Chapter 3

"Dr. Henry, the patient's gone into shock! What should we do?"

The frantic voice pierced the haze of my drifting consciousness. Somewhere in the chaos, someone called my name, begging me not to die.

I clawed my way back to awareness, just enough to sense the room shift. The rescue operation had reached its most critical moment, and that's when Matthew finally made his grand entrance.

But he didn't come alone.

Trailing behind him was a mob of media reporters, their cameras poised and ready, flashing like a thousand little suns. The blinding lights turned the operating room into a grotesque stage. Matthew strode forward with calculated purpose, taking the surgical knife from Allan's hand.

I lay frozen, helpless, a wave of panic crashing over me as he approached.

With swift, practiced movements, Matthew finished the surgery, pausing only to dab at his brow theatrically for the cameras.

"I've done it," he announced to the lenses with a noble air. "I've saved my wife. If I'd lost her, I'd live with the guilt for the rest of my life."

My lips twitched into a bitter, humorless smile. From the corner of my eye, I caught Allan glancing at me.

Then the dizziness hit me like a storm, and I surrendered to the black void.

When I opened my eyes again, it was a week later.

The first thing I saw was Leona, lounging in the bed beside mine. Matthew sat next to her, cradling her like she was spun from the most delicate silk. He fed her spoonfuls of nutritional soup, carefully blowing on each one to cool it before offering it to her lips.

The sight turned my stomach.

Leona, the woman who'd stolen his affection and warmth, was lounging there like a queen. Her injury? A mere scratch.

Noticing I'd woken, Matthew turned and tossed a bright red invitation onto my blanket with a casual flick of his wrist.

"Stop pretending to be weak. Leona's art exhibit is the day after tomorrow. Make sure you clean yourself up and look presentable."

I stared at the scarlet card against the stark white of the hospital sheet. Its color burned into my eyes like an insult.

Taking a slow, steadying breath, I made my decision.

"Matthew," I said, my voice cold and firm. "Let's divorce."

The room fell so silent you could hear the faint hum of the medical equipment. For a long moment, Matthew said nothing. Then his voice, edged with incredulity, broke the stillness.

"Do you even know what you're saying? Where would you go without me?"

His tone shifted, laced with irritation. "It's just a few paintings, for heaven's sake! It's not like I asked for your life. Stop using divorce as some kind of threat."

A bitter laugh bubbled in my throat. I had been Leona's ghost painter for years, the unseen hand behind the works that had earned her the title of a prodigious oil painting genius. Yet she couldn't even tell lemon yellow from canary yellow.

Every canvas she claimed as her own was the product of my sleepless nights, my endless toil.

I watched as Matthew wrapped his arms around her and walked out of the room, their shadows merging into one.

In that moment, I vowed silently to myself: they would pay for this. Every bit of it.