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?”

“Why did you block me?

“We agreed we were getting remarried today. I have been waiting outside city hall for an hour.

“Where are you right now? I will come and get you.”

The cabin announcement came over the speakers at that exact moment. The line went silent.

Through the phone, I heard Vera breathing hard. “Sean, are you leaving? Where are you going?”

I waited two seconds, then switched off my phone.

Once a decision was made, there was no going back. She had made hers, and I had made mine.

Vera stood outside city hall staring at the dead call. Something flared in her chest. She tried again, and the automated voice answered instead.

“We are sorry. The number you have dialed is currently switched off.”

She stood there listening to it, and for the first time, it became real to her. I was not coming. I had no intention of remarrying her, and no intention of taking her back.

It was only when Sophie quietly took the phone from her hand that Vera seemed to return to herself. She grabbed Sophie’s wrist, lost.

“Where did Sean go?”

Sophie glanced at her with open contempt and pulled free.

“You just finished sending your boyfriend off, and now you are out here chasing after your husband. Hard to tell if that makes you loyal or just indecisive.

“You never gave Sean half this much attention when you were busy splashing your little romance all over the news. A bit late to start now, do you not think?”

Vera kept her voice level, but her patience thinned.

“Do not push me. I heard you have a batch of paintings you are trying to move through an upcoming show. It would be a shame if something went wrong with it.”

Sophie’s expression flickered. She steadied herself and let the threat settle before she spoke.

She had planned to leave on the same flight as me, but the last domestic exhibition was still three days from closing, and she had loose ends to tie up before she could go. She had not expected Vera to corner her like this.

“As long as nothing like last time happens, there should not be any issues.”

She paused.

“And there will not be a last time. The last original piece by Sylvia Stone is already gone, thanks to you and your boyfriend.”

The words landed like a slap. Vera’s face went red, and her lips moved without finding anything to say. She thought about what she had done that day and stepped back just to steady herself.

“Is he… still angry with me?” She said it mostly to herself. “He should be. Of course he should be.”

Sophie ignored her and picked up the box at her feet, ready to load it into the car. Vera reached out and stopped her again.

“These paintings…” She looked down at her own portraits packed in the box and went quiet for a moment.

Sophie’s mouth curved, her expression making no effort to hide what she thought.

“Sean did not want them. I figured they were still worth something, so I planned to put them up at the show with a starting bid.”

Vera pulled the box away and held it close, her voice firm. “These belong to me. You do not have the right to do anything with them.”

Sophie looked her over with one last dismissive glance. “He is already gone, and now you want to hold onto a pile of old paintings.”

Something in those words shook something loose in Vera. She gathered the box in her arms and left without another word.

Six days later, Vera returned to the house for the first time since the divorce. The warm light inside did nothing to make it feel welcoming.

In the middle of the empty living room, a black canvas stood alone on its easel. She crossed the room and looked closer. The divorce agreement she had made me sign was still fixed to the surface, with the words written underneath.

“Vera, I will not be remarrying you.”

She tore the agreement from the canvas and ripped it apart, then sank to her knees on the floor.

The box beside her tipped and fell, and a small pink wool felt rabbit rolled out onto the ground. She picked it up and turned it over in her hands, then looked up at the wall of boxes stacked beside her.