For Five Years, My Husband Loved Me Like a Replacement Chapter 04
I lunged forward and scooped the painting up. Cold water soaked my fingers.
The white rose petals were soaked and wrinkled, and the paint had begun to bleed.
Julian followed me in. His first words were: “Is Maren’s piece okay?”
I turned slowly, holding the ruined canvas.
Maren stood beside him, voice soft. “Mine’s in the front hall. It’s fine.”
Julian exhaled.
Right then — I stopped hurting.
Like a wire that had been pulled too tight for too long. It finally snapped. And all I felt was quiet.
Curator Chen stammered apologies. “A pipe burst. I’m so sorry.”
Julian looked at me. “I’ll pay for it.”
I asked, “How?”
He went still.
I tilted the painting up. Water dripped from the frame.
“Six months of work — can you pay for that?”
“Can you repay my first chance to exhibit under my own name?”
“The fact that I thought, just once, you might actually see me — can you pay for that?”
Julian’s face shifted. “Vivian, I didn’t know it meant this much.”
I laughed. “Of course you didn’t.”
You didn’t know I liked pink ranunculus.
You didn’t know I hated white roses.
You didn’t know I painted.
You didn’t know I could hurt.
Maren coughed twice.
Julian steadied her instantly. “Let’s get you out. It’s cold in here.”
I watched his hands.
Those hands had held mine once.
On our wedding day, he’d slid the ring onto my finger and promised we’d make it work.
I believed him for five years.
Maren leaned into his shoulder, voice thin. “Vivian, I’m sorry. How about I take mine down and we put yours up instead? Even if it doesn’t look good anymore, at least you’ll have fulfilled your wish.”
I looked at her.
Julian frowned. “Maren, you don’t have to do that.”
My sister’s eyes went red. “But Vivian seems really upset.”
Julian finally turned to me. His voice carried a tired edge.
“Vivian, look. She’s already gone this far for you.”
I asked quietly, “What exactly has she given up?”
“The gallery spot. She’s giving it back to you.”
I clutched the ruined painting and let out a laugh.
“Julian — who’s going to look at a soaked, destroyed canvas?”
He went quiet.
My mother’s call came through right then.
I put her on speaker.
Her voice came fast and sharp. “Vivian, are you causing a scene at the gallery again? Your sister just landed a major collaboration — do you have any idea how important tonight is? Grow up.”
I said, “Mom. My painting was destroyed.”
She paused. Then: “So what if it was ruined? That little painting of yours wasn’t worth much anyway. Don’t mess this up for Maren.”
Julian stood across from me. He didn’t say a single word in my defense.
I ended the call slowly.
From outside the storage room, voices drifted in from the press.
Someone asking if Maren wasn’t feeling well.
Someone saying how worried Mr. Sterling was about her.
Someone laughing about how childhood sweethearts were just different.
Julian reached for my painting.
“Give it to me. Don’t let the press see it.”
I pulled back.
His brow tightened. “Vivian.”
I said, “What are you afraid of?”
He looked at me. “This isn’t the time to act on impulse.”
I nodded.
“Then when is?”
He didn’t answer.
I carried the painting out of storage.
The front hall blazed with light.
Maren’s ranunculus hung dead center — like love, big and public and claimed by everyone.
I held my drenched white rose painting in my arms, looking battered and silent.
The cameras turned.
Julian caught up fast, grabbing my wrist. His grip wasn’t hard — but it wasn’t letting go either.
“Come home. Now.”
I looked at his hand.
Five years. I’d waited for him so many times.
Waited for him to come home for dinner. Waited for him to remember our anniversary. Waited for him to choose me — just once — over my sister.
Now I didn’t want to wait anymore.
I pulled my wrist free, slow and deliberate.
Then I slid the ring off my finger and dropped it into his palm.
“Julian.”
His face went white.
I said, “I want a divorce.”