I had no intention of arguing and turned to leave, but Wesley grabbed my arm.

Behind me, Julia let out a delicate cry.

She’d accidentally touched the scraped skin on her hand while applying hand cream.

Without hesitation, Wesley let go of me and rushed to comfort her like she was some fragile treasure, gently blowing on her wound.

“I’ll take Julia home first. You wait for me at the house.”

Wesley’s heart had once again tilted toward Julia.

I watched their silhouettes disappear into the distance, then went home alone to draft the divorce agreement.

I had hoped to get a good night’s sleep, but the lingering scent of perfume in the room was suffocating.

Somehow, I drifted off on the sofa, but in the middle of the night, I was jolted awake by a crushing tightness in my chest and a relentless cough.

The living room was pitch black. Wesley hadn’t come home.

I scrambled to find my medication and took it. I hadn’t had an attack in years, but this one hit with brutal force.

I called Wesley—no answer.

I sent him a message.

Julia responded almost immediately with a photo of Wesley asleep beside her.

[Clara, Wesley was so exhausted from taking care of me that he fell asleep.]

[I’m really envious of you. He must take such good care of you all the time, doesn’t he?]

Even though I had made up my mind to let go, the pain in my chest surged—whether it was emotional or physical, I couldn’t tell.

When I needed Wesley the most, he wasn’t there.

So there was no reason for him to come back now.

I texted my best friend in a panic and had her rush me to the hospital.

After a series of tests, Dr. Hawke confirmed it was an asthma relapse triggered by an allergic reaction.

My first thought was Julia—her perfume, her paintings.

That night, I hired someone to seal away every one of her disgusting paintings.

I didn’t want to return to that so-called home.

In the morning, Wesley called.

His voice was tinged with fatigue.

“I didn’t come home last night. I got another room at the hotel. Don’t get the wrong idea.”

It was the first time Wesley had ever bothered to explain himself.

I answered simply, even though I no longer cared.

But then he turned the blame on me.

“Where are you? Are you seriously throwing a tantrum and staying out all night over something so petty?”

In the past three years, because Wesley preferred working on his art late into the night, I had never once stayed out overnight.

Every morning, I’d make him breakfast before heading to work.

But ever since Julia came into the picture, he’d constantly stay out—always with some excuse.

Julia hit a creative block. Julia’s easel broke and needed fixing.

When I didn’t respond, Wesley raised his voice.

“I’m talking to you!”

I wanted to tell him I’d had an asthma attack, but at that moment, I heard Julia’s voice through the phone.

“Wesley, where are the paintings I gave Clara? They’re gone!”

A heavy silence followed, then Wesley’s anger exploded.

“Clara, this is too much!”

“I get that you don’t like them, but they were a gift from Julia. How could you just throw them away?”

Julia’s crying grew louder on the other end of the line.

“Clara! You better go find those paintings—right now. Or don’t bother coming back!”

Wesley hung up before I could say a word.

He used to always wait for me to end the call first.

He probably forgot that this apartment—the one we live in now—I found it after visiting countless agencies, even begging the landlord to knock off two hundred dollars just to afford it.

Wesley never once asked what the rent was.

By the time I got home with my resignation letter, it was nearly noon.

Wesley saw the paper and frowned. “You quit your job? Why?”

Just as I was about to brush Wesley off, he glanced behind me, noticing the empty space.

"Didn't I tell you not to come back unless you found the painting?"

Julia nestled sweetly in his arms.

“Wesley, don’t blame Clara. It’s my fault.”

Wesley reached out and tapped Julia’s forehead affectionately, doting on her as though she were the only one that mattered.

I watched their sickening little performance, cold and disgusted.

Just then, the delivery man arrived.

Feigning indifference, I said, “I had it framed. I didn’t want it collecting dust.”

Wesley’s expression shifted the moment he realized he had wrongfully accused me. A flicker of embarrassment crossed his face, and his tone softened.

“That was my bad yesterday. Let me make it up to you tonight for our anniversary.”

I shivered involuntarily and was just about to reject him—

when Julia suddenly let out a sharp scream.

“What’s going on?!”

Wesley shoved me aside with such force I slammed into the edge of the table, the pain sending cold sweat down my back. He didn’t even look at me, rushing straight to Julia instead.

Turned out the paint she brought had been left too close to the heater and had melted.

“Julia’s art competition is tomorrow! Did you have to do this?!”

“What does that have to do with me?”

Every winter, I turned on the heater to prevent my asthma from acting up.

But Wesley blamed it all on me. He yanked my hand and pressed it against the scorching heater.

He’d forgotten—it was the same heater he insisted on installing for me back when he still cared.

The skin on the back of my hand blistered and peeled. A searing pain tore through me.

I collapsed to the ground, gasping.

Julia had hurt her hand, and in Wesley’s eyes, it was all my fault.

So I had to pay the price.

“Let’s skip the anniversary date tonight. You stay home and reflect.”

“I need to take Julia out to buy new paint.”

I clenched my teeth through the pain, staring at him in silence.

Not that I ever believed he’d keep his promise.

After they left, I rushed to the hospital to treat the burn.

Dr. Hawke’s eyes were full of concern. After bandaging me up, he offered to confront Wesley for me, but I refused.

When I got home and started packing my bags, Wesley came back with Julia in tow.

He spotted my half-packed suitcase, confusion flashing in his eyes—

only to fade when Julia spoke up in her sugary voice.

“Wesley, thank you for the new paints. You’re the best.”

Wesley ruffled her hair with that same tenderness I used to know.

I was reminded of the year I met Wesley. He had just graduated, full of passion but not a penny to his name.

I’d lied to my parents and spent all my savings to buy him the best paints and watercolors.

Even rented a studio for him at an outrageous price.

For months, I lived on instant noodles, ruining my health in the process.

That’s when the asthma started, and it never really went away.

I never told Wesley—I didn’t want him to feel guilty.

But somehow, he found out.

That night, he held me and cried for what felt like forever.

He insisted on giving up the studio, saying he’d earn enough with his paintings to marry me.

Said I deserved the best.

And now, all these years later, he was still buying paint—but for someone else.

My thoughts were interrupted when Wesley approached, pulling out a slightly wilted rose and a tube of burn ointment from behind his back.

“Clara, happy belated third anniversary.”

I stared at the rose, its edges already browned, and felt nothing but emptiness.

At the hospital earlier, I had checked Instagram out of habit.

Julia had posted an update. In the photo were her new paints—and a massive bouquet of roses.

The caption read:

“Being an artist is the best. Even the roses my favorite senior gave me are shaped like love. So lucky!”

When I didn’t take the rose, Wesley pulled me into his arms from behind.