Chapter 2

The next morning, the silence in the apartment was heavy and suffocating. Liam had never come to bed. I found a brief, careless text from him sent at 3 a.m. "Something came up with the guys. Had to crash at Tom's. Happy Anniversary, by the way." Not even a question about the dinner I' d made.

I didn't reply. Instead, I scrolled through my contacts until I found the number for Professor David Chen. My hand hovered over the call button, a wave of shame washing over me. He had been my biggest champion, the one who saw a raw, powerful talent in me when I was just a nervous student. He had been so disappointed when I told him I was giving up the Florence residency to get married.

Taking a deep breath, I pressed call. He answered on the second ring, his voice as warm and kind as I remembered.

"Eleanor? Is that really you? It's been too long."

Tears pricked my eyes. "Professor Chen, it's me. I... I'm sorry to call you out of the blue."

"Nonsense," he said gently. "I've thought of you often. I see your husband's name in the news sometimes. I always wondered if you were still making art."

The question felt like a punch to the gut. "No," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "I haven't. Not in years." I explained that I had put my sculpting aside for my marriage, for Liam. I didn't tell him the whole humiliating story, but I told him enough. I told him I had made a terrible mistake.

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. When he finally spoke, his voice was full of a sad understanding. "Eleanor, your talent was a rare thing. A gift. To sacrifice that... for anyone... it's a profound loss. I was so sorry to hear you'd given up your place in Florence. You were born to create, not to... decorate someone else's life."

His words, meant to be kind, were a painful confirmation of the truth I had just begun to face. I had decorated Liam' s life, and in the process, I had erased my own.

"I'm applying again," I said, the words gaining strength as I spoke them. "For the next session. The deadline is tomorrow."

"Good," he said, his voice firm. "That's the artist I remember. You'll need a new letter of recommendation. Send me your portfolio, whatever you have. I'll write it tonight."

After we hung up, I felt a flicker of the old Eleanor return. I walked through the apartment, but now I saw it with new eyes. The cold, modern furniture, the neutral color palette, the abstract paintings Liam had chosen. None of it was me. My taste was for warm woods, rich colors, and shelves overflowing with books and strange objects. This place was a reflection of Sarah, whose own apartment, featured in a magazine spread I' d once painfully studied, had the same sterile aesthetic. I was living in her shadow, in a house designed for her. I had never truly been home here.

My old portfolio was in the storage room. As I dug through the boxes, I realized something was missing. A small, leather-bound sketchbook. It wasn't just any sketchbook, it was the one from my final year of college. It was filled with sketches of my early ideas, my rawest concepts, and-my cheeks burned with shame-dozens of drawings of Liam. It was a tangible record of my foolish obsession, but it also contained the seed of my best work. It was precious to me.

I searched everywhere. The storage room, my closet, the drawers of my desk. It was gone. I had a sickening feeling I knew where it was. A few months ago, Liam had been "clearing out some of my old junk" to make more space. He must have taken it.

All day, my phone remained silent. No call from Liam. No apology. It was as if our anniversary, and the wife he had stood up, simply didn't exist. My heart, which should have been breaking, felt strangely numb. The last thread of hope I' d been clinging to was gone.

That evening, I was scrolling through a news feed on my tablet when a photo made me freeze. It was from a society gala that had taken place the night before. And there, in the center of the photo, was Liam. He wasn't with Tom or Alex. He was with Sarah Jenkins. Her arm was linked through his, her head tilted towards him in a gesture of intimate familiarity. She was back. And he hadn't even bothered to tell me. He had lied. He wasn't at Tom's. He was with her. On our anniversary.

The public display, for all the world to see, was a final, brutal humiliation. It shattered the last of my illusions.

I had to get my sketchbook back. It was more than just paper and charcoal, it was proof of who I used to be. It was the part of me I needed to reclaim. I sent Liam a text, my fingers stiff.

"I need to talk to you. You have something of mine. A sketchbook."

His reply came almost instantly. "I'm busy, Eleanor. Can it wait?"

Before I could respond, another message came through. But this one wasn't from Liam. It was from an unknown number.

"Liam told me you were looking for this. I have it. Why don't you come pick it up? We can finally meet. Let's have coffee tomorrow. I'll send you the address. - Sarah."

My stomach churned. It was a summons. A deliberate, calculated move to assert her power. She wanted a face-to-face meeting, a confrontation. And Liam, my husband, had given her my sketchbook and my number. He had sicced his mistress on his wife. The humiliation was so complete, so profound, it left me breathless. But I had no choice. I had to get my book back.

I typed back a single word. "Fine."