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.

Henry was true to his word. His studio no longer had anything to do with me.

I had never been his official agent, as I had always managed his career merely as his wife.

But soon, I wouldn't even be that.

The next day, I went to the office to pack my things.

Just as I arrived, I overheard the studio manager trying to persuade Henry.

"Mr. Shepherd, you were too impulsive yesterday. All these years, it’s been your wife handling everything behind the scenes.

“If she really gets upset and refuses to come back, the upcoming exhibition will fall into chaos."

Henry snorted through his nose.

"She merely basked in my glory. If the exhibitions succeeded, it was all because of my talent.

"If she doesn’t come, let Tamara take over her work. It’s just menial tasks—anyone can do them."

As if remembering something, Henry added, "Tamara isn’t like Rosalind. She’s naive and unwilling to flatter others. Don’t let her attend those banquets."

I had originally planned to go in and hand over my work to the manager, but now I saw there was no need.

Just then, a WhatsApp notification popped up.

The team in Valmont informed me that they had already arranged my visa—I could leave at any time.

I went straight home and began packing.

Halfway through, Henry unexpectedly returned with a serving of mushroom soup.

I stared at the broken seal and the almost empty container.

Without hesitation, I tossed the leftovers straight into the trash.

Henry looked ready to explode, but when his gaze fell on the pitiful amount of soup left, guilt swallowed his anger whole.

"It’s not leftovers," Henry said stiffly.

He had clearly forgotten that I was allergic to mushroom soup.

Years ago, when Henry had just come of age, reckless and brimming with pride, he provoked a rival.

The man had aimed to cripple his hand, but I had taken the blow for him.

To comfort me, he had bought me some mushroom soup.

Yet it was that very soup that nearly cost me my life.

Back then, for every second I fought for my life in the emergency room, Henry had knelt outside the door, vowing that he would never let me near mushrooms again.

But even the most searing memories were no match for time. Those same memories faded, leaving not even a scar behind.

Perhaps my unnerving silence made Henry uneasy.

He paced behind me for a while before finally, awkwardly, trying to back down.

"I lost my temper and embarrassed you in public," he admitted.

"But I’m still the head of the studio. I have to be fair and want to earn people’s respect.

"It’s not that I’m forbidding you from helping with the studio. If you’d just quietly apologize to Tamara—"

"Excuse me," I said, cutting him off without a glance.

I brushed past him into the bathroom to pack my cosmetics.

His words hung in the air, stuck in his throat, as a strange, helpless frustration surged through him.