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?"

To be honest, I hadn’t expected Henry, who’d always played the absentee husband, to react this way.

Perhaps my recent defiance had finally caught his attention.

A flicker of panic crossed his eyes before he seized my wrist. "What the hell are you trying to do?"

I opened my mouth to answer when Tamara’s shriek cut through the air.

Henry instantly dropped my phone and sprinted toward the sound.

I picked up my phone, calmly finalized the payment for my flight, and only then walked backstage.

Broken frames littered the floor.

Tamara lay sprawled on the ground, her wrist bleeding from a wooden splinter.

"Mr. Shepherd! My hand! What if I can never paint again?" She sobbed. "Mrs. Shepherd told me to organize these.

“I didn’t know the frames would fall! I was so careful! Did I do something wrong?"

Henry cradled her injured hand, his eyes reddening.

Then he whipped his head toward me.

"Are you satisfied now, Rosalind?" he roared.

"Tamara’s my assistant. She only handles my personal items. Why the hell would you assign her heavy labor? What’s your game?

"I tolerated your drunken antics for years, but now you’ve sunk to victimizing innocent people?"

Ignoring the skeptical stares around us, I kept my voice steady. "I didn’t ask her to come. I was just—"

"Oh, of course you wouldn’t come here yourself!" he spat. "You control every damn thing in my studio so you could’ve sent anyone to do your dirty work!

"Apologize to Tamara now, or I’m calling the police."

A bitter laugh escaped me.

I was about to agree, to demand they check the surveillance footage, when Tamara threw her arms around Henry, desperately pleading with him not to call the police.

And whatever Tamara said, Henry obeyed without question.

"Fine. Tamara doesn’t want me to report this," he hissed through gritted teeth.

"But that doesn’t mean you’re getting away with it!"

He grabbed a painting from the corner and hurled it at my feet.

The solid wood frame nearly shattered my shin, its jagged edge slicing deep into my flesh.

Blood welled up instantly, dripping onto the floor.

"Consider this payback for what you did to Tamara!" he snarled.

"And listen up, everyone—from now on, Rosalind has no say in my studio! Anyone who takes orders from her will be thrown out!”

Then he turned back to me. "Don’t come back until you’ve reflected on what you’ve done and apologized to Tamara!"

He swept Tamara into his arms, shoved past me without a second glance, and stormed out.

I stood frozen, tears betraying me as they spilled down my cheeks.

They mingled with the blood, drop by drop, staining the shattered remains of the frame beneath me.

This was the painting Henry had spent three months creating—the one he’d used to propose to me.

Once, it had been his most treasured work.

Thirty thousand tiny renditions of my name, woven into the future we’d dreamed of watching sunsets in Valmont.

Now, the love that had once burned so fiercely had been shelved away, and the promises he’d made lay broken.

I lifted the canvas from the wrecked frame.

Then, methodically, I tore it—48 times—until nothing remained but confetti-sized fragments.

And one by one, I let them fall into the trash.