For Five Years, My Husband Loved Me Like a Replacement Chapter 09
Before the divorce proceedings, Julian finally signed the divorce agreement.
When he handed them to me, I noticed a fresh scratch across his hand.
“The glass cloche shattered,” he said.
I told him, “Don’t touch it anymore.”
He gave a bitter smile. “Okay.”
The agreement was simple. I didn’t want a penny from the Sterling family. I only wanted the authorship rights and all future earnings from every painting I’d created during our marriage.
Julian had refused at first. But later, he’d sent over every contract. He’d even donated the exhibition spot he’d once canceled, in my name, to the Young Artists Program.
I listened and said, “Got it.”
He looked at me. “You don’t want to ask how I’ve been?”
I looked up.
He’d lost weight. His suit — always immaculate before — had a crease at the cuff.
“Julian, that’s not my concern anymore.”
His eyes went red around the edges.
“Vivian… I’ve dreamed about you so many times.”
—
I didn’t respond.
“I dream about you standing in the rain, holding that wet painting. I try to run after you — but I can never catch up.”
I said, “Dreams always end.”
His voice dropped lower. “Mine don’t.”
Once, those words would have made me soften.
Now I just handed him the pen. “Sign here.”
He held it, unmoving.
“Is Eliot good to you?”
I said, “Very.”
The pen scratched hard across the paper. He closed his eyes and signed.
When the divorce was finalized, a light rain was falling outside the Civil Affairs Bureau. Julian opened his umbrella and instinctively tilted it toward me.
I stepped back.
“Don’t.”
His hand stayed frozen.
I pulled a folded umbrella from my bag. Eliot waited at the curb. When he saw me, he opened the car door.
Julian called out. “Vivian.”
—
I turned.
His throat moved. “If I’d written you cards first. If I’d looked at your paintings. If I’d chosen you once — would it have been different?”
Rain pattered against the umbrella.
I thought about it.
“Maybe.”
His eyes lit up for a second.
Then I said, “But you didn’t.”
The light went out.
I got into the car. Eliot didn’t drive immediately. He just asked, “You okay?”
I watched the rain streak down the window. Julian was still standing there, his umbrella tilted to one side, half his shoulder soaked through.
“Yeah.”
The car pulled away. I didn’t look back.
That night, Maren’s story fully broke. Copying another artist’s work. Manipulating the exhibition placement. Sending her assistant into the storage room.
The institute pulled her project. Her partners dropped her.
My mother called, crying. “Vivian — your sister is ruined. Please help her.”
—
I asked, “How?”
“Tell the media it was a misunderstanding. Say you two have always been close.”
I listened quietly. Then I said, “Mom. I’m not being anyone’s white rose anymore.”
She didn’t understand. I hung up.
On the windowsill, the ranunculus Eliot had brought was in full bloom. Not pink. A bright, burning orange.