Chapter 3
My agent, Olivia Lane, had always kept my secret, publishing my work under the pen name "Bluefall" and handling all my business deals.
In three years, prices for Bluefall's paintings had risen from roughly 1,000 dollars apiece to about 170,000.
The collaboration fees had amounted to more than 6.7 million dollars.
All that money was sitting in the account Olivia had set up for me.
Edward had absolutely no idea.
Charlotte had absolutely no idea.
No one knew that the woman always busy in the kitchen was actually Bluefall, the very artist they'd been desperately searching for.
As Charlotte was leaving, she glanced back at me from the doorway.
The floating text above her head: [Enjoy it while it lasts, Stella.]
I waved at her.
"Take care, Charlie," I said.
After closing the door, I leaned against the wall in the entryway.
I closed my eyes.
It's over.
No more playing the needy wife. Three years is more than enough.
The change started the next day.
At 6:15 AM, the alarm went off.
I rolled over and turned it off.
Then I went back to sleep.
Edward came downstairs at seven, and the dining table was empty.
No oatmeal, no toast, no eggs.
He stood there for a couple of seconds as floating text appeared above his head: [Not cooking today? Guess that makes things easier.]
Then he grabbed his car keys and headed out.
He didn't even ask.
I watched from my upstairs window as his car drove out of the neighborhood.
Back then, whenever he left, I'd always run to the door and say, "Drive safe."
But today, I didn't.
He didn't look back either.
At noon, I didn't text him.
Before, I'd send him at least five messages a day.
[Honey, have you eaten yet?]
[Honey, are you busy today?]
[Honey, I miss you.]
Looking back, every reply was just "Yeah," "Not bad," or "Busy."
I pulled out my phone and texted Olivia. [Olivia, can you help me set up a meeting with Mr. Lewis from Oakridge Gallery? I want to talk about my solo exhibition.]
Three seconds later, Olivia replied with a string of exclamation marks. [Stella! You finally made up your mind! Mr. Lewis has been waiting for you to say this for eight months!]
I couldn't help but smile.
A genuine smile, not the kind I faked for Edward.
That afternoon, I headed downtown.
No shopping, no buying groceries.
I walked right into a realtor's office.
"Hi, I'm looking for a one-bedroom apartment on the Westside," I said.
The agent was super friendly.
"What's your budget?" he asked.
"Under 1,700 dollars a month," I replied.
"No problem, I'll pull up a few options for you," he said.
As I stepped out of the realtor's office, the sunlight hit my face.
The March wind still had a chill to it.
But honestly, this was the most relaxed I'd felt in three years.
That evening, Edward came home.
It was 7:30 PM, earlier than usual.
He took off his shoes and walked into the living room.
There was no food on the table.
The kitchen felt cold and empty.
"Stella?" he called out.
I came out of the bedroom, holding a book.
"Is something wrong?" I asked.
He glanced at the empty dining table.
Floating text appeared above his head: [No dinner tonight? What's she upset about now?]
"You didn't make dinner?" he asked.
"Yeah, I was tired. Didn't have time," I replied.
My tone was flat.
"There are some frozen ravioli in the freezer. You can boil them yourself," I added.
Edward gave me a look.
The floating text read: [Alright, let her slack off for a day.]
He headed to the kitchen.
I heard the faucet turn on, then off.
The clatter of a pot on the stove.
It was the first time in three years he'd cooked for himself.
I turned the page of my book.
Didn't feel bad, didn't feel guilty.
Honestly, this was how it should've been all along.