Chapter 3
596words
Ethan found me a cottage with a small garden in a forgotten corner of the old district.
I set my easel in the courtyard, painting in dappled sunlight from dawn till dusk. When my shoulders ached, I'd wander to the local market for fresh ingredients, then return to cook simple meals.
I hadn't tasted such freedom in years.
No longer did I need to anticipate Alexander's preferences or create those soulless, "sophisticated" pieces he demanded.
I painted morning dew on spider webs, crimson sunsets, the iridescent scales of fish at the market stalls.
My work breathed again.
Ethan visited regularly, always arriving with groceries or household essentials I'd forgotten to buy.
Surveying the canvases accumulating in my studio, he smiled. "Looks like I'll be representing a breakout artist soon."
I knew he was being kind.
After five years as Alexander's trophy wife, my name had become a punchline in art circles.
Everyone knew me as Mrs. Grant, the CEO's decorative spouse who occasionally played at being an artist with her husband's checkbook.
No gallery would risk their reputation on me now.
"One step at a time," Ethan said gently, reading my thoughts. "Focus on healing first."
I brushed my fingers across my still-flat abdomen and nodded.
Physical wounds would eventually mend.
But the scars on my soul?
I'd believed distance would help me forget Alexander entirely.
But his name haunted me, materializing everywhere.
Financial headlines trumpeted his latest corporate conquests.
Society pages gushed over the fortune he'd spent on Claire Lawrence's latest jewelry.
Even at the neighborhood market, I couldn't escape the gossip.
"Did you hear? Grant Corp's CEO is engaged to the Lawrence heiress!"
"About time! That Shaw woman warmed his bed for five years without producing an heir!"
"The Lawrence girl's the lucky one—pregnant within months of returning!"
I set down my basket and walked out, leaving groceries abandoned on the shelf.
So they were engaged.
That didn't take long.
At home, I unlocked my long-abandoned social media accounts.
As expected, Alexander and Claire's engagement dominated every feed.
The photo showed Alexander on bended knee, sliding an obscenely large diamond onto Claire's finger. She beamed radiantly, one hand resting protectively on her swollen belly.
The comments section overflowed with congratulations.
"A match made in heaven!"
"Brilliant man, beautiful woman—true soulmates!"
"At last! Mr. Grant and Miss Lawrence—destiny fulfilled!"
I scrolled numbly until a lone dissenting comment caught my eye.
"Didn't Grant finalize his divorce like a month ago? From...Vivian Shaw? He's already engaged and she's visibly pregnant. Wasn't this an affair?"
The replies came fast and furious.
"Stop spreading lies! Grant and Shaw had a business arrangement, nothing more! He and Lawrence are childhood sweethearts!"
"Exactly! A gold-digger like Shaw should thank her lucky stars she got five years with Grant. What more did she expect?"
"I heard she trapped him into marriage! She deserved to be tossed aside!"
Alexander's PR machine moved with military precision. Within minutes, the offending comment and its thread vanished completely.
In its place, nothing but glowing congratulations.
I switched off my phone and retreated to my studio.
Moonlight spilled through the window, cold as ice water.
I reached for my brush and mixed the deepest, most unforgiving black.
Alexander Grant, do you believe money and influence can erase everything?
Do you think scrubbing a few comments can cleanse your sins?
You're mistaken.
Some debts demand payment.
I would make you watch as your precious "true love" descended, step by careful step, into the abyss.
