Chapter 2

I returned to the villa, grabbed a baseball bat, and headed straight for the art studio on the third floor.

The studio had been locked for years. I was never allowed inside.

Not even on the third floor.

"Mrs. Hayes, you can't go in there!"

Marcus desperately tried to stop me.

I swung the bat, knocking him down, then smashed it against the lock with all my might. My hand throbbed, numb and agonizing.

*Click!*

The blood-splattered lock fell to the floor.

My palm was a bloody mess, but I felt nothing.

Pushing the door open, the sight before me stole my breath, and tears instantly welled up.

The room was filled with portraits.

Lying down, standing, clothed, nude – even intimate bedroom poses were captured.

It was my body, but her face.

At the bottom of each canvas, in elegant script, were the words: "To Genevieve."

"Mrs. Hayes!"

Marcus rushed in, frantic.

He scanned the room, then quietly let out a sigh of relief.

"See? They're all paintings of you. Mr. Blackwood just didn't want anyone to come in and damage them."

I had believed that lie for six years.

All the past events flashed clearly in my mind.

Julian had never once said the woman in the paintings was me. He never explained why, with his extraordinary skill, he couldn't even paint my face accurately.

"Everyone has been lying to me."

I wasn't particularly tall, and my face was only moderately pretty, the kind you'd easily lose in a crowd.

A golden boy like Julian, a man as unattainable as the moon itself, how could he have fallen for me at first sight, showered me with endless affection, and spent a fortune just to see me smile?

And a man like him, abandoning a brilliant future, to become a renowned art forger.

His forgeries were indistinguishable from the originals, yet miles apart in truth, much like the beauty mark he'd placed beneath my eye.

I suddenly thought of a pathetic mimicry.

Tragic.

Laughable.

The scars from giving blood still marred my wrist, refusing to heal, and stacks of anemia reports had been gathering dust on my bedside table for half a year.

The five thousand missing strands of hair hadn't grown back either.

And tears of pure happiness? I probably wouldn't shed those ever again.

"Get someone to cover this up immediately!"

"Delete all photos and videos of the wedding!"

Marcus, seeing the trending news, was frantically instructing his subordinates to deal with it.

I gave a bitter laugh.

"It's no use."

It was streamed live. Everyone saw it.

My dignity and pride were ripped to shreds along with the painting, right there on the spot.

If Julian truly cared, how could he bear to let me suffer such public humiliation?

He didn't care.

All the love I'd thought I had these past years—it had all been stolen.