Chapter 4

When I woke up, the woman was sitting by the floor-to-ceiling window, reading.

"The fever reducer is by the bed. Take it yourself."

I pushed my scorching body up, fumbled for the pills, and found the water in the glass still warm.

Only when I'd taken the medicine did she speak. "I'm Genevieve Dubois."

"Rest up for a bit, then you should go. I have an auction to attend this afternoon."

Genevieve closed her book, smoothed her hair and clothes. Every movement was elegant, a stark contrast to the woman who had caused such a scene at the wedding.

Her room was filled with paintings.

Their style was unique and consistent. Even I, who had seen countless true masterpieces, was momentarily mesmerized by them.

"They're all Julian's paintings. If you like any, feel free to take them."

"There's a whole warehouse full. They're no use to me."

I froze, my thoughts drifting.

The first time Julian gave me a portrait, I was overjoyed for months. Even though it barely resembled me, I cherished it like a treasure and hung it above my bed.

Because he said he'd only ever paint true masterpieces for one person.

I, in my foolish self-importance, believed he meant me.

"Julian, I don't have a mole here. Don't just make one up."

I pointed to the corner of the woman's eye in the painting.

"It's one thing if you can't get my face right, but a simple mole? How could you mess that up?"

He pinched my cheek, then took a ballpoint pen and pricked a tiny hole right where the mole was. The ink seeped in, and when it healed, it became a permanent mark.

He said, "There, perfect. My favorite look."

I swallowed my anger, all for his promise to paint me a portrait every six months.

In six years, I'd received a total of eight.

Not even close to filling this one wall here.

Genevieve walked over to me.

I noticed the bracelet on her wrist. A one-of-a-kind piece, globally.

Yet, at this very moment, I was wearing an identical one – a complete and utter fake – given to me by Julian.

She didn't notice my subtle movement to hide my hand.

"Last night, Julian and I finally had it out. He promised to let go and stop bothering me."

The words caught in my throat.

A sharp pain pierced me, but I couldn't swallow them, nor could I spit them out.

How could I tell her? That he saw her as his only one, his reason for living.

That her importance in his heart was beyond a thousand of me, a million of me.

I couldn't say it.

It would be like tearing me open, exposing my raw vulnerability and wounds for all to see.

I picked up my phone and realized I'd called Julian over three hundred times and sent over five hundred texts last night.

Not a single call answered, not a single message returned.

Genevieve frowned. "His talkative habit hasn't changed. I was so exhausted, but he just kept talking. He even wanted to talk on the phone while sleeping. You absolutely have to make him break that habit later."

I didn't answer.

Because around me, Julian had always been that quiet, reserved man, with a touch of arrogance.

My smart watch, synced with his, showed he'd slept soundly last night, better than any night in the past six years.

After Genevieve left, I cried silently into the blanket.