Chapter 3 The Truth

The gallery buzzed with excitement as people moved around, chatting and admiring the artwork displayed on the walls. My hands were shaking as I walked across the room, holding the family portrait. I could feel eyes on me, I was already nervous, but I forced myself to stay calm.

I approached my mother, who stood talking to a group of women, her posture always perfect and confident. I smiled at her, hoping she would see the love I had poured into this painting. It wasn't just a piece of art-it was a symbol of my hope, my dream for our family. I cleared my throat softly before speaking. "Mother," I said, my voice just above a whisper. "I made this for you. It's a family portrait."

She turned her gaze to the painting, her face unreadable. She studied it in silence like she was deciding whether it was worth her time or not. I could feel the weight of her silence, and it made my palms sweat.

Tila, standing next to her, let out a small laugh. "A family portrait?" she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Let me guess, you're hoping to hang it here in the gallery, aren't you? So everyone can see how talented you are?"

My chest tightened at her words, but I held my ground. I wasn't going to let her break me. "No, that's not why I painted it," I said, my voice steady. "I just thought it would be meaningful. Something to bring us all together."

Tila smirked, crossing her arms over her chest. "How touching," she said, rolling her eyes. "But let's be honest, Faye. You never really fit in with us, do you?"

I ignored her, focusing instead on my mother. I needed her approval more than anything right now. I turned to her, hoping for something that would make this feel worthwhile. "What do you think?" I asked, keeping my voice soft, almost pleading.

My mother looked at the painting again, her expression still as cold as ice. Finally, she spoke, but her words hit me harder than I expected. "It's... fine. I suppose it's a decent gift."

Fine. I had worked tirelessly on this painting, trying to capture the warmth and togetherness of our family, but all I got was "fine." I swallowed the lump in my throat, trying to push down the wave of disappointment that threatened to take over.

Before I could respond, a group of wealthy women approached us, their eyes drawn to the painting.

"Oh, how beautiful!" one of them exclaimed, her voice bright with admiration as she leaned in for a closer look. "Did you paint this yourself?"

"Yes," I replied, my voice steady even though I felt anything but confident.

The women looked at each other, nodding in approval, offering me compliments I hadn't expected. "It's lovely," one said, admiring the colors and details. "It has a lot of emotion."

For a brief moment, I felt a flicker of pride. Maybe this wasn't a complete failure after all. At least someone appreciated my work.

But then my eyes landed on the corner of the canvas, and my stomach dropped. There it was-a small oil paint stain. How had I missed it? I panicked. My hand shook as I grabbed a cloth from my bag, quickly trying to clean it up before anyone noticed.

"No," I whispered to myself. The stain wouldn't come off. Panic swirled in my chest, and I felt the color drain from my face.

"Is that your painting, Faye?"

I looked up and saw Phillip, Tila's fiancé, walking toward me with his usual smug smile. I forced a small smile and nodded. "Yes," I said quietly, not wanting to engage with him.

Phillip studied the painting, his gaze critical. "Not bad," he said after a moment, but the way he spoke made it clear that he didn't think much of it. "But it's a bit... amateur, don't you think?"

I clenched my jaw, but I didn't say anything. I wasn't going to let him get to me.

At that moment, Tila appeared at his side, her heels clicking on the floor as she approached. Desmond followed closely behind her, and my heart ached at the sight of him.

"What's going on here?" Tila asked, her voice dripping with fake sweetness.

"Faye's showing off her little painting," Phillip said with a smirk, his eyes glinting as if he were enjoying the situation.

Tila glanced at the painting and then at me, her lips curling into a mocking smile. "Oh, you're still trying, aren't you?" she said, laughing lightly. "What do you think, Desmond?"

I turned to my husband, hoping, praying, that he would speak up. That he would defend me. But Desmond didn't even meet my gaze. He just stood there, silent. My heart sank.

Tila stepped closer to him, wrapping her arm around his as if she had every right to do so. "See?" she said, her voice smug. "Desmond and I make a much better match."

It felt like the air was sucked out of the room. My hands shook, and I could feel my face turning bright red with humiliation. I wanted to shout, to make them see how wrong they were, but the words wouldn't come.

I looked at Desmond, hoping-no, begging-he would say something. Anything. But he didn't. He just stood there, letting Tila cling to him, looking at her with soft, almost affectionate eyes. It was like he didn't even see me anymore.

I couldn't take it. Without another word, I turned and walked away..I pushed open the bathroom door and rushed inside, slamming it behind me. I leaned over the sink, staring at my reflection in the mirror. My face was pale, and my eyes were wide with shock. I couldn't believe what had just happened.

I whispered to myself, my voice shaking. The pain in my chest felt like it was suffocating me. I splashed cold water on my face, trying to wash away the hurt, but it didn't help. The image of Desmond and Tila together-so close, so comfortable-was burned into my mind.

I took a few deep breaths, trying to calm myself down. But when I opened the bathroom door and stepped back into the hallway, I almost bumped into Phillip.

"Watch where you're going," he said, his tone sharp and impatient.

"Sorry," I muttered, stepping aside.

Phillip crossed his arms, his eyes narrowing as he looked at me. There was a mix of pity and frustration in his gaze. "Are you really this blind, Faye?" he asked, his voice low.

I frowned, not understanding. "What do you mean?"

Phillip let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "Your husband and your sister. They're making a fool out of you, and you're just letting it happen."

I stared at him, stunned. "I don't know what you're talking about," I said, my voice weak and uncertain.

Phillip raised an eyebrow, his eyes full of disbelief. "Don't play dumb. You saw it with your own eyes. They don't even care enough to hide it."

I wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong, but I couldn't find the words. His words stung, but deep down, a small part of me knew he was right. I had seen it. I had seen how Desmond had looked at Tila. How he had let her wrap herself around him, without even sparing me a second glance.

"Look," Phillip continued, his tone softer now, almost sympathetic. "I'm not saying this to hurt you. But you need to wake up. Your husband doesn't care about you. Your sister certainly doesn't. If you keep letting them walk all over you, you're just going to keep getting hurt."

His words hit me like a slap to the face. The truth was so hard to swallow. I wanted to deny it, to say that it wasn't true, but I couldn't. I couldn't lie to myself anymore.