I had no intention of arguing and turned to leave, but Wesley grabbed my arm.
Behind me, Julia let out a delicate cry.
She’d accidentally touched the scraped skin on her hand while applying hand cream.
Without hesitation, Wesley let go of me and rushed to comfort her like she was some fragile treasure, gently blowing on her wound.
“I’ll take Julia home first. You wait for me at the house.”
Wesley’s heart had once again tilted toward Julia.
I watched their silhouettes disappear into the distance, then went home alone to draft the divorce agreement.
I had hoped to get a good night’s sleep, but the lingering scent of perfume in the room was suffocating.
Somehow, I drifted off on the sofa, but in the middle of the night, I was jolted awake by a crushing tightness in my chest and a relentless cough.
The living room was pitch black. Wesley hadn’t come home.
I scrambled to find my medication and took it. I hadn’t had an attack in years, but this one hit with brutal force.
I called Wesley—no answer.
I sent him a message.
Julia responded almost immediately with a photo of Wesley asleep beside her.
[Clara, Wesley was so exhausted from taking care of me that he fell asleep.]
[I’m really envious of you. He must take such good care of you all the time, doesn’t he?]
Even though I had made up my mind to let go, the pain in my chest surged—whether it was emotional or physical, I couldn’t tell.
When I needed Wesley the most, he wasn’t there.
So there was no reason for him to come back now.
I texted my best friend in a panic and had her rush me to the hospital.
After a series of tests, Dr. Hawke confirmed it was an asthma relapse triggered by an allergic reaction.
My first thought was Julia—her perfume, her paintings.
That night, I hired someone to seal away every one of her disgusting paintings.
I didn’t want to return to that so-called home.
In the morning, Wesley called.
His voice was tinged with fatigue.
“I didn’t come home last night. I got another room at the hotel. Don’t get the wrong idea.”
It was the first time Wesley had ever bothered to explain himself.
I answered simply, even though I no longer cared.
But then he turned the blame on me.
“Where are you? Are you seriously throwing a tantrum and staying out all night over something so petty?”
In the past three years, because Wesley preferred working on his art late into the night, I had never once stayed out overnight.
Every morning, I’d make him breakfast before heading to work.
But ever since Julia came into the picture, he’d constantly stay out—always with some excuse.
Julia hit a creative block. Julia’s easel broke and needed fixing.
When I didn’t respond, Wesley raised his voice.
“I’m talking to you!”
I wanted to tell him I’d had an asthma attack, but at that moment, I heard Julia’s voice through the phone.
“Wesley, where are the paintings I gave Clara? They’re gone!”
A heavy silence followed, then Wesley’s anger exploded.
“Clara, this is too much!”
“I get that you don’t like them, but they were a gift from Julia. How could you just throw them away?”
Julia’s crying grew louder on the other end of the line.
“Clara! You better go find those paintings—right now. Or don’t bother coming back!”
Wesley hung up before I could say a word.
He used to always wait for me to end the call first.
He probably forgot that this apartment—the one we live in now—I found it after visiting countless agencies, even begging the landlord to knock off two hundred dollars just to afford it.
Wesley never once asked what the rent was.
By the time I got home with my resignation letter, it was nearly noon.
Wesley saw the paper and frowned. “You quit your job? Why?”
