Chapter 3

A few days later, a crisp white envelope appeared under my door. It was an invitation to a fundraising gala for the city's art museum. Ethan's name was prominent on the host committee. My first instinct was to tear it to shreds. But then I saw the note scrawled at the bottom in Amelia's elegant script: "Hope to see you there. We need to present a united front."

The audacity was breathtaking. I was still numb from my grandmother's funeral, a small, quiet affair that Ethan hadn't bothered to acknowledge. Now they wanted me to play the part of the supportive wife in their public relations campaign.

The night of the gala, I found myself standing in front of my closet, pulling out a simple black dress I hadn't worn in years. My friend Sarah had called a dozen times, begging me not to go.

"It's a trap, Chloe," she'd insisted. "He's just going to use you again."

"I know," I had replied, my voice flat. "That's the point."

Walking into the grand ballroom of the museum felt like stepping onto a stage. Hundreds of people in tuxedos and gowns mingled under crystal chandeliers. I spotted Ethan and Amelia holding court near the silent auction tables. He looked dashing and unbothered. She was radiant in a red dress, clinging to his arm. They looked like a power couple, a king and queen surveying their kingdom. When Amelia saw me, she detached herself from Ethan and glided over, her smile as sharp as glass.

"Chloe, I'm so glad you came," she said, her voice low and conspiratorial. "It's so important for people to see that we're all... friends."

"Friends?" I repeated, the word tasting like ash in my mouth. "Is that what we are?"

"Don't be difficult," she hissed, her smile never faltering. "You know what he's capable of. Just play along."

I thought of the first time I'd seen Amelia's work. It was a portrait, a brutal, unflattering depiction of a woman who looked vaguely familiar. It was titled "The Discarded Muse." At the time, I'd thought it was just her typical, provocative style. Now, looking at her smug face, I realized with a sickening jolt that the painting was of Ethan's ex-girlfriend, the one before me. Amelia hadn't just replaced me, she had a history of preying on the women Ethan left behind, turning their pain into her art, just as he did.

"You painted a picture of his ex, didn't you?" I asked quietly. "You publicly shamed her, just to get his attention."

Amelia's eyes flashed with something ugly before she masked it. Before she could answer, Ethan was at her side, placing a proprietary hand on her back. "Chloe. Glad you could make it. You look... tired." He looked me up and down, his gaze dismissive. "Amelia, darling, let's not bother Chloe. She's been through a lot."

He guided Amelia away, leaving me standing alone. His words were a clear message: Amelia was his present, I was his past. His burden.

Later, the speeches began. The museum director took the stage, and then he introduced Ethan. Ethan walked to the podium to thunderous applause. He spoke eloquently about the power of art, about truth and vulnerability. Then he looked out into the crowd, his eyes finding mine.

"Art sometimes demands a great personal cost," he said, his voice filled with fake emotion. "My recent exhibition, 'Raw Truths,' was born from a place of deep, personal pain and love. My wife, Chloe, was my collaborator in this journey, my partner in truth. Her strength and understanding made it possible. In her name, and in honor of her recently departed grandmother, Susan, I would like to pledge a one-hundred-thousand-dollar donation to the museum's educational fund."

The room erupted in applause. People turned to look at me, their faces a mixture of pity and admiration. I felt sick. He was using my grief, my grandmother's death, as a prop in his performance. He was buying public goodwill with a currency of my pain.

The night wore on. A new centerpiece for the museum's collection was to be unveiled. A velvet cloth was pulled away to reveal a large, abstract sculpture of twisted metal and shattered glass. It was chaotic and violent. The piece was untitled.

A murmur went through the crowd. Then, I heard Amelia's voice, loud enough for those around her to hear. "It's tragic, isn't it? How some people just... break." She was looking directly at me. "I heard Chloe had a breakdown after her grandmother died. She destroyed Ethan's studio. This... this must be inspired by that."

Heads turned. Whispers spread like wildfire. People were staring at me, their eyes filled with suspicion. The narrative was shifting. I was no longer the victim, but the unstable, grieving wife.

I felt the room closing in. I had to get out. I turned to leave, but Ethan blocked my path. His face was a thunderous mask of rage.

"What did you do?" he seethed, his grip on my arm like a vise.

"I didn't do anything," I said, trying to pull away. "It was her. Amelia."

"Liar," he spat. He looked over my shoulder at Amelia, who had a perfectly feigned look of concern on her face. "Amelia would never do that. You're trying to ruin this for me. You're trying to ruin everything."

His grip tightened, his knuckles white. The smiles of the gala guests around us seemed to stretch into grotesque masks. They saw a husband trying to calm his hysterical wife. They didn't see the fury in his eyes, the threat in his touch.

"You will not ruin this for me," he whispered, his voice a venomous promise. And then, in the middle of the crowded ballroom, hidden by the press of bodies, he shoved me. Hard. I stumbled backwards, my heel catching on the leg of a table. I went down, crashing into a waiter's tray. Glasses shattered. Champagne soaked the front of my dress.

The room fell silent. Everyone stared. Ethan stood over me, his face a perfect picture of concerned husband. But I saw the flash of triumph in his eyes. He had won. In one move, he had cemented the image: he was the suffering artist, and I was his unhinged, broken muse.