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.

Inside the bathroom drawer lay a package of sanitary pads that clearly didn’t belong to me.

Outside the door, I heard Tamara’s voice on the phone.

"Mr. Shepherd," she said sweetly, "I got my period at the hospital, but I can’t find the special brand for younger girls. There’s a pack left in your bathroom. Could you bring it to me?"

Henry stepped into the bathroom, only to catch me pulling open the drawer.

His gaze flickered with guilt before he quickly walked away.

"I couldn’t find it. I’ll go buy you a new pack from the store," he said into the receiver.

"Please hurry, Mr. Shepherd! If the hospital bed gets dirty, the nurses will be upset—and I’d be so embarrassed!"

Henry seemed to have a lot of patience for Tamara’s antics.

He even seemed to note every detail of what she needed: the brand, the length, the type.

By the time he hung up, I had finished packing my suitcase.

Then he turned back awkwardly and tried to explain, "Don't read too much into it. She only came over that day to change her clothes."

I shrugged.

"Make sense."

Henry grew irritated. "Why do you always put on that cold face? If it bothers you that much, then fine, I won’t go."

I smiled lightly, but did not respond.

Henry watched my expression, realizing I truly wasn’t angry, before finally stepping out the door.

When he reached the door, he hesitated, then turned back.

"Where are you going with all that luggage?" he asked.

"Valmont," I answered plainly.

A flash of realization crossed Henry’s face, and his whole body seemed to relax.

"Next week," he said, "I’ll clear my schedule and take you to Valmont for our honeymoon."

On the day I had decided to leave, Henry had finally remembered the promises we once made.

Unfortunately, it was already too late.

While waiting at the airport, I happened to see a post from Tamara that she had purposely tagged me in.

In the video, she lay on a hospital bed, her hair covered in soapy foam, while a pair of masculine hands washed her hair.

It captured Henry’s voice.

"Don’t move," he said affectionately.

Tamara had adorned her caption with several heart emojis:

[My hand’s injured and I can’t get it wet, so Mr. Shepherd insisted on washing my hair for me.

[It’s so oily, and I’m so embarrassed… but he doesn’t mind at all! He even said he’ll keep taking care of me like this from now on.]

Right on cue, Henry’s message arrived:

[Something’s come up next week. Cancel the ticket for now. I’ll find time to go with you next month.]

What he didn’t know was that I had never booked a ticket for him in the first place.

Just before takeoff, I had my lawyer send him the divorce papers—then I switched on airplane mode.