Chapter 2

Anya POV

The smell of disinfectant in the hospital was sharp and cold.

I struggled to open my eyes, only to find my right hand useless.

My entire right arm was encased in a thick cast.

"Awake?"

Jacob closed the document he was reading and stood up, walking closer.

"The doctor said your right hand has a comminuted fracture and torn tendons."

His tone was as calm as if he were discussing the weather.

"The surgery was successful, but you... probably won't be able to hold a paintbrush steadily again."

My heart gave a violent lurch.

Jacob took an exquisite rectangular brocade box from the table behind him and casually placed it on my bedside table.

"Open it and see."

I didn't move, just watched him silently.

Jacob seemed a little impatient, so he reached out and opened the box himself.

Inside was a scroll, which, when unrolled, revealed an oil painting.

"This is an authentic work by that deceased master you've always admired."

"This painting is for you, as compensation for this accident."

I stared at the priceless painting, unable to speak.

"Don't you like it?"

Jacob's tone deepened.

"Anya, don't be too greedy. We treated Celeste first because she has a crucial competition in Vienna next week. She's a pianist. Her hands absolutely cannot be compromised. As for you..."

"You just paint at home for leisure; it doesn't affect your life. The Thorne family has more than enough to support you. You should know what's more important."

What's more important.

I closed my eyes.

"Jacob,"

"Did you see my message?"

"Don't ever mention divorce again."

He frowned.

"Celeste was startled and is emotionally unstable, so I'll be very busy these next few days. Just focus on recovering quietly; the nurse will take care of you."

"I'm not throwing a tantrum."

I stared intently at him.

"I'm serious. I've had enough of this life. I'm not being Mrs. Thorne anymore; we're gettin'-"

A frantic knock interrupted me.

Liam Davies, his assistant, rushed in, looking flustered.

"Mr. Thorne! Miss Monroe is causing a scene in her room! She says her hand is numb and she can't play the piano, she's throwing things and won't let the doctors near her... She'll only see you!"

Jacob's expression changed instantly, and he turned to leave.

"Jacob!"

He paused, but didn't turn back.

"Celeste is in critical condition; try to be reasonable!"

His figure disappeared through the door.

The hospital room was dead silent.

After a long while, a nurse pushed a cart in, giving me a sympathetic glance, and whispered to her colleague.

"Some people just have it so easy compared to others."

"What happened?"

"Just to appease Miss Monroe, Mr. Thorne just covered all the expenses for her next thirty global tours! We're talking hundreds of millions!"

"Oh my god, he spoils her that much?"

"He sure does. Just a minor scratch, a few tears, and she walked away with hundreds of millions."

Their voices faded as the cart moved away.

I turned my head and looked at the brocade box.

That oil painting was worth about two million.

Two million, compared to hundreds of millions.

That was my worth in Jacob's heart. That was his "compensation."

For Celeste, it was a priceless treasure, worth a fortune. For me, just a casual dismissal.

I painstakingly lifted my left hand, grabbed the brocade box, and flicked my wrist.

With a muffled thud, the painting was thrown heavily into the trash can in the corner.

This time, I truly wanted nothing.

Neither the painting, nor the man.