Chapter 3

The room suddenly went dead silent. James's jaw clenched as he walked over, grabbed the phone, and hung up. He said, "He's drunk and spouting nonsense. Don't let it get to you."

"Really?" I said quietly. "So who's Irene he keeps mentioning?"

James was quiet for a few seconds before he finally spoke. "She was my ex-girlfriend back in college. She came back from Amiston to work at our hospital, and Mark started jumping to conclusions.

"Irene and I ended things ages ago, so you really don't need to overthink."

I dropped my gaze, a bitter smile creeping onto my lips. Because of an ex, he could vanish halfway through our engagement party and conveniently delay our wedding, yet he acted like it was no big deal.

Was he really trying to fool me, or was he lying to himself?

I didn't ask anything else, slipped past him and headed for the art studio. Suddenly, James called out, "Lucia?" I turned around to look at him.

He looked confused and asked, "So, when's the new date for our wedding?"

Without thinking, I said, "The third of next month." As soon as I said it, I realized that was the exact day I'd be flying to Brynhill.

I was about to explain, but stopped myself at the last second. Whatever. Guess I'd let James find out the wedding's canceled when I left.

*****

The next morning, when I stepped out of the art studio, the sky was starting to lighten. James had already left for the hospital.

I walked into the living room and saw breakfast waiting for me on the table, with a little note next to it. The note said: [Remember to heat it up before you eat.]

After five years together, he'd always taken care of me like this. But deep down, I always felt like there was something between us, an invisible wall I couldn't break through.

Before, I didn't understand. But after last night, I finally got a glimpse of it. Silence wasn't James's nature; he found it hard to say much when he was with me.

Before, I tried hard to find excuses for him, but after he left me alone at the engagement party for Irene, all those excuses became a joke.

I gently put the note back on the table.

Then my phone buzzed. It was Winnie, my agent. I answered, and she sounded rushed. "Lucia, can you come by today?

"Someone's insisting on buying the painting you put in the prime spot of the gallery. Do you want to check it out yourself?"

I paused for a few seconds. The one in the prime spot was the first painting I ever did of James's back. Before the exhibition opened, I'd told Winnie straight up.

Everything else could be sold, but that one was absolutely not for sale. But now, what meaning did it have for me?

I replied coolly, "No need, Winnie. sell it for whatever price they offer. And while you're at it, take care of all the other paintings related to James, too."

Winnie was clearly stunned, her voice full of disbelief. "What happened? You said the wedding's off, and now you're rushing to sell your art. Did you and Dr. Carter have a fight?"

Hearing her question, I managed a weak smile. "No, it's nothing like that. I realized all those things I was clinging to probably never meant much."

At least to James, I was never important. But I kept that thought to myself.

Winnie was silent for a moment, then said, "Alright, I understand."

Not long after I hung up, the doorbell rang. It was the bridal shop delivering the wedding photos of James and me. I opened the package and studied the pictures carefully.

In them, James was dressed in a sharp black suit, his expression cold and distant. I was in a white wedding dress with a long train, holding onto his arm and smiling brightly.

It was only now that I realized James barely smiled in any of the photos. Not for something as big as our wedding could he muster a hint of happiness.

At that moment, I only felt a chilling irony. So this was what it felt like to not be able to marry the person he loved.

I set the wedding photos down in a corner of the living room and turned to walk into the art studio. Inside, piles of sketches I'd drawn of James over the years were stacked everywhere.

There was also a half-finished sketch still clipped to the easel. Looking at it was like picking at an old wound, slowly, over and over, until it started to hurt all over again.

In that moment, I finally understood why my teacher always warned me not to paint someone so easily. "You think you're capturing them, but really, you're exposing your own heart," she said.

My hands shook as I pulled out each painting I'd made of him, one by one. The very last one at the bottom was the portrait I painted for his birthday last year.

Hugging the whole stack, I walked out to the yard, my fingers trembling as I flicked the lighter. The flames quickly licked at the paper, slowly devouring James's distant, striking features, and bit by bit, it took my heart with it.

"Goodbye, James," I whispered, crouching in front of the faint firelight. I stared at the flickering flames, my lips quivering as I finally let the words buried in my heart slip out.

Tears kept falling, dropping into the fire with a soft plop, sending up tiny sparks.

Then my phone buzzed. It was a text from James. My fingers trembled as I opened it: [Lucia, there's an emergency surgery tonight, so I won't be home for dinner. Figure something out on your own.]

I gripped my phone so hard my knuckles turned white, my chest aching, but I didn't reply.

Before I could catch my breath, Winnie called again. She sounded apologetic. "Lucia, I'm really sorry, but my son spiked a fever and I have to rush him to the hospital.

"But the buyer is really insistent. They want the painting tonight. Could you deliver it for me? I'll send you the address in a bit."

I stared at the ashes on the ground, thin smoke curling up, and a chill ran through me. I replied softly, "Okay."

I stamped out the last of the fire with my foot, then went back inside to pick up the painting from the gallery. I carefully carried it to my car, following the location Winnie had sent me.

Finally, I reached the entrance to the buyer's apartment complex. I took a deep breath, held the painting tightly, and knocked on the door.

A gentle female voice quickly called out from inside, "James, could you get the door? I think the painting I ordered arrived."

I stood frozen at the door, my mind blank, still trying to figure out who she meant by "James," when the door swung open with a creak.

James was standing behind the door, dressed in a loose T-shirt and sweatpants, his hair messy. Our eyes met, and he was clearly stunned, panic flickering in his gaze.

The silence between us was suffocating, as if the air had turned solid. As he was about to say something, footsteps echoed from inside.

Irene came out, wearing a cream-colored house dress, her hair loose over her shoulders and a light touch of makeup on her face.

She spotted the painting in my arms, her eyes curving into a crescent smile. "So it really is that one. I knew my intuition was right.

"James, why don't you invite her in?" Turning to me, she added, "Thank you for bringing the painting over so late. Please, come in."

So Irene was the one who ordered the painting. My chest tightened, and I shook my head. "No, it's fine. The painting's here, so I'll be leaving now." I handed over the painting and turned to leave, my steps shaky.

James suddenly called out, "Wait." But I didn't stop or look back. I walked straight into the elevator.

As the elevator doors slid shut, I pressed myself against the icy wall, finally unclenching my fist, my palm aching and slick with cold sweat.

An hour ago, James told me he'd be stuck at the hospital all night, but here he was, at Irene's apartment. What were they planning tonight? And what had they been doing before I got here?

My thoughts were a tangled mess, and I didn't dare let myself think too much. I kept my head down and walked.