Chapter 4

I raised my hand and wiped my cheek, a gesture of scrubbing away her touch, her scent, her entire existence. The spot felt tainted.

I looked around the room. It was her room. Her furniture, her colors, her life. I was just a temporary guest who had overstayed his welcome by seven years.

My phone was on the nightstand. I picked it up and found the number I had been staring at for a week.

Ava Thompson. Head of HR at a prestigious international art gallery.

She had called me a month ago, after seeing my portfolio at a small, independent show. A show Sophia had refused to attend because it was "beneath her."

Ava had offered me a position, a residency at their main gallery abroad. A new life.

I had hesitated, still clinging to the foolish hope that Sophia would change.

I pressed the call button.

"Ava Thompson." Her voice was professional, crisp.

"Ava, it's Ethan Miller."

"Ethan! I was hoping to hear from you. Have you given any more thought to our offer?"

"I'll take it," I said. "I accept."

A genuine warmth entered her voice. "That's wonderful news! We're so excited to have you. I'll email you the details right away. We can have you on a plane by the end of the week."

"Thank you," I said, and for the first time in a long time, I meant it.

The next day, I went to work. It was a graphic design job at a marketing firm owned by one of Sophia's father's friends. A job she had arranged to "keep me busy."

As I walked to my cubicle, I could feel the stares. I heard the whispers.

"That's him. The artist Sophia Hayes just dumped."

"I heard he was a total gold-digger. Tried to trap her."

"She's with Mark Peterson now. A much better match."

I ignored them. I sat down at my desk and started packing my personal items into a small box. A few books, a worn-out sketchbook, a framed photo of Lily.

I took the box and walked to the HR department. I placed it on the desk of a woman I had never spoken to before.

"I'm resigning," I said, my voice steady. "Effective immediately."

She looked up, surprised, then her eyes filled with a kind of pitying recognition. "Oh. Okay, Ethan. I'll process the paperwork."

I walked out of the building without looking back.

The city air was cold, biting at my exposed skin. I started walking, with no destination in mind. The streets were crowded, full of people rushing to their own lives, their own problems. I had never felt so alone.

My mind drifted back.

Back to my parents' death in a car crash when I was eighteen. Back to being left alone to raise a ten-year-old Lily.

Back to meeting Sophia.

She had been a volunteer at a charity art auction for underprivileged kids. Lily had a piece in the show. Sophia bought it. She had been so kind then, so full of light. She told me I was the most talented artist she had ever met.

She introduced me to her world, a world of galas and country clubs. At first, she was proud of me. "This is Ethan Miller," she would say. "He's going to be famous one day."

But slowly, things changed.

Her praise turned into criticism. "Why do you paint such sad things, Ethan? No one wants to buy sad art."

Her support turned into control. "You should get a real job. My father can find you something. Art is a nice hobby, but it's not a career."

I started seeing her with Mark more. They were always together, laughing at inside jokes I wasn't privy to. I tried to talk to her about it, but she would just dismiss my concerns. "Mark is like a brother to me, Ethan. Don't be so insecure."

The final blow came a few months before the engagement party. I came home early and overheard her on the phone with her mother.

"Of course Mark is the one I'm going to marry, Mother," Sophia was saying, her voice impatient. "He's suitable. Ethan... Ethan was just for fun. A project. You know how I like to fix broken things."

Broken things.

That's all I ever was to her.