Chapter 2

Our story started in a gallery, which was a bitter irony I could now appreciate.

I was a nobody then, just another struggling artist with more talent than connections. My work was on display as part of a group show for emerging artists. I stood in a corner, nursing a cheap glass of white wine, feeling entirely out of my depth among the city's art elite.

Then she walked in.

Sophia Hayes wasn't just in the room; she owned it. She moved with an effortless grace, a glittering whirlwind of old money and modern power. She wasn't just a socialite; she was the daughter of a real estate tycoon, the heiress to a formidable fortune.

And she stopped in front of my painting.

It was a dark, moody cityscape, full of rain-slicked streets and lonely figures. It was everything I felt about living in this massive, indifferent city.

"This has feeling," she said, turning to me. I hadn't even realized she knew I was the artist. "Who are you?"

That night, she bought the painting. The next day, she called me. Within a month, I was swept into her world. It was a dizzying blur of charity galas, private jets, and weekend trips to places I'd only ever seen in magazines.

She said she loved my passion, my authenticity. She said I was a grounding force in her superficial world. I believed her. For a year, it was a fantasy. I, the starving artist, had been rescued by the beautiful, wealthy princess. We got married in a lavish ceremony at her family's estate in the Hamptons.

The first crack appeared six months after the wedding.

David Chen came back into her life. He was her childhood friend, the boy from the neighboring estate, her first love. He was a charismatic dreamer with a tech idea he claimed would change the world, but he had a spectacular talent for burning through cash.

The first time she left, it was for a weekend. "David needs me," she explained. "His lead investor just pulled out. I have to go to San Francisco to help him calm down and strategize."

I was hurt. Confused. "But we have the benefit dinner on Saturday."

"This is more important, Ethan. It's David."

When she came back, she was carrying a small, beautifully wrapped box. Inside was the Patek Philippe watch. "For being so understanding," she said, kissing me.

I accepted it. I told myself it was just a one-time thing.

But it wasn't.

"David's having a crisis of confidence." "David's team is threatening to quit." "David needs me to meet a potential backer in London."

The excuses became a constant hum in the background of our marriage. Her life revolved around his. My life revolved around waiting for her to come home.

The gifts kept coming. Each one was more extravagant than the last. An antique writing desk. A rare sculpture. A trip for me to go to Venice, alone, to "find inspiration."

She never saw it as a transaction. In her mind, she was being generous. She was taking care of me, providing me with a life of luxury I could never have afforded on my own, freeing me from the burden of having to sell my art. She was giving me things. Things were how the Hayes family showed affection.

What she didn't see was that with every gift, a piece of me died. She wasn't freeing me; she was caging me in gold. My studio, once my sanctuary, started to feel like a high-end prison. I was no longer a struggling artist; I was Sophia Hayes's kept husband.

I started to hate my own art because it was a reminder of the man I used to be, the man she claimed to have fallen in love with.

In the second year, I begged. I yelled. I threw one of her "gifts"-a Lalique crystal horse-against the wall. It shattered into a thousand pieces.

Sophia just stared at me, genuinely shocked. "What is wrong with you? That was worth sixty thousand dollars!"

"I don't want your money, Sophia! I want my wife!" I screamed, my voice raw.

She looked at me with a kind of clinical pity, as if I were a child having a tantrum. "Ethan, don't be so dramatic. I am your wife. And I'm trying to help my oldest friend. I' m providing you with a beautiful life. Why can't you just be happy?"

That was the day I stopped fighting. That was the day I realized you can't reason with someone who speaks a completely different emotional language.

From then on, when she handed me a gift, I would just say, "Thank you, Sophia. It's beautiful."

I would take the ownership documents, file them away, and feel nothing. My heart had become a block of ice. The pain was still there, buried deep, but it was frozen solid. The numbness was a mercy.

Sometimes, she would have these moments of what I used to mistake for remorse. She would look at me with soft eyes, touch my hand, and whisper a sweet promise.

"I'll make it up to you, Ethan. I promise."

Those moments used to devastate me, because they would give me a sliver of hope, and hope was a slow and painful poison. I' d let myself believe her, only to be crushed again a week later when David had another "emergency."

But I built an immunity. I learned that her promises were as hollow as her apologies were expensive. They were just words she used to manage me, to keep the peace, to make herself feel better.

Now, as I sat in the silent study, the signed divorce papers felt like the only real thing in the house.

This document was my secret. My escape plan.

It had a thirty-day waiting period before it was finalized by the court. Thirty days.

I looked at the calendar. Thirty days from now was our fifth wedding anniversary.

The irony was so thick, I almost laughed. She would be expecting a celebration.

Instead, she would get her freedom. And I would get mine.