Chapter 1

After having my second chance at life, I decided to give my genius artist husband, Edward Monroe, exactly what he wanted.

Cold indifference replaced my nagging, and love letters were swapped for divorce papers.

Even when I caught Edward locked away in his studio with the bare Claire Luther for three days and nights, I didn't freak out as I did in my previous life.

Instead, I kept my tone cool. "It's all for art, right? I totally support you.

"If she's your muse, why not just move her in? You can have her around 24/7 and paint to your heart's content."

For the first time in all the years that we'd know each other, Edward turned away from his painting and really looked at me.

Edward, I was done with you.

This time, I refused to be the wife stuck in the background of a famous artist. I was going to be the main character in my own life.

*****

Edward paused, his brush mid-air, giving me a puzzled look. But soon, his gaze shifted from confusion to mockery.

"Last time you cried. The time before that you threw a fit. So, trying out a new drama this time?" he sneered.

I smiled, "Isn't this better? Now you don't have to keep running from your own home just to dodge me."

Edward actually paused and seriously considered it. The studio was cold and uncomfortable. It was definitely not as cozy as home.

Edward was obsessive about cleanliness and insisted on fresh sheets every single day. Locking himself in the studio for three sleepless days just to avoid me was saying something.

I bet that he had been wanting to bring Claire home for ages.

But to my surprise, he shot me down without a second thought. "No way. You'd definitely get mad."

I was stunned for a moment, just gripping the envelope in my hand, unable to say anything for a while.

Edward rubbed his temples, looking totally wiped out, and muttered, "So, what brings you to the studio?"

I walked over and placed the envelope on the table next to him. "Check it out when you get a chance," I said.

Edward just gave a half-hearted "Yeah," barely even glancing at it before he chucked the envelope into a drawer.

The drawer was left slightly open, overflowing with letters.

Those were the love letters I used to write him every single week without fail. But this time, instead of a love letter, it was divorce papers.

I knew that Edward was never going to read them.

My gaze drifted to the canvas. Claire was posed, her figure all elegant curves. She looked like a living masterpiece.

Edward's brush was paused right over her most private area, painting bare skin without a hint of hesitation.

His eyes held no desire, only the appreciation of a masterpiece.

To Edward, every body was just lines and shades on his canvas, including me.

Even in our most intimate moments, he'd suddenly get up and pull away.

"Your expression just sparked some inspiration. I need to capture it right away," he said.

Now, he just frowned, "Could you step aside? You're in my light."

I turned and walked out.

The door was left ajar, and I caught Claire's tentative voice from inside. "Edward, since she's cool with it, why won't you let me stay at your place?"

Edward sounded exhausted. "If she starts up again, it'll ruin our flow."

That was his reason.

I gave myself too much credit. I had hoped that he would ever care about my feelings.

I thought I was past feeling hurt, but at that moment, the ache just washed over me.

When I got home, I pulled up my own portfolio on my laptop and fired off emails to all the major universities.

When night fell, Edward unexpectedly showed up at home.

He stood there in the entryway, momentarily stunned. "Where are my slippers?"

Every time he came home, I'd rush over, grab his slippers from the shoe cabinet, and set them out for him.

He was so used to it; he probably thought slippers just magically appeared at his feet.

I shot back, "In the shoe cabinet. Can't you get them yourself?"

He shot me a look, changed his shoes, and walked in. Then he flopped onto the couch and closed his eyes to rest.

That was how it always was in my previous life, every time he came home.

He'd be silent, totally wrapped up in himself, like I was invisible. If he hadn't noticed the missing slippers, he probably wouldn't have said a single word to me tonight.

Alright then, two could play that game. I would pretend he was not there either.

I only made enough dinner for myself. I whipped up a steak, and the mouthwatering aroma filled the whole place.

Even Edward, dead asleep on the couch, was roused by the delicious smell.

He sat down across from me and gave the steak a disapproving look. "Did you put too much oil in again? You know I hate greasy food—"

"It's not for you," I interrupted, cutting my steak without even looking at him.

Edward pressed his lips together, giving me a frosty stare. It was like he was trying to figure out why I was acting so differently today.

He stared at me for a long moment, and then got up and headed back to his room. He didn't even bother to ask me.

But that wasn't all.

Back then, I'd iron and sort his pajamas by shade and spritz his comforter with pillow mist. There was always a glass of water waiting on his nightstand.

Ten years, day in and day out. But now, that was all gone.