At a dinner party, my genius painter of a husband, Henry Shepherd, used his hands, hands insured for millions, to shell crabs for his young assistant, Tamara Lee.

This was all to coax her into eating a few bites when she claimed she had no appetite.

Meanwhile, I drank myself into a bloody mess, trying to secure investments for him.

When I asked him to hand me some antacids, he refused without even looking up.

“These hands are for painting. Use your own.”

For ten years, he couldn’t even be bothered to change the way he treated me.

That night, as I sobered up in the cold wind, I asked my lawyer to draft a divorce agreement.

"Henry, in this vast, chaotic world, our paths end here," I said inwardly

When Henry Shepherd peeled crab for his young assistant, Tamara Lee, who’d "lost her appetite", everyone at the table glanced awkwardly at me.

Just a minute earlier, I’d proudly told the investors, "His hands are insured for millions. He won’t even hold a dinner knife to protect them."

To salvage the situation, I downed three shots of whisky in one go. The metallic tang of blood rose in my throat, but I forced it down.

Before tensions could ease, Henry announced that he was leaving early to take Tamara to eat what she wanted.

He even fought an investor over it.

I took the slap meant for him.

I paid the compensation.

Later, when I reached out to check if his hands were injured, he said coldly, "If you weren’t so money-hungry, fawning over those nouveau riche pigs, she wouldn’t have gone hungry.

"Stay here. If you come along, you’ll ruin our appetites."

Tamara blinked up at me with her doe eyes.

"I’m sorry, Mrs. Shepherd. If I’d known Mr. Shepherd would worry, I’d have endured my hunger silently."

Henry ruffled her hair.

"You did nothing wrong. You’re just too pure. It’s people like her"—he shot me a look—" who’d rather vomit blood than stop groveling."

My body went numb.

So he had seen me choking back blood—he just didn’t care.

I stood in the cold for thirty minutes, then I called my lawyer.

"Draft the divorce papers."

Henry didn't return until the next morning.

His eyes swept over the room—no lavish breakfast on the table, no freshly pressed suit hanging by the door—and he frowned slightly.

"Did you get in late last night?"

I nodded. "I had some things to discuss with the lawyer."

I pulled a document from my bag. "Two copies. Sign here."

Without even glancing at it, Henry flipped to the last page and signed.

After all, for the past ten years of his career—and the seven years of our marriage—I had personally handled all his business and logistics operations.

I exhaled in relief, tucked the agreement into my bag, and prepared to leave.

But Henry blocked the doorway, his face dark as he grabbed my arm.

"Don't overthink it," he said.

"After dinner last night, Tamara broke out in hives. I just took her to the hospital. Nothing else happened."

It was the first time in our marriage that Henry had ever offered me an explanation.

But he had forgotten, I, too, had once suffered from hives.

When I stood before him, my body covered in red rashes, begging him to take me to the hospital, he had only said, "Don’t you have legs? If you infect me, how will I paint?"

Seeing my cold expression, Henry opened his mouth to say more, but right on cue, Tamara called.

"Mr. Shepherd…" she whimpered over the phone.

"When I got to the studio today, everyone laughed at me. I’m so embarrassed, so miserable…"

"You silly little thing!" Henry scolded her gently.

"Didn't I tell you yesterday to rest if you’re feeling sick?"

"But if I don't come to the studio, the new exhibition will fall behind schedule. If I ruin your career, I'd die of shame…" Tamara sobbed.

"Don’t be ridiculous! Getting sick isn’t your fault."

As he spoke, Henry turned and cast a look of pure disgust at me.

"Some people," he sneered, "are so blinded by greed they don't care if others live or die.

"Be good. Wait for me in my office. I'll take you home."

He slammed the door behind him as he left, never once glancing at the swollen bruise on my face.

Lowering my eyes, I pulled out my phone and contacted the up-and-coming artist in Valmont who had been speaking to me for months.

I was reviewing the management contract on my phone when a WhatsApp voice message from Tamara popped up.

"So sorry, Mrs. Shepherd," she cooed.

"Mr. Shepherd insisted on coming to take care of me. I know I’m delaying his exhibition progress—please don’t blame him!"

Her intentions were painfully transparent.

Too exhausted to engage, I instead focused on Tamara’s newly changed profile picture.

Zooming in, I recognized the hands cradling her hives-flushed face, faint smudges of paint still visible on the fingers.

Those hands were unmistakably Henry’s.

So he truly did care for her.

I closed the image and silently changed my own profile picture—from a wedding photo to a lone bird in flight.

On the final day of the exhibition, I stayed backstage to wrap up logistics.

By the time I went out front for the group photo, Henry had already stood center-stage with Tamara tucked under his arm.

Reporters gushed:

"The Shepherds are such relationship goals! Seven years married and still inseparable!"

"Mrs. Shepherd looks so youthful! And to think she manages his studio and curated this exhibition—beauty and brains!"

Neither Henry nor Tamara corrected them.

Then Tamara caught sight of me.

Immediately, tears welled up in her eyes, and she suddenly dropped to her knees with a dramatic thud.

"Mrs. Shepherd, I never meant for this to happen! I didn’t get a chance to explain!

“Mr. Shepherd’s success is all because of you—I’d never dare take credit for what you’ve done!"

Her abrupt performance cast a pall over the room. The only sound left was the rapid clicking of camera shutters.

Henry immediately stepped between us, shielding her. "Rosalind, was this really necessary? Must you be so aggressive?

"Tamara contributed significantly to this exhibition. Bringing her into the spotlight is just part of mentoring a newcomer."

He lowered his voice to a sharp whisper, "This is a public event. Don’t make a scene."

But I wasn’t making a scene. And I never would again.

I fixed a polished smile on my face, helped Tamara up, and calmly introduced her to the press.

The farce ended, smoothed over by hollow pleasantries.

Once the interviews concluded, I pulled out my phone to book a flight—only for Henry to snatch it from my hands.

"You’re booking an international flight? Where to?"

His brows furrowed, his voice laced with disbelief as he fired off his questions.

"Since when do I have an exhibition in Valmont? Why wasn’t I informed?"