On our third anniversary, Wesley Crowe covered my eyes with his hands and whispered that he had a surprise for me.
When I opened them, I was met with a painting—of myself—locked in intimate embraces with over thirty male models. The scene was beyond suggestive.
Furious, I demanded, “Is this supposed to be a gift—or a fucking insult?”
He shrugged nonchalantly. “It’s art. Just a few paintings. It’s not like you were actually making out with those men. Why are you so sensitive?”
“Julia spent several nights working on them for you. She stayed up until dawn, her hands rubbed raw.”
He reached out and gently cupped Julia Dorne’s hand—his college junior—with such tenderness, it was as if the slightest scratch on her would shatter him.
So this is what I meant to Wesley: my dignity was disposable, but Julia’s every little bruise was sacred.
…
“Clara Bishop, are you upset?”
Julia’s voice was sugary and light, but her eyes began to well up with tears as she pouted dramatically.
Wesley turned to her, gently brushing away tears that weren’t even there.
“Don’t mind her. She’s just a basic woman—no taste, no sense of romance.”
“Sweet dummy,” he cooed, “I told you just one painting, didn’t I? You went overboard. Does your hand hurt?”
So this was their grand plan—a commemorative anniversary gift, just for me.
Fine. Then I’ll treat it as a parting gift.
Wesley told Julia she could ask for a reward.
She pointed to a painting Wesley had given me when we got married—a symbolic piece meant to represent a lifetime together.
“I want that one, Wesley,” she said, raising the hand he was holding high on purpose.
Scenes like this had played out countless times over the past few years.
Before, I’d refuse. Argue. Fight him tooth and nail.
But now, I just said, “If you like it, take it.”
Wesley froze. He hadn’t expected me to give in so easily.
But a second later, he was back to his usual smug self. “You keeping it would’ve been a waste anyway.”
“Maybe you don’t know, but Julia runs an account—Little Painter—she explains art and has tons of followers.”
I scoffed, not bothering to respond.
The bitter irony was, I had secretly created that account in the first place—just to have something to talk about with Wesley.
Now even that had been stolen by Julia.
When I told him the account was mine, Wesley sneered.
“Clara, what the hell do you know about art? Don’t go pretending you’re someone you’re not.”
She could take the man, but not the one thing that had actually been mine?
“Oh, come on. Don’t be petty. If you’re really that upset, I’ll paint something just for you next time.”
I didn’t reply. I just stared at Julia coldly.
Looking uncomfortable, she muttered something about craving milk tea. Without hesitation, Wesley grabbed her hand and led her out the door.
And yet, for three years, he had forbidden me from drinking milk tea.
He once said that the artificial scent made him nauseous while he was working.
My heart sank. I took the expensive red wine I’d bought to celebrate the evening, uncorked it, and poured it down the drain.
As I entered the bedroom, I was struck by a strong, unfamiliar perfume.
This room—once a private, sacred space between Wesley and me—now reeked of another woman.
I have chronic asthma. Wesley knew that. He had always made sure our room was free of irritating scents.
But now, he had broken even his own rules.
I turned toward the bathroom and noticed something on the sink—a hand cream, the same brand I used.
He used to say it had a gentle scent, perfect for me. Every year, he’d buy it for me ahead of time.
But this year, I’d waited... and waited... and it never came.
Just then, my phone rang. Wesley’s voice was impatient.
“Julia says you didn’t like her painting. She left crying the second we walked out.”
“She’s young, Clara. Doesn’t know how to handle situations like this. I’ve got to comfort her.”
“Come apologize to her. Let’s put this behind us.”
I thought this might be a chance to clear the air, so I agreed to meet them downstairs at the hotel.
I handed the hand cream to Julia.
She looked at me with mock surprise. “Oh! So that’s where it went. I was wondering why I couldn’t find it. Turns out Clara took it!”
“This was a gift from Wesley. I can’t just let you—”
Before I could finish, Julia turned the story on its head, playing the victim flawlessly.
And Wesley bought it.
“Clara, you already have one. Why would you take hers?”
