A bitter laugh escaped me. "Go on," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "Your children need you."
Julian fled in a panic, never once looking back at me, the rush of air he left in his wake brushing against my face.
I sat alone in the darkness, without turning on the lights, and without crying. I knew Julian would probably never marry Chloe. But because of those two children, he would be called away by her again and again.
I had painted thousands of pictures, where light, color, and lines were distinct yet harmoniously unified. But my own life had been forcibly invaded by a garish, discordant color.
If I didn't get a divorce, how long would I have to endure this contamination? A lifetime?
A familiar wave of dizziness washed over me, and my hands began to tremble uncontrollably. I curled up on the sofa and opened my phone.
Chloe had posted an Instagram Story. In the photo, Julian stood vigil by an incubator, his profile haggard, his expression a mixture of panic and worry I had never seen before.
The caption read: "With you here, I'm not afraid."
I smiled bitterly and called my lawyer, telling him to draft the divorce papers. Then, I went to the gallery I had co-founded, Galerie Hayes, now one of New York's top art galleries.
When the HR director saw my resignation letter, she nearly spilled her coffee. "Clara, you're resigning? Does Julian know about this?"
I smiled faintly. "He's very busy right now."
Seeing the flicker of pity in her eyes, I knew the entire New York art scene was laughing at me.
I returned to the Hamptons villa, once our sanctuary for short stays and creative inspiration. My small studio was still tucked away here.
While packing, I found a yellowed napkin tucked inside a sketchbook. It was Julian's handwriting, youthful and bold.
On it was the first house design he had ever sketched for me.
"Clara, I don't know when you'll find this. But when you do, I hope we have a couple of kids running around—one who looks just like you, and another one like me."
"I love you, Clara. No matter what happens in the future, you're not allowed to leave me."
Tears fell unbidden onto the paper, blurring the ink. Suddenly, a violent wave of dizziness hit me, more intense than ever before. My vision went black, and I collapsed to the floor.
I woke up to the ringing of my phone.
"Clara Hayes! What the hell are you trying to do!" Julian's furious voice exploded from the receiver, making my ears ring. He rarely called me by my full name.
"Chloe has been careful enough, accommodating enough! I've told you countless times that she won't affect you! Why are you sending her threats? Cursing my children, Clara? What the hell is wrong with you?"
I had no idea what he was talking about. Threatening messages? The accusation was so absurd I felt dizzy. He hadn't even bothered to ask if it was me; he had already convicted me.
"Are you finished?" My voice was as calm as stagnant water.
My reaction seemed to surprise him, and his anger subsided slightly. "Next Sunday is the children's christening party. You have to be there. Clara, please, stop making a scene, okay?"
"Okay."
After hanging up, I stared at the waves outside the window and suddenly felt that everything had lost its meaning.
…
On the day of the christening party, I arrived without any makeup. Among the guests glittering with jewels and designer clothes, I looked like an out-of-place ghost. Everyone looked at me with a mixture of pity, curiosity, and schadenfreude.
In the center of the ballroom, Chloe, dressed in a striking red gown, nestled against Julian like a delicate bird, smiling as if she were the true lady of the house.
Eleanor saw me and frowned impatiently. "Since you're here, you might as well hold the children and share in the joy."
Julian brought his daughter to me, his voice low and tinged with a plea. "Clara, I won't pursue the matter of the texts. I know you're upset."
"After today, I'll arrange for Chloe to go abroad. The children… we'll register them under your name. I know you can't…"
He trailed off, his gaze complex as he looked at me. I knew what he wanted to say.
A few years ago, I had undergone major surgery for severe endometriosis. The doctors said it would be very difficult for me to ever have my own children.
He had held me and sworn that just the two of us were enough for a lifetime, that he wanted nothing else but me. And now he was saying, "Isn't this the best solution?"
It was as if the surgeon's scalpel from years ago had sliced me open all over again, the old wound tearing apart with an agony that stole my breath. Just then, the baby girl in my arms started coughing violently. A red rash quickly spread across her small face, and her breathing became ragged.
"Something's wrong with the baby!" someone screamed.
Chloe lunged at me like a madwoman, her voice sharp enough to shatter glass. "Clara! If you have a problem, take it out on me! Why would you hurt my child!"
A powerful shove sent me to the ground. It was Harrison who had pushed me.
My head snapped to the side, and I fell, seeing stars. My elbow scraped against the floor, burning with pain, and my mouth instantly filled with the metallic taste of blood.
Julian instinctively reached out to help me up. His fingertips had just brushed my arm when the boy let out a sharp cry, his face breaking out in the same alarming rash.
The scene descended into utter chaos.
"Mr. Vaughn!" Chloe screamed desperately, positioning herself between us like a magnet. "My son! Save my son!"
The hand Julian had extended toward me trembled violently in mid-air. I could clearly see the struggle and guilt in his eyes being swallowed, bit by bit, by panic and heartache.
Slowly, he retracted his hand. He turned and picked up the boy who was struggling to breathe.
