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.”
