After that day, I grew colder toward Erving.
Even though we lived under the same roof, I barely acknowledged him anymore, no matter how many times he tried to start a conversation.
Then one morning, he suddenly came to me and said the arrangements for my mother’s funeral were finalized.
The early wind was sharp and cold, pressing the fabric of my plain dress tightly against my legs.
I stared at the black car parked in front of me, my voice came out rough and faint when I asked, “The cemetery and the ceremony… Is everything really settled?”
Erving walked over and adjusted my scarf for me, his tone unnaturally gentle. “Don’t worry. Everything’s set. Today, we’re just meeting a few elders to go over the details and to thank your mother’s old friends. She deserves a dignified farewell.”
I clenched my fists and slid into the car without another word.
Outside the window, the scenery began to grow unfamiliar—quiet streets gave way to the glittering lights of the city center. We were moving farther and farther away from the direction of the cemetery.
A bad feeling surged through me. I was about to ask when the car came to a stop.
In front of me stood the massive glass façade of the New York County Museum of Art, its walls covered with a towering poster.
On it, Anya smiled radiantly in a flowing white dress. Behind her was the silhouette of that nude painting—the one that had destroyed my reputation. Printed below in bold letters were the words [Anya Heffernan Solo Exhibition].
“Erving!” My voice cracked as I turned to him in disbelief. “This isn’t the place for a funeral arrangement! You lied to me?!”
He unbuckled his seatbelt slowly, his earlier gentleness gone, leaving only a cold, matter-of-fact tone. “Anya’s exhibit is critical to her career. It could affect future business partnerships. You showing up would draw more attention.”
It felt like I’d just heard the cruelest joke in the world. Tears stung my eyes before I could stop them.
“Draw attention? You mean parading my humiliation for her benefit?” My voice shook. “You know damn well who she painted! My mother isn’t even buried yet, and you tricked me into attending the art exhibit of the woman who killed her?”
“Just shut up!” His brows furrowed, voice hardening as he grabbed my wrist. “I know what I’m doing with the funeral. Don’t make a scene here.”
His grip was painfully tight. I struggled, but he dragged me inside half by force.
The moment we stepped into the exhibition hall, the noise and flashing lights stung my eyes.
Anya approached at once, dressed in the same color palette as Erving, her skirt swaying gracefully. Her gaze carried a barely concealed triumph.
Erving immediately let go of me and strode toward her. He placed a hand on her arm and said with concern, “Why are you dressed so lightly? Aren’t you cold?”
“Not at all,” she replied sweetly. “You picked this dress for me. I’d wear it even if it snowed.”
As she spoke, her eyes flicked toward my pale face, and a smirk tugged at her lips.
I stood frozen, pain spreading quietly through my chest.
Years ago, when I wore an off-shoulder dress to my first film festival, Erving had glared from the audience. Afterward, he wrapped me in his coat and carried me to the car, scolding, “You’re never wearing something that revealing again.”
Back then, his eyes were full of me. Now, they saw no one but Anya.
Before I could even process that cruel contrast, reporters swarmed around me, microphones nearly brushing my face.
“Mandy, your mother hasn’t been buried yet, but you came to Anya’s art exhibit. Are you confirming you were the model for her painting?”
“Mandy, seeing how much Mr. Pollock favors Anya, does this mean your position as his wife is at risk?”
“Did you volunteer to pose nude for her? Are you really as… open as the rumors say?”
Their shameless questions cut into me like salt poured over a wound.
I opened my mouth to say I’d been tricked here. But before I could, Erving grabbed my wrist.
He pulled me closer, addressing the press with calm detachment. “It’s just family support. Please don’t overinterpret it. Mandy has just suffered a loss; her emotions are unstable. Let’s keep the focus on the exhibition.”
Then he released me and turned away, greeting businessmen with that polite smile of his. His arm slid naturally around Anya’s shoulders as he introduced, “This is Anya Heffernan, one of the most gifted young painters I’ve ever met.”
The crowd around them erupted with compliments. Anya leaned shyly into Erving, looking every bit like his wife.
I was left standing there, looking the most awkward person in the room.
Some people pointed at me and gossiped, their mocking laughter sharp in my ears.
Finally, I couldn’t bear it anymore. I strode forward, grabbed Erving’s sleeve, and hissed, “Erving, that’s enough! You tricked me here to make a fool of me—is this fun for you? I’m leaving!”
In an instant, his smile froze. When he turned to me, his eyes were already cold.
He shook off my hand violently. I stumbled backward, slamming into a display rack. I gasped as pain shot through me.
“Have you lost your mind?” he snapped. “Nothing can go wrong at Anya’s exhibit!”
Anya hurried over, pretending to help me up. But as she leaned close, she whispered, “Bitch, just face it. The only person in his heart now… is me.”
Then, with a quiver in her voice, she turned to Erving, her eyes misty. “Erving, maybe I shouldn’t have held this exhibit. Should I end it now? I don’t want to upset her...”
“This has nothing to do with you,” he said at once, shielding her behind him.
I stared at the sight of him protecting her, and at that moment, the tears I’d been holding back finally broke free.
My lips trembled into a bitter smile. “Erving… What do you even see me as? If that love we had was ever real, then I’m begging you, let me go. Let me keep at least a shred of my dignity.”
