The other one said, “Yeah, stupid rainy day.”

My knuckles turned white around the paintbrush. I reached to dip the brush out of habit, then realized I had nothing left to paint.

If Vera had walked only two steps farther into the room, she would have seen what I had spent a month creating. It was the day we first met.

I stood in silence for a moment. Then I reached for the black paint in the corner and poured the entire can over the canvas. I grabbed another, then another, until every trace of the image disappeared beneath the dark surface.

When nothing remained, I pressed the divorce agreement flat against the wet paint and wrote in small white letters along the bottom.

“Vera, I will not be remarrying you.”

…

That night, Vera did not come home. She sent me a single message.

“I’ll be staying at Austin’s for the next seven days. Get some rest. Seven days from now, nine in the morning, we’ll meet at the city hall.”

I had not replied yet when Austin Bennett posted on his social media. It was a close-up photo of their hands interlocked, fingers threaded together.

“Officially divorced. My seven-day exclusive.”

In the photo, the ring finger on Vera’s left hand was bare. The only sign that anything had ever been there was a faint pale line where the ring used to sit.

There was nothing left to show that she and I had ever loved each other.

It was only then that it sank in that I was actually divorced. I raised my own hand and tried to take off my ring, only to find that the band that had slipped on so easily five years earlier now refused to move past the knuckle. No matter what I tried, it did not budge.

Maybe I should leave it, I thought. It was only a ring. It did not have to mean anything.

Then Austin sent me a photo.

Vera’s missing wedding ring hung from his dog’s collar, a small tan thing that looked barely bigger than a stuffed animal. In case I had not seen it clearly, Austin had taken thirteen more photos from different angles, each one with a smiling emoji underneath.

He ended it with a message.

“Hey Sean, Vera says if you’re going to do something, do it properly. So for the next seven days, I’m afraid you and my dog are a matching set.

“Sending love.”

The color drained from my face. I called the jeweler who had made our wedding bands and told them I needed the ring off by tomorrow, whatever it took.

The next morning, a staff member from the jewelry store came to the house to help. My assistant, Sophie Carr, who was usually full of chatter and energy, kept stopping herself mid-breath like she was trying not to say something.

“What is it?” I asked.

She pressed her lips together and chose her words with care.

“Sir, I received a billing notification from the Litton Hotel. It was a luxury couples suite with a full truckload of roses included. The name on the booking was Austin’s.”

I said nothing, not because it hurt, but because I suddenly remembered that Vera had once sent me roses too. Nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine of them, so many that two arms could barely hold them.

She had said, “If every rose is one measure of love, then I want to give you nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine of them, so you never have to envy anyone else.”

It was strange how women tended to recycle the same gestures.

The front door opened. Vera walked in quickly, a cluster of marks along her neck that she made no effort to hide. She glanced around the living room and asked without much thought, “Why are there so many people here?”

I did not look up. “The jeweler. They are here to get the ring off.”

Vera stared at me. “We have six days until we remarry. Why would you take it off?”

“You took yours off too.”

That caught her off guard. A flicker of guilt crossed her face before she huffed and muttered, “So dramatic.”

She turned and stormed upstairs, calling for the housekeeper to pack her things.

Sophie told me quietly that Vera had been wandering around up there, drifting in and out of rooms, and that every so often she stopped and looked down toward where I sat.

I smiled a little and did not think much of it.

Ten minutes later, the jeweler’s staff member came downstairs looking apologetic.

“Sir, the ring is too tight. I am afraid there is no way to remove it as it is. The only option would be to cut it, but since you work with your hands, I would strongly advise against taking that risk.”

I paused for a moment.

“Then cut it off.”

“No!”

Vera’s voice rang out before anyone else could speak. She came running down the stairs so fast that she almost tripped on the last step.

“Sean, I am not letting you cut it.”

The outburst caught everyone off guard, Sophie most of all. In all the time she had worked for me, she had never seen Vera lose her composure like that.

“Ms. Lloyd?”

Vera seemed to catch herself. She cleared her throat.

“I do not want you hurting your hand. The last thing I need is you coming to me crying about not being able to paint anymore. It would drive me crazy.”

She paused, then raised an eyebrow as if she remembered something. “Where is the painting you made for me? I have time to look at it now.”

“I burned it.” I kept my eyes down and my voice flat.

Vera stared at me. “What? How could you burn it?”

She stepped toward me, ready to argue, when her phone went off. It was her group chat with her friends.

“Vera, we heard you got divorced? Something this big happened and you did not tell us? Are we even still friends?”

“Seriously Vera, news this exciting and you did not let us celebrate with you?”

“We saw your new guy, and he is young, I will give you that. Not like Sean. Did you not used to complain he had all the passion of a wet blanket? Bet you are happy now.”

Laughter spilled out of the phone’s speaker and filled the room.

Vera fumbled to silence it, then turned to me, flustered.

“Sean, it is not what you think. They do not know this is a temporary divorce. They are just talking.”

I made a quiet sound of acknowledgment, then walked her and her luggage to the door and saw her out.

It was the first time I had ever seen Vera look truly lost for words.

The door closed. The room grew very quiet, and it stayed that way for a long time. Sophie stood off to the side, and I noticed her eyes were redder than mine.

“Sir… I mean, Sean…”

I gave her a small, steady smile.

“Go ahead and cut the ring off.”

For the next several days, Vera did not come home. What she did do, strangely enough, was send gifts, one every day without fail.

She sent a foreign painting I had once liked online, a set of mineral pigments I had mentioned wanting in passing, and even a standalone mountain villa on the outskirts of the city that I had put off buying for years. Each gift arrived with a small note stuck to the back.

“Five more days until we remarry.”

“Four more days until we remarry.”

“Three more days until we remarry.”

The second to last gift was a diamond watch that had appeared in one of Austin’s posts, engraved with the words “Love of My Life.” The moment I saw it, I had a feeling it had been meant for someone else.

I was right.

At the last exhibition I held before leaving the country, Austin pushed through the crowd and stormed onto the stage in front of all the press.

“Sean, can you give the watch back to me?

“Vera gave it to me as a token of her love. She said I was the only one she would ever love.

“I can let go of anything else. Just not that.

“Please. Do not take away what my girlfriend gave me.”

He made a scene, tears and all, but the grip he had on my arm was surprisingly tight. When I pulled free, he stumbled backward and fell, making enough noise to ensure everyone in the room watched.

I had barely processed what was happening when Vera burst into the hall. She took one look at Austin, red-eyed and crumpled on the ground, and her anger lit up at once.

“Austin, are you okay?”

She turned on me. “Sean, if you have a problem with me, take it up with me. Why would you go after someone like him?

“No wonder my mother always said you were rough around the edges. She was right.”

Vera shoved me hard. My lower back struck the edge of the podium, and the pain bent me nearly in half.

Vera was not finished. She grabbed the microphone and hurled it at the painting on display behind me.

It was the last piece my mother had ever painted, the only thing she left me before she died.

The room erupted. I did not stop to think. I pushed forward, trying to reach the painting, but before I took two steps the press closed in around me from every direction. They shoved microphones toward my face and made it impossible to move.

“Mr. Spencer, can you explain what happened here? Did you really take something that belonged to someone else?”

“Mr. Spencer, you have always presented yourself as an independent artist. Why would you bully an innocent person?”

“Mr. Spencer, are you not ashamed of what you have done?”

“Mr. Spencer…”

The questions came one after another until I could barely breathe. I tried to steady myself and stand, but the reporters pressed in closer, climbing over each other as if they wanted to swallow me whole.

With no other choice, I called out to Vera and told her it was the last painting my mother ever made.

Vera hesitated, and her raised hand dropped slightly. In the next moment, Austin pushed himself to his feet and leaned against the easel, playing up how shaken he was.

The painting crashed to the floor, and he stepped on it in the chaos, crushing it again and again.

“Vera, I did not mean to. I did not know the stand was unstable.

“Sean is going to lose it on me. I am scared.”

Vera pulled him into her arms without a second thought. She rubbed his back and told him it was fine.

“It was something that belonged to a dead person. It was morbid to keep it around anyway.”

I stood trapped in the crowd, staring at the ruined painting on the floor, unable to move or speak.

That evening, the story of a rising painter playing the third wheel for love reached the top of the trending searches, and the hate comments poured in.

“No wonder he gets to hold exhibitions in the city. Turns out he slept his way there.”

“Do not jump to conclusions. Could be other things he did on his knees.”

“I always said it. There are no real artists anymore, only people who know the right people.”

“Wonder what a night with this one costs. My boss turns sixty-eight this year and wants something premium.”

“Why bother paying? Just buy a few of his paintings. Call it supporting the arts.”

“Artists were never clean to begin with. Boycott every young painter going forward and be done with it.”

I sat alone in my studio and scrolled through every comment. Each one settled deeper than it should have. The noise downstairs broke the silence, and then Vera rushed up and pulled me into her arms before I could speak.

“Sean, I am sorry. I had no idea it would blow up like this.

“I already had the trending posts taken down, and our legal team sent warnings to everyone who posted those comments. As for Austin, I know what happened now. He went too far, and I will make him apologize to you.”

I looked up at her. “My mother’s painting is gone. And all he has to do is apologize?”

Vera stiffened. Her gaze shifted away.

“There is also… I will make sure he is banned from going out or spending money for three days.”

I pulled back from her arms with a short, humorless smile. “That is it?”

Vera’s expression tightened, and an edge entered her voice.

“Sean, Austin is still so young. He is a kid who does not know better. Would it kill you to cut him some slack?

“And another thing. I never liked you painting. Do you know how much it bothers me every time I see paint on your hands or smell it on your clothes?

“And your mother was not a famous artist. It was only a painting. I will have someone make a better copy if it means that much to you. Can you stop turning this into something bigger than it is?”