My fingers tightened around the brush until my knuckles turned pale. I dipped it in paint out of habit, then realized I had nowhere else to paint. If Anthony had just taken two more steps forward, he would've seen that I was painting the moment we first met.
After a quiet beat, I tore open the black paint in the corner and dumped it over the canvas. One bucket, two buckets, three buckets…
I kept going until every outline disappeared. Then, I pressed the divorce papers onto the paint. In small white letters, I added a note. "I won't remarry you, Anthony."
…
That night, Anthony didn't come home. He only sent me a quick message. "I'll stay at Tanya's place for the next seven days. Don't wait up. I'll see you at City Hall at 9:00 am on the seventh day."
Before I could reply, I saw that Tanya had rushed to share a photo on her social media of their fingers laced together. "He's divorced and my seven-day exclusive."
In the photo, Anthony was not wearing his wedding ring. Aside from a faint band that didn't quite match the rest of his skin, there was no visible proof that we'd even been in love.
It was only then that I realized I was divorced. I raised my hand to take off my ring, too, but the band that slipped on perfectly seven years ago was now jammed tight at the knuckle. No matter what I did, it wouldn't budge.
Maybe I should just give up, I thought. It was just a ring. It didn't mean anything.
However, a second later, Tanya sent me a photo. The wedding ring that had disappeared from Anthony's hand was now snug on the paw of her toy poodle. Almost as if she were worried I'd miss the details, she shot 13 photos from different angles, each captioned with a smiling emoji.
She wrapped up her taunt with a message. "Giselle, Anthony says that he's going all in since he's putting on an act. So, for these seven days, you'll have to be married to my dog."
She included a heart emoji at the end.
My face hardened. I immediately called the jeweler who made our rings. Whatever it took, the ring had to come off tomorrow.
The following day, the staff from the jewelry store came to help remove the ring. Emma Bronson, my usually bubbly assistant, was oddly hesitant.
"What is it?" I asked.
She pressed her lips together and said carefully, "Mrs. Walker, I received a hotel charge under Mr. Walker's name at Livern Hotel. He booked a luxury couple's suite and a whole truckload of roses. The note says they're for Tanya Lindt."
I didn't say anything, not because I was hurt, but because I suddenly remembered something. Anthony had once done the same thing for me and given me roses. 9,999 in total, to be exact. There'd been so many of them that I couldn't hold them with both arms.
He'd said, "If one rose is one promise of love, I'm giving you 9,999 promises. You'll never have to envy anyone."
It turned out a man could use the same trick twice.
The villa door suddenly swung open. Anthony came in, and his neck was marked with hickeys. When he saw the people in the living room, he tossed out a casual question. "Why are there so many people here?"
I didn't even look up. "They're from the jewelry store. They're removing my ring."
He froze. "We're getting remarried in six days. Why bother taking it off?"
"What about you? Didn't you already take yours off?" I asked in return.
He fumbled at that, looking a little guilty. Then, he quickly grew angry. "You're so dramatic."
With that, he stormed upstairs and shouted for the housekeeper to pack his things.
Emma whispered that Anthony kept wandering back and forth upstairs, occasionally stopping and glancing in my direction.
I smiled, not thinking much of it.
Ten minutes later, the staff gave me a verdict. "Miss, the ring is too tight. We really can't get it off. If you really want it off, we'd have to cut it with a tool. But since you're a painter, I'd suggest that you don't take that risk."
