The door slammed shut behind me.

I sat down on the edge of the bed, too drained to even cry.

My mind drifted back over the past two years. When Winslow sent me and my daughter to the countryside, he promised, “I’ll protect you both from the outside world. Just live in peace.”

He promised to handle the scandal for us, to give me a quiet space where I could focus on painting and taking care of our daughter without worrying about anything else.

And I did everything he told me to do. I cut off all contact with the outside world, logged off my social media, closed every window, and shrank my life down to a single corner of that old villa.

He visited us regularly. He always brought gifts I liked, held me gently, kissed my forehead, and told me about everything he was doing for us.

“I found the best doctor for our daughter. I’ve arranged every step of her treatment.”

“I’ve talked to the publisher. They’ll handle your manuscripts quickly so nothing gets in the way of your creative work.”

“Your artworks are back online. No one’s criticizing you anymore.”

For a long time, I truly believed he was not only my husband but also my protector.

I thought as long as our family stayed united, life would eventually get better, and all the accusations against me and my daughter would be buried in the past.

All these years, he had been the center of my life—my steady support, the one person I trusted completely, without a single doubt.

God, I never imagined that this same man I’d given all my trust to, the one I relied on more than anyone, would secretly steal my paintings and give them to someone else I once considered my best friend!

He had lied to me for two freaking years!

The urge to run to the police burned inside me. I wanted to throw every piece of evidence into the light of day.

But I thought of my daughter still lying in that hospital bed, so I forced myself to stay quiet. Until the divorce was final, I couldn’t risk tipping him off.

My phone suddenly lit up. It was a notification about an email from the publishing house that had been persistently trying to reach me for the past two years.

[We’ve always believed your work is original. If you’re ready to publish, our doors are open to you anytime.]

Those words pierced through my despair like a thin ray of light.

My fingers trembled slightly on the keyboard on the screen.

For my daughter’s sake, I could hold myself back from exposing Erin right now. But one day, I would make sure the truth came out.

Still, when I thought about those paintings—each one drawn stroke by stroke through countless sleepless nights, every piece a little world I created for my little girl—and how Erin took them to build her and her son’s so-called “genius mother-and-son” image, using my love for my daughter to win applause, I felt so disgusted with hatred I almost threw up.

I immediately replied to the publisher.

[I want to publish my work now.]

I attached a new painting I had finished recently, one Winslow hadn’t even seen yet.

The editor replied almost instantly.

[That’s wonderful! We’ve been waiting for this moment for so long.]

I didn’t sleep that night. Excitement kept me awake. I thought it was finally the first step toward proving my worth.

But the next morning, the news shattered that hope.

[Genius Artist Erin Rothwell’s New Collection, “The Light of the Whale’s Fall,” Coming Soon!]

The featured image was unmistakable—my own painting, Moonlight Whale.

There was no need to ask how it happened.

Winslow must have had someone intercepting my submission!

I stood frozen, my throat tightening until no sound came out.

Then, the door opened, and he walked in, carrying my favorite dessert.

“Merry,” he said softly, “did you see the news?”

I stared at him, my voice raw. “Winslow! That was my painting! I made it for Elora!

“I know.” He nodded, his expression terrifyingly calm. “This time… think of it as your compensation. You give up a few signatures on your paintings to make up for hitting Erin. Fair enough, right?”

For a moment, I could only stare at him.

“Compensation?” I couldn’t believe my ears; my heart felt like it had been stabbed clean through. “Erin stole from me, destroyed my name, and you want me to compensate her?!”

He sighed and reached out to smooth my hair, as if calming a child.

“Come on, darling, don’t be upset. The Rothwells are in a very difficult situation right now. Erin needs the money. Once things settle down, trust me; I’ll make sure she returns the credit to you.”

I stepped back, my tears spilling down my face beyond my will. “You know how much those paintings mean to me!”

Every piece I had drawn in the past two years carried my soul. Each was made with the desperate hope of proving myself again, each one as precious to me as a second child.

He knew that too well. And yet, he had casually given them away to another woman!

I gritted my teeth. For the first time, I realized this might have been who he was all along—a man who never truly cared about my passion at all.

“I know,” he murmured, stepping closer.

His voice softened further, yet the pressure grew more suffocating.

“But darling, you have to understand, my mother still doesn’t know you’ve been painting; I’ve been hiding that fact from her for two years now. She believes a decent woman shouldn’t waste her time on art. She nearly made me divorce you once because of it. If she finds out you’re still doing that so-called low-class work, she’ll destroy you. And she won’t spare Elora either.”

Every word he spoke cut through me like knives.

He wrapped his arms around me, and though his embrace was familiar, I felt only coldness.

“Darling, I love you. I don’t want a divorce,” he whispered near my ear. “So let’s just hold on a little longer, okay? Don’t make my mom angry and tear us apart. When things calm down, I’ll clear everything up.”

“Slowly, I’ll help my mom understand that painting isn’t something shameful for my wife to do,” he added.

His voice was soft. His eyes looked sincere.

He looked like he truly loved me and was concerned for what was best for me.

But the more he spoke, the more nauseated I felt.

I tried to push him away, but his arms only tightened around me.

“Merry,” he murmured, “just endure it a little longer, and everything will be like before. I promise.”

“The Rothwells have done so much for me before,” he added. “I can’t just watch them fall now, you know.”

But what about me?

Did helping the Rothwells have to come at the cost of hurting me?

Did he really have to steal my paintings to do it?

Why?!

I clenched my jaw, tears blurring my vision. My nails dug deep into my palms, the sting forcing me to hold myself together instead of exploding.

The man standing before me was once the one I’d given everything up for—my dreams, my sense of self, all for love.

For Winslow, I learned etiquette, small talk, how to dress, and how to speak “properly.” I transformed from a free-spirited artist into the perfect wife everyone expected me to be.

When his mother sneered at my humble background, I buried every trace of my talent and learned how to smile gently and gracefully.

After Elora was born, I finally picked up my brush again, painting in secret in the quiet of the night. I posted my work anonymously online, craving just a little space where I still existed.

I thought Winslow understood me. He once told me my art had stories in it—that he believed in me, that I should never stop creating.

But now, he’d given my art, my conviction, and my name to someone else. He’d trampled on everything I ever loved.

Under my breath, I whispered, “Winslow, I don’t want to love you anymore.”

“What?” he asked, not quite hearing, though something uneasy flickered across his face.

He frowned slightly, his eyes soft and intent on me, as if he’d accept anything I said.

But I said nothing more.

Instead, I swallowed the disgust rising in my throat and forced a quiet compromise.

“Alright,” I said. “I’ll do as you say.”

Once the divorce papers were ready and he signed them, I’d finally be free.

He smiled then, tucking the blanket around me.

“That’s better. Don’t think about anything else. Focus on getting better. Leave the rest to me.”

Suddenly, the door opened, heels clicking against the floor. Erin walked in, looking radiant.

Her lips curved slightly, and then she said, “Merry, since you agreed, I’ll count on you to cooperate at my new book launch. You won’t let me down in front of the reporters, right?”

I lifted my head and looked at her. My heart bled slowly, inch by inch.

The woman before me was the only person I could call a friend in the first years after I married Wilson.

Back then, I was out of place—a nobody trying to navigate the polished chaos of high society.

The first party I attended after marrying into the family had been humiliating. I’d barely managed to get through the evening until Erin came over with that warm and easy smile, took my arm under everyone’s gaze, and raised her glass.

She was the one who taught me etiquette, how to talk, how to dress, and how to smile at the right people. She even coached me on how to handle Winslow’s relatives with grace.

Back then, I was awkward and grateful. I treated her like family.

Her life seemed perfect—her husband successful, her son well-behaved.

We’d shop together often, and she’d tease, “Merry, with your charm, Winslow probably can’t stand letting anyone else look at you too long.”

Later, when our children attended the same school, she’d suggest weekend trips together.

I still remember sitting on her lawn, watching her son chase Elora across the grass, the sunlight warm and kind.

She used to say, “I really envy you, Merry. Winslow has changed so much since marrying you. He’s so gentle now.”

I had trusted her completely like a best friend. I’d shared everything, even the arguments between me and my husband that no one else knew.

Only much later did I find out she and Winslow had been childhood sweethearts.

She’d been there through every chapter of his life—school, startup business, everything.

At my wedding, she stood among the guests, smiling so beautifully that even my mother-in-law praised her for her grace.

Back then, I never suspected a thing.

Looking back now, that “envy” she spoke of had never been admiration. It was jealousy.

She lowered her gaze, her tone soft, almost tender.

“For your precious daughter,” she murmured, “this small sacrifice of yours is nothing, isn’t it?”

I closed my eyes and pressed my nails into my palm until the pain steadied me.

“Fine,” I said quietly. “I’ll go.”

Before the press conference began, I sat alone backstage. The lawyer handed me the revised divorce agreement.

For the first time in weeks, I felt a flicker of relief.

Across the room, Erin was surrounded by makeup artists.

Winslow stood beside her, leaning slightly to fix her collar.

“Be careful on the steps. You don’t want to trip again,” he said gently.

That familiar gentle tone used to be mine.

But now, he was using it for another woman…

I froze in place, unable to swallow the tightness in my throat.

From the front rows, fans whispered excitedly.

“Oh my god! That CEO and Miss Erin really look perfect together!”

“He’s a business elite. She’s an artistic genius. They’re made for each other.”

“I heard they’ve been together for years, that they’re just keeping it a secret to avoid gossip…”

Then, someone laughed. “That woman—Merry, is it? She keeps hanging around Mr. Weinstein. Maybe she’s trying to be the mistress.”

My fingers trembled, nearly cutting into my skin.

Winslow had never once admitted publicly who his wife was.

Now, after I disappeared for two years, he and Erin appeared together so often that they had gained people who shipped them as a couple.

Now, I—the legal wife—had become someone who was trying to be the other woman.

When all three of us appeared on the same stage, he didn’t even bother to clarify anything.

After a while, the conference officially began.

Erin walked onstage, her hand resting on Winslow’s arm, glowing under the lights I used to dream about. Her smile was sweet and wide.

“I’ve always believed,” she began, “that art has no hierarchy. As long as there’s love, it can create beauty.”

Winslow smiled, patting her back lightly.

Seeing that, a reporter asked out loud, “Mr. Weinstein, what do you think of Miss Erin’s work?”

He smiled. “I’m very proud of her. She’s a woman I…” He paused, catching everyone’s attention. “I greatly admire and an artist I deeply respect. She deserves everything she has today.”

Applause broke out at his answer.

The flashing cameras cut into my heart, sharp as blades.

He once looked at me the same way, holding my hand as we walked down the aisle, calling me his greatest pride.

His touch had been warm then, and I felt safe.

But now, none of that belonged to me anymore.

I lowered my head, trying to make myself invisible.

But one reporter deliberately turned the spotlight on me.

“Ms. Webberley. What’s your response to the plagiarism accusations online?”

Erin feigned a wounded look, her eyes glistening.

“She’s just… very passionate about art,” she cut in. “I understand her. We were once the best of friends, and she used to help me refine my sketches. I can’t clear up all the misunderstandings, but I truly hope she can move past all this.”

Whispers rippled through the audience.

“Didn’t Merry just get famous off hype anyway?”

“I heard she tried to ruin someone’s marriage and got caught by the real wife, then was forced to leave the industry.”

I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. I forced myself to endure it all, pretending I didn’t hear anything.

But then someone laughed and said something my ears couldn’t just ignore.

“Her daughter wasn’t any better, was she? I heard she tried to seduce a classmate, got caught, and jumped to her death.”

In an instant, I felt the blood in my veins run cold.

Before I even realized it, I was on my feet, kicking the table. It crashed to the floor with a startling thud, sending the glass of water shattering across the stage.

Gasps rippled through the crowd, flashes bursting from every direction.

I grabbed the paper cutter from the table and pressed it to my neck, drawing every pair of eyes toward me.

“My daughter isn’t dead!” My voice was hoarse, trembling between fury and grief. “You can insult me all you want, but you don’t get to slander my child!”

The room fell silent.

“All of those paintings are mine!” I cried, my voice breaking apart. “Erin stole my work! I am the real artist of these paintings, and my daughter jumped because her son and his friends bullied her until she couldn’t take it anymore!”

Flashes went off again, blinding and relentless.

Some people took pictures, others laughed, and others shouted.

Erin clutched her chest and rushed toward me.

“Merry, calm down!” she cried, voice trembling as she ran onto the stage. She pressed a hand over my mouth, her other hand tangling painfully in my hair. “How could you say that? We were best friends, weren’t we? How could you slander me like this?”

I tried to push her away, but she pinned me down, her fingers digging into the fresh wound on my shoulder.

“You bitch!” she hissed under her breath.

Pain seared through me. I shoved back, but she suddenly lunged forward, and my footing slipped. The blade clattered to the floor.

Erin stumbled backward, pretending to reach for me, then lost her balance.

“Ahhh!”

Her scream cut through the noise as she fell down the stairs, her skirt billowing before she hit the ground below.

The reporters were alarmed.

“Sh-She’s bleeding!”

“Oh my god! She’s pregnant?!”

Chaos tore through the room.

Someone bumped into me hard, and pain shot through my shoulder. I just stood frozen, staring at the pool of red spreading across the floor.

Winslow pushed through the crowd and dropped to his knees beside Erin, frantically lifting her.

“Erin, don’t be afraid. I’m here,” he said, his voice trembling, his eyes worried.

Blood was all over his hands. He didn’t even glance in my direction.

“Winslow…” she sobbed weakly, barely conscious. “The baby… Our baby’s gone…”

“The baby’s okay. The baby’s okay. We’ll get you to the hospital. Don’t be scared,” he replied, trying to calm her.

He lifted her into his arms, his eyes full of pain.

And I just stood there, staring at the bloodstains on the floor, my whole body cold.

The press surrounded me, mocking and condemning me like a relentless tide.

“This woman lost her mind!”

“She wanted Miss Erin to miscarry!”

“What a monster!”

I reached out, trying to explain, but before I could, Winslow finally looked at me.

That single glance froze me in place. It was sharper than any accusations.

“Merry,” he said in a low voice in between gritted teeth, “you’ve really disappointed me this time.”

I opened my mouth to defend myself, but he stepped forward and shoved me hard aside.

“Lock her in the basement,” he ordered his assistant coldly. “Let her think about what she’s done!”

I hit the floor hard, the edge of the stair striking my arm. Pain exploded as the wound split open, blood tracing a slow path down my skin.

Winslow paused for a moment, as if wanting to say something, but then he swallowed it back.

Turning away, he carried Erin out, stumbling out of the crowd, disappearing in the blinding flashes.

I lay there, listening to the noise and chaos fading into the distance, until security dragged me away.

They took me back to the old villa.

The basement was dim, the single lightbulb above me flickering weakly.

They threw me inside and slammed the door shut with a loud bang.

I curled up on the cold floor, shaking uncontrollably with every breath.

It was deep into the night when I finally heard Winslow’s low and restrained voice outside the door.

“Merry, you were too impulsive! Erin lost the baby because of you! Stay here and think about what you’ve done!”

A bitter laugh broke from my throat, the sound scraping raw. I was laughing until tears blurred my eyes.

“Her miscarriage has nothing to do with me.”

He fell silent until his tone broke with anger and loss of control.

“Whether it has or has not, she’s innocent. You lost your shit in front of the press and brought scandal to the company! Merry… I really can’t protect you anymore.”

I leaned back against the cold wall, my eyes emptying of warmth as I listened to his footsteps retreating and fading down the hall.

I lifted my head, looking up at the flickering bulb overhead.

It blinked again and again, each flash reflecting the blood that covered my hands.