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?”

I stood there looking at her and laughed until tears came.

“Vera, you were not always like this.”

There had been a time when she sat and watched me paint for hours, losing herself in it and telling me I was the greatest artist in the world. When I forgot to wipe the paint from my hands and felt embarrassed, she was the one who pushed back and said that was exactly how an artist was supposed to look.

And that rainy day I carried with me for so many years, the reason I never forgot it, was because of her. She had been passing by with her umbrella when she stopped, turned to me, and smiled.

“Hey, do you know Sylvia Stone? I am a huge fan of her work. I love her paintings.”

All this time, I believed that day meant something to both of us. It turned out I was the only one who never walked away from it.

Something in my chest finally let go.

I pulled back from her hands and turned to go to my room. The moment I reached for the door, Vera shot her hand out and held it open.

“There is one day left before we remarry, Sean. You will be there, right?”

I stayed quiet for a moment, then smiled.

“Sure.”

…

The next morning, Sophie arrived with a few extra hands to help pack my things. Since I was going abroad, many items needed to be checked and shipped, so everything was packed with extra care.

“Sean, should I take these paintings too?” Sophie asked, nodding toward the portraits lining the walls of my studio.

Every one of them was of Vera.

On our wedding night, she told me she wanted to give me a surprise. Our apartment at the time was barely five hundred fifty square feet, but she had sectioned off more than two hundred of them just for my studio.

In return, she asked me to paint one portrait of her every year. She said she wanted to always have a place in my world.

I agreed. From that point on, I painted her at work, painted her mid-run, painted her hunched over a book. Every portrait received everything I had.

She loved them, and every time I finished one, a gift waited for me.

In our first year of marriage, it was a wool felt piece she spent two weeks learning to make by hand. In our second, it was a set of rare pigments she tracked down across the entire city. In our third, it was tickets to an art exhibition she lined up for three days to get.

By our fifth year, it was a Cartier bracelet her assistant ordered in passing. In our sixth, it was a pair of limited edition sneakers, the same ones Austin had been seen wearing. The night they arrived, he even posted something online to make it clear he thought I was copying him.

In our seventh year, the gift was the divorce agreement. Seven years, and looking back, the distance between us had grown the entire time without me noticing.

Two notifications came through on my phone. One was from Vera that read, “Sean, nine tomorrow morning. Do not forget.”

The other was from Austin. “Last night of our seven-day romance. Vera says she wants to make it a night to remember.”

My eyes stayed on the paintings for one last moment before I switched off the screen.

“Leave them.”

By the time we finished packing, it was already evening. I slept in a room that felt noticeably emptier than before, and I slept well.

At seven the next morning, I got in the car to the airport. Vera called to ask when I was leaving. I gave her a vague answer, then opened her contact and blocked her number.

By eight, I cleared security. Vera posted a photo outside the city hall.

“After everything, it is still you.”

I opened her contact on my phone and deleted it.

By nine, I was on the plane, working through the last of her photos and messages, clearing everything out.

Then my phone rang. It was Sophie.

I picked up. The voice on the other end was Vera’s, equal parts tearful and furious.

“Sean, today is supposed to be our remarriage. Where are you?”