Nearly four years after I divorced Russell Montgomery, I asked him to meet me.

I brought our four-year-old daughter. I was dying, and I needed to know whether the man who had destroyed my life could give her a home.

Our eyes met, and I broke the silence. “How’ve things been with Gianna Hamilton all these years?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just watched me for a beat. Then, “Magdalena, you’ve really changed.”

I didn’t argue. I just smiled faintly and gently nudged my daughter toward him. “I need you to take care of Lilyana. I can’t do it anymore.”

Russell’s brows knitted together. He let out a cold laugh. “You fought like hell to keep Lilyana back then, Magdalena. What’s this supposed to mean now?”

I took a step back, looked at Lilyana’s innocent eyes, and tried to steady my voice. “It doesn’t mean anything. Just that I can’t keep her anymore.”

Inside my coat pocket, my fingers tightened around the oncology report, and forced my gaze away from Lilyana’s face. My future was already gone.

…

It wasn’t until the manager brought the cake to the table that I realized I’d been holding my breath for way too long. “Your daughter’s gotten so big! It’s been a while since you all came in together,” Gwen Ortiz smiled, looking from me to Russell. “Mr. Montgomery, you’re always so thoughtful—coming by every day to pick up an order.”

I blinked, taken aback, then shook my head at Gwen. “We’re... just friends.”

The words hung in the air. Russell’s eyebrows furrowed even more, but he didn’t say anything. He just pushed the mango cake toward me.

“Mango’s still your favorite, isn’t it?”

I stared at the delicate mango cake on the table. It used to be my favorite. But I couldn’t have it anymore. These days, even a few bites could leave me nauseated and doubled over in pain. Most mornings, I could barely manage toast.

“Take it home for your wife,” I said, pushing the cake back toward him, my voice steady.

“Magdalena.” Russell’s expression darkened, his voice edged with irritation.

I avoided his eyes, gave Gwen an apologetic smile, and picked up my bag to leave.

As I passed him, Lilyana suddenly reached out, her tiny hand stretching toward me as she softly called, “Mommy—”

I stopped dead in my tracks. My eyes burned instantly.

But I couldn’t stop.

I quickened my pace, practically fleeing from the café.

Behind me, Russell’s voice called my name. But the wind was too loud and my tears too hot—I couldn’t hear a thing.

I walked until I was far enough away, then stopped, clutching the diagnosis letter in my pocket until it crumpled.

I took a deep breath, willed my tears to stop, and tossed the diagnosis into a nearby trash bin.

The wind lifted my sleeve, revealing an old scar. I hesitated, suddenly remembering this was nearly four years since my divorce from Russell, and the first month since my terminal stomach cancer diagnosis.

It wasn’t the breakdown I’d imagined. Not the devastation I felt when I first got the report. All I could think about was Lilyana.

I buttoned up my coat and headed to my cramped apartment.

When I reached my tiny room, I had just pulled out my keys when the door next to mine opened. My roommate, Esperanza Ramirez, poked her head out. “Hey, Maggie, you’re back? Where’s Lilyana? A package got mixed up with mine when I grabbed the mail this afternoon. I left it by your door.”

“Thanks.”

I looked down. Sure enough, a small cardboard box was leaning against my door.

My right hand started shaking again. I pressed it against my side and squatted to open the box.

On top lay a letter, the envelope bearing Russell Montgomery’s elegant handwriting.

“To Magdalena Stephens”

Esperanza leaned in curiously. “Wow. Who’s it from? That handwriting is gorgeous.”

She tilted her head to read the signature, and when she recognized it, she gasped.

“Russell Montgomery? Wait—the Russell Montgomery from the Montgomery Group? The one in financial magazines? The ridiculously handsome genius artist?!”

She drew a sharp breath, her eyes sparkling with admiration. “Maggie, you know him? How have you never mentioned this?”

I brushed the letter aside like it was nothing, looked at the old items inside the box, and shook my head. My tone stayed calm.

“I’m his ex-wife.”

The ex-wife everyone whispered about—anxious, insecure, blacklisted from the art world for plagiarism. The one whose life he’d personally ruined. The stain on his perfect life.

Esperanza had about a million questions. Eventually, I caved and told her the story of Russell Montgomery and me.

I first met Russell when he was a broke art student, sitting on the sidewalk outside our art school, sketching portraits for anyone who'd pay. Ten bucks a drawing, rain or shine.

That winter was brutal. I was leaving class when I saw a security guard shooing him off. His easel toppled over, and a freshly finished portrait got crushed underfoot. He didn't say a word—just bent down and picked it up.

I couldn't just stand there and watch. So I brought him to the school cafeteria and bought him a bowl of hot chicken noodle soup. That's when I learned more about him. He couldn't afford to enroll. A sympathetic instructor let him sit in on a few classes, and he slept on a worn-out couch in a friend's drafty garage, working odd jobs to cover his share of the groceries.

His talent was undeniable. Even as an enrolled art student, I was in awe of him. My father, Simon Stephens, had made a name for himself as an artist by then. I introduced them, and after that, Russell's career took off.

My father became his mentor, guiding him into the art world and helping him find work. Two years later, Russell won a major international juried competition with his painting "Whisper." It made him famous overnight.

The broke kid who'd once been chased off by security became the art world's golden boy, celebrated by everyone.

At his celebration party, he pulled my father into a fierce hug, then stood beside him with one hand on his shoulder.

"Mr. Stephens, if it weren't for you and Magdalena, I wouldn't be standing here today."

"I'll spend the rest of my life repaying you both!"

Russell's career exploded, but he always kept me close.

His first solo exhibition was named after me. When a collector offered a fortune for a painting of me, Russell refused to sell it. At the exhibition opening, he gave it to me instead, then got down on one knee and proposed.

At the time, I was starting to make a name for myself, but with all the media coverage, I kept second-guessing whether I truly deserved to share in his success. When he found out, he set the record straight in an interview:

"I should have died that winter, but Magdalena saved me. She's my guiding star."

"My life belongs to her. I love her."

"No matter how high I soar, there's only Magdalena Stephens for me—for the rest of my life."

His love was passionate and all-consuming.

He loved me like that.

And later, he loved someone else the exact same way.

"He cheated on you?" Esperanza gasped, disbelief written all over her face.

"You two were solid—from school days to marriage—and he... he cheated?"

"Was she some wealthy heiress? An A-list celebrity? Or at least drop-dead gorgeous?"

I shook my head.

The woman Russell cheated with was Gianna Hamilton—a struggling art student I had helped. She was delicate and sweet, though not especially striking.

By the time I was twenty-five, Russell had made it in the art world. He no longer had to worry about making ends meet. Instead, he took on students, gave lectures, and soaked up the admiration.

Among his students, his favorite was Gianna—the very one I'd introduced into his circle.

"Look at this painting of hers," he'd say. "Her technique's still developing, but she has the right spirit."

"That same drive to create—I had it back then, too."

He loved watching a blank canvas evolve under his guidance, whether it was a painting or a person.

I couldn't wrap my head around Russell's perspective. Art seemed simple: paint if you love it, don't if you don't. Why complicate things?

But Gianna got it.

She'd look up at him, her eyes shining with admiration.

"You're right. All I have is my passion."

"But someday, I'll be someone like you."

Art drew them closer.

But I was the one who introduced them.

After Gianna Hamilton started seeking Russell Montgomery's mentorship for her work, our duplex slowly filled with her early pieces, and the two of them grew closer—anyone could see it.

Then, out of nowhere, Russell announced he wanted to sponsor Gianna's studies abroad. “She's only twenty. Insanely talented. Driven. Keeping her here would just waste her potential.”

At first, I disagreed. But then I saw Gianna standing off to the side, nervously twisting her paint-stained fingers—paint that wouldn't wash off—and she looked at me with those hopeful eyes. “Maggie, I swear I'll make the most of this. Growing up in foster care, getting into the art academy felt like a dream. I owe it all to you and Mr. Montgomery...”

For a second, I saw Russell the way he'd been that winter, picking up his fallen easel—helpless, humble, and stubborn as hell. My heart softened before I could stop it.

Eventually, I was the one introducing her to new experiences, teaching her the ropes, helping her make connections. She'd cling to my arm, tears in her eyes, promising to repay me.

Then, that fall, everything changed.

For two years, I'd been working on my piece, “Afterglow.” It had been shortlisted for a prestigious juried competition for emerging artists. The winner received a grant and a solo exhibition—exactly the break I needed. But one week before the exhibition, the organizers announced Gianna's “Sunset” as the winning entry. The composition, the brushwork, the mood—all of it was eerily close to mine.

I stared at the painting until I went cold all over, then left my studio to confront her. When I got to her building, Russell's car was parked outside.

My whole body shook as I stormed upstairs and shoved the door open.

There they were—tangled up together, barely dressed. Clothes were scattered everywhere. But my eyes went straight to the draft on the floor. The one I'd left unfinished in my studio.

I screamed and threw my bag as hard as I could. It smashed into the paintings on the wall, the trophies on the table. Russell stepped in front of Gianna, shielding her, his eyes ice-cold as he watched me fall apart.

“Magdalena, have you had enough? Do you enjoy making a scene?”

I pointed at the sketches on the floor, my voice shaking. “She plagiarized me! Russell, can't you see? That's my work!”

I lunged for Gianna, but Russell caught my wrist and held it tight.

“Magdalena, I guided that painting. You claim she copied you—where's the proof?”

I stared at him, disbelief cutting through me, and slapped him hard across the face with my free hand. “Russell Montgomery, have you lost your damn mind?”

Russell rubbed his cheek, his voice flat. “Are you happy now?”

“Gianna has come so far. She's an orphan. No background, no support, no one but herself. Can't you show a little generosity?”

Gianna clutched the sketches and caught at my sleeve. “Maggie, I... I really love Russell... I'll give up the work. Just please—let me stay by his side!”

That night, I couldn't sleep. I put every piece of evidence into a statement and sent it to every contact I had in the art world. But instead of justice, I got a demand to retract everything, followed by a defamation lawsuit from Gianna. Russell paid for her lawyers.

Months later, at a hearing in that case, he stood in front of everyone, looking straight at me, and said, word by word, “‘Sunset’ is a collaborative piece between Gianna and me. Magdalena's ‘Afterglow’ is adapted from Gianna's preliminary sketches.”

“She's the plagiarist.”

The courtroom erupted.

I sat beside my attorney, feeling like every drop of blood had been drained from my body. I wanted to stand up, to refute him, to scream that he was lying. My attorney pressed a hand to my arm and told me we would have our turn. I could barely hear her.

Only then did I realize he had already chosen whose side he was on. He was determined to bury me in the dirt.

Afterward, I locked myself in the studio, going over those sketches again and again, comparing them to Gianna's painting.

Every stroke was unmistakably mine. And yet they branded me the thief.

When Russell came to see me, it was already past midnight. He stood at the studio door, speaking like he was soothing a disobedient child.

“Magdalena, this ends now. Gianna will go abroad; I'll help restore some of your reputation.”

I lifted my head, tears streaming down my face, and shouted at him, almost hysterical: “Russell Montgomery, you know what that painting means to me.”

He was silent for a few seconds. Then he said, “I know.”

“But Gianna needs this opportunity more than you do. You have me and Simon Stephens backing you. You can afford to lose. She can't.”

I can afford to lose?

I stared at him and suddenly laughed. “So what? I should just hand my painting over to her?”

“I'm asking you to let this go. One painting, Magdalena. You can make another.”

I didn't say another word. I stood up and reached for the final draft of “Afterglow” on the easel.

The dated sketches clipped behind it were the last proof I had.

Russell suddenly moved forward, reaching for the painting. Before I could react, he grabbed my wrist and pinned my hand down.

One by one, he twisted my fingers back.

The pain made my vision go dark. I couldn't even scream.

“Magdalena, after all these years, that hand means everything to you, doesn't it?”

I knelt on the ground, tears blurring my vision.

He snatched the dated sketches from behind the canvas and tore them apart. Then he carried off the original painting.

I heard him lock the door behind him. By the time I reached a phone and called for help, he was gone.

At the emergency room, I told the nurse what he had done. A report was taken. His lawyer later claimed I had injured myself during an argument; Russell denied everything, and Gianna backed his story. No charges followed then. My attorney kept the medical records, but without the dated studies, the art case became harder to prove.

“Remember this pain.”

“From now on, stay away from Gianna. And stay out of my business.”

I laughed bitterly and shrugged.

Esperanza, though, was already crying, holding my trembling right hand. “Your hand...”

The fractures healed badly, and the nerve damage left my right hand trembling and weak. Surgery and therapy helped with the pain, but I never regained the control I needed for fine brushwork.

My father spent the next few weeks calling gallery owners and former students, asking them to look at my work before they judged me. Most stopped returning his calls.

He sounded tired whenever we spoke, but he kept asking about my hand instead of himself. I thought we still had time to help each other.

Then he took his own life at home. For years, I replayed our last conversation, searching for something I should have heard.

The day I lost my father, I fainted and was taken to the hospital. That was where I learned I was pregnant.