.

Luke could't go to the beach.

Half-blood children born of vampires and humans carried vampiric strength, but in early childhood their condition was highly unstable---prone to fevers, prone to losing control.

I'd been meticulous about controlling Luke's environment. I even scheduled regular cleaning for dust mites. Yet he still got fevers repeatedly.

He hated when I dragged him to the doctor, but as his mother, I couldn't let him take any risks.

The doctor had asked whether Luke had been to environments like the beach. For vampire hybrids, places with too many biological organisms and overwhelming scents could destabilize them, triggering their vampire bloodline prematurely and actually damaging their bodies.

I shook my head every time. Impossible. I never took him to the beach. Even when we went out, I kept him bundled up and away from crowds.

But in the painting, he'd been there. And he looked so happy.

Once, he'd had a fever that wouldn't break all night.

I held him in the emergency room hallway, my clothes soaked through with sweat.

In his delirium, he kept crying out the same words over and over.

"I don't want to go home."

"I don't want Mommy."

At the time, I thought it was the fever talking---just a delirious child in pain. My heart ached for him.

Now I knew the truth.

He just wanted to go back to the "Mommy" in the paintings.

I kept walking.

The third painting was indoors.

A woman sat beside a piano while Luke lay nearby, drawing.

She looked down at him with a gentle smile.

Then I noticed the bracelet on her wrist---a string of rubies.

Pigeon-blood red, the color of flame, matching the woman's eyes exactly.

I'd only ever seen that caliber of jewelry on the wrists of my gallery clients.

A bracelet like that was worth a decade of my income when I was young.

My throat went dry.

Lucien had told me many times that he wasn't the kind of vampire who lived off inherited wealth. Everything he had, he'd earned through his company. All his capital was tied up in projects and couldn't be touched, so he needed me to keep our household frugal.

So I never asked for anything extravagant.

The most expensive dress in my closet was one I'd bought before the wedding. After the marriage, I barely bought new clothes, spending the household allowance entirely on him and Luke.

Until the year my father got sick.

The medical bills piled up into a mountain. We couldn't make ends meet, and I had no choice but to ask Lucien for money.

He was silent for a long time before finally saying: "I really don't have any available funds right now."

He looked at me, and I suddenly remembered the way his vampire friends had looked at me at our wedding.

A human marrying a vampire---it was only ever about money and immortality.

Even though none of them had said it aloud, I could imagine what they whispered behind my back.

I didn't want Lucien to doubt my love. I'd never asked him for money. After giving birth, my health had suffered, but I'd never brought up being turned, either.

I said nothing. I went back to our room and opened the cabinet.

Inside was the painting I'd treasured most from my youth.

One of the pieces from my very first gallery exhibition.

I'd never been able to bring myself to sell it.

That night, I took it down, had it framed, and contacted a former client.

The sale price was just enough to cover my father's treatment.

Lucien held me afterward and said he was sorry, that once the company stabilized, he'd make it up to me.

I'd even cried.

And now, standing before my son's paintings, I stared at the priceless gems on that woman's wrist.

The jewels glittered in the painted light.

Lucien had probably never been short on money at all.

He simply never trusted me---his human wife. Even after I'd borne his child, I was still in some endless, inescapable probation period, fit only to play the dutiful, penny-pinching nanny.

The fourth painting.

The woman and Luke sat in an upscale restaurant. On the plate was a steak, nearly raw---still bloody.

In the painting, Luke's eyes crinkled with happiness.

My chest seized.

Luke shouldn't be eating steak that rare, practically dripping with blood. He was still too young. Activating his vampire bloodline this early would only burden his body and send his emotions spiraling out of control.

I'd restricted him many times, enduring his tantrums while holding firm, managing his diet.

Lucien always used work as an excuse, refusing to step in and discipline the boy, content to play the gentle, permissive father.

I stood before the painting, my fingertips ice cold.

I finally understood what all these paintings meant. The beach, the steak, the trips, the jewels, the smiles---it had all actually happened. Someone had taken photos of Luke with that woman, and Luke had preserved those memories in oil paint.

I looked toward Lucien in the distance. He was holding the woman's hand, listening as Luke enthusiastically introduced each painting.

Lucien seemed to sense my gaze and turned around, but I'd already stepped back into a corner.

Iris's POV

I heard people murmuring behind me.

"Luke is so lucky. His mom comes to every exhibition."

Another voice chimed in with a laugh.

"Yes. And the couple seems so in love. A talented kid, a perfect family."

My body went rigid.

"His mom comes to every exhibition"---those words pierced my ears like needles.

So this wasn't the first time.

This woman had always been there, always appearing as his mother.

The sounds of the crowd surged back---laughter, congratulations, praise.

They surrounded me, yet none of it was meant for me.

An exhibition themed "My Mother," starring my husband, the son I'd carried for ten months, and my son's "Mommy." I was just the human who'd delivered Luke, the nanny who handled discipline and restriction.

The love and joy of motherhood had long been handed to someone else by Lucien.

Iris's POV

By the time I got home, it was evening. The house was empty and eerily silent.

I walked in slowly, scanning the living room, seeing this place I'd lived in for ten years through an outsider's eyes for the first time. I laughed bitterly at myself---ten years as a nanny and I'd never even realized it.

Lucien didn't like having strangers around and refused to hire help, so I'd always been the one keeping everything spotless.

But today, the woman beside him had been wearing a flashy red dress dripping with jewelry, her hands smooth and delicate---hands that had clearly never touched a mop.

I'd maintained this home like a model showroom, day after day, year after year. Now I realized I'd been the only fool investing in it.

I looked up at the second floor. At the end of the hallway, the study door stood closed.

That was where Lucien handled his work---a room I'd barely entered in ten years. He always said it contained confidential company documents I shouldn't touch. I'd respected his boundaries. I didn't even clean it unless he was present.

But tonight, standing before the door, I didn't hesitate. I gripped the handle and pushed it open.

It was unlocked.

The desk drawers were neatly organized. The first held research materials. The second, contracts. When I pulled open the third, my fingers froze.

Inside lay several dark velvet boxes.

The kind used by high-end jewelers. I lifted one out, feeling the fine velvet beneath my fingertips. I slowly opened the lid, and the moment the light hit the stones, the brilliance nearly stung my eyes.

A complete set of ruby jewelry lay nestled in dark velvet---necklace, earrings, bracelet, and ring.

On the night of my twenty-eighth birthday, Lucien had come home late, claiming he'd been working overtime. He handed me a gift box, and I'd opened it with quiet hope---only to find a plain cotton apron, cream-colored with a small floral print.

Now, standing under the study lamp, looking at this jewelry worth a fortune, the version of me who'd been grateful for that apron felt like a punchline.

As I placed the velvet box back in the drawer, I noticed a letter underneath.

I unfolded the letter. The first line stopped my breath.

"To my beloved, Rebecca."

"Thank you for everything you've done for me and Luke over the years. You've given him joy, freedom, and love. Without you, we wouldn't have the happiness we have today."

Done for you?

I repeated the phrase in my mind, thinking of Luke convulsing with fever in my arms through the night while I held him without sleep.

I'd given up my career. Put away my brushes. Spent ten years revolving around the kitchen and the child.

Those memories pressed down on me like stones, one after another---while Lucien praised another woman's sacrifices.

Lucien had mentioned Rebecca before---a childhood friend, the girl next door. She'd supposedly been too busy to attend our wedding.

Perhaps she hadn't skipped it because she was busy.

I put the letter back and turned to the computer.

I tried a few passwords. All failed. Then I typed "Rebecca," and the screen unlocked instantly.

I opened the saved billing records. Jewelry, high-end restaurants, travel packages---the spending was enormous, consistent, stretching back years.

I scrolled page by page, while a parallel life played out in my mind: my discount clothes, my budgeting spreadsheets, my abandoned paints, the painting I'd sold---my most precious one. I dressed like a nanny.

I'd tried so hard not to be a burden, worked to keep him and Luke looking polished while I hid behind the groceries and the chores.

But these numbers told me he'd never been short on money. He'd simply never intended to share his wealth with his human wife.

When the front door clicked open downstairs, I closed the laptop and returned to the living room.

Lucien paused when he saw me standing in the dark room, expressionless.

Luke was draped across his father's arms, already drowsy. From the moment they walked in, my son hadn't looked at me once.

"Iris, sorry to keep you waiting. We got back late---the gallery hosted a celebration dinner. I know you like having dinner as a family, so I brought you a takeout box."

He set the container on the table. The packaging was elegant.

I'd seen ads for that restaurant---reservation-only, in the city center, outrageously expensive.

I looked up at him in silence. His expression was one of concern, as if he were the devoted husband trying to hold the family together, the long-suffering partner bracing for his wife's unreasonable complaints.

Luke, visibly restless, slid out of his father's arms and wandered off to play with his tablet.

In front of our son, Lucien performed the role of attentive husband, opening the container for me. "It's still warm. Eat up if you're hungry."

Inside was a half-eaten, blood-rare steak.

I'd never liked meat that undercooked. This was probably Luke's leftovers.