Anthony shoved me hard. My lower back slammed into the podium, and the sharp pain made me double over. Still not satisfied, he snatched the microphone and tried to smash it against the painting on display.

It was the only piece my mother left me before she died.

Gasps rippled across the room. I didn't have time to think—I just lunged to protect the canvas. However, I'd barely taken two steps before the press swarmed me. Their eyes were glittering with hunger for a big scoop. Their bodies closed in until I could barely move.

"Ms. Townsend, can you explain what just happened? Did you really take someone else's stuff?"

"Ms. Townsend, you brand yourself as an independent female artist. Why are you picking on a young woman?"

"Ms. Townsend, aren't you ashamed of yourself?"

"Ms. Townsend…"

Question after question slammed into me until I could hardly breathe. I steadied myself and tried to stand, but the reporters, giddy with the frenzy, shoved me back down like they were ready to devour me whole.

Desperate, I shouted to Anthony and told him the painting was the final painting my mother had left for me. He faltered, and his raised hand lowered on instinct.

However, in the next second, Tanya staggered to her feet, feigning weakness as she leaned against the easel. The oil painting toppled, and she trampled it in her panic. Her heels ground into the canvas.

She cried as she did it. "Anthony, I didn't mean to. I didn't know the stand was unstable. Giselle will lose her mind over this. Is she going to kill me? I'm terrified."

Anthony pulled her into his arms, soothing her over and over. "It's fine. It's just a dead person's belongings, anyway. It might be cursed."

I remained trapped in the crowd as I stared at the filthy, ruined painting on the floor. I felt like a broken glass doll.

…

That night, several articles about a rising female artist being a homewrecker shot to the top of the trending searches. The nasty comments piled up.

"No wonder she could have an exhibition in Jorvain. She slept her way to it."

"Don't jump to conclusions. Maybe she sucked her way there."

"How much does a 'high-end' female artist charge for a night? I'd love a taste."

"There's no need to pay. You can just buy a couple of her paintings. Be a patron of the arts, right?"

"I've said it once, and I'll say it again. How many women in the art industry are actually clean? The conclusion is that we should just boycott female artists from now on."

I sat in my studio, almost punishing myself as I scrolled through every foul line until my heart iced over.

Noise came from downstairs. Anthony rushed up, looking frantic as he pulled me into his arms. "Giselle, I'm sorry. I didn't know things would blow up like this. I already had the trending searches taken down, and my legal team has issued warnings to the trolls. As for Tanya, I found out the whole story. I'll make her apologize to you."

I looked up at him, wanting to meet his eyes. "My mom's painting has been ruined. Is an apology all I'm getting?"

He stiffened, and his gaze skittered. "And… I'll ground her for three days. I'll make sure she can't go out or go shopping."

My lips curled up in a mocking smile as I backed out of his embrace. "That's it?"

Anthony frowned. Irritation seeped into his tone. "Giselle, she's just an immature young woman. What's the harm in cutting her some slack? Besides, I've never agreed with you being a painter. Do you know how disgusting it is to see pigment smeared on your hands and to smell those fumes on you?

"And your mom wasn't a famous artist. Even if her work was good, what does it matter? I'll just have someone make a better copy of the painting. Don't blow this out of proportion."

I stared at him. Then, I started laughing until my tears slipped out. "Anthony, you didn't use to be like this."

Back then, he would zone out when watching me paint and tell me I was the most beautiful woman in the world. When I forgot to wash the paint off my hands and felt embarrassed, he'd argue that was what a true muse looked like.

I even remembered that rainy day when we first met so vividly because he'd suddenly stopped by my side when walking by with an umbrella. Then, he'd smiled at me and asked, "You're Ms. Lancaster's daughter, right? I'm a big fan. I've always loved her paintings."

It turned out that I was the only one who'd never walked out of that rainy day.

My heart finally settled at that moment. I pushed Anthony's hands away and turned to head back to my room.

As I closed the door, he suddenly jammed his hand against it, stopping me cold. "There's only one day left before we remarry. Giselle, you'll be there, right?"

I was quiet for a heartbeat. Then, I smiled. "Yeah."

…

The next day, Emma came with a team to help me pack. I was leaving the country, so a lot of things had to be checked. Everything had to be wrapped extra carefully.

"Giselle, do you want to bring these paintings?" Emma pointed at the portraits on the studio wall.

They were all paintings of Anthony; I'd painted them.

On our wedding night, he'd said he had a surprise. He'd carved out a studio of over 200 square feet for me in our tiny 500-square-foot place. In exchange, he'd asked me to paint a portrait of him every year because he wanted to live forever in my eyes.

I'd agreed. After that, I'd painted him working, exercising, studying… I'd poured 100% of my love into each one.

Anthony had loved them, too. Every time I finished a painting, he'd had a gift ready.

In the first year of our marriage, the gift had been a felted wool figure that had taken him half a month to learn to make.

In the second year of our marriage, the gift had been rare pigments he'd hunted down across the entire city.

In the third year of our marriage, the gift had been exhibition tickets he'd waited three days in line to get.

In the fifth year, the gift had been a Cartier bracelet he'd instructed his assistant to order.

In the sixth year, the gift was a Chanel bag exactly like the one Tanya had. The night it arrived, Tanya had openly implied on her social media that I was copying her.

In the seventh year, the gift was… our divorce papers.

Time was a ruler. It measured how far Anthony and I had drifted apart over seven years.

Two messages popped up on my phone.

One was from Anthony. "Giselle, I'll see you at 9:00 am tomorrow. Don't forget."

The other was from Tanya. "It's the last night of our seven-day romance. Anthony says he wants to try something thrilling with me."

My lashes trembled as I took one last look at the portraits and locked my phone. "No, I'm not bringing them."

…

Night had fallen by the time I was done packing. I slept in a room much emptier than before; it was restful.

At 7:00 am, I headed to the airport. Anthony called to ask when I was leaving for City Hall. I brushed him off, then blocked his number.

At 8:00 am, I cleared security. Anthony posted a photo of City Hall on his social media. "After all the twists and turns, I still go back to you."

I opened his profile and blocked it.

At 9:00 am, I boarded the plane. As I was deleting every photo and message connected to Anthony, my phone rang. It was a call from Emma.

I answered.

The voice that rang out on the other end of the line was Anthony's. He sounded like he was choked up, and he spoke through clenched teeth. "Aren't we supposed to remarry today, Giselle? Where are you?"