Chapter 3

My dad ended up behind bars for selling fake paintings at sky-high prices—the fraud involved millions, and there was no hope of him ever getting out. Meanwhile, Michael's fame skyrocketed overnight.

Half the people were hyping up how he totally surpassed his mentor, while the other half were pissed and felt bad for him, thinking his teacher had screwed him over.

He walked away with it all—fame, money, and everything the James family ever owned ended up in his pocket.

When Michael unveiled his next masterpiece, it caused a sensation—there wasn't even a hint of my dad's style left in it.

He'd mastered his own style ages ago; all that time he was just pretending to copy my dad, waiting for this exact moment.

Just like how he used that gentle, patient act to win me over.

But in the end, he wasn't even close to being gentle.

When it came to dealing with people, he had zero patience.

I always thought Madeline, my dad's other student, barely knew Michael and had no real connection with him.

But in reality, they were childhood sweethearts—she'd been his one true love for years.

In the end, it was all just me fooling myself.

*****

I drifted in and out of sleep, memories swirling in my head.

The shouting outside kept getting louder until it finally snapped me awake.

I got out of bed and it sounded like Charlie was arguing with his roommate in the living room.

As I reached the bedroom door, I could hear that fat, middle-aged guy outside, his voice dripping with crude, disgusting remarks.

"Quit acting like she's some innocent little angel. If she's not your girlfriend, what kind of decent girl comes home with you this late at night?

"You barely make enough to support yourself. How long do you think you can actually help her out?

"If she sticks with me, she'll get 3,000 dollars a month—way better than you working yourself to death for scraps," he sneered.

But before he could spit out anything filthier, a sudden, loud bang cut him off.

My heart was pounding with panic and I rushed to yank the door open.

Charlie stood there, gripping half a broken bottle, his eyes blazing with rage.

The middle-aged guy was sprawled on the floor, broken glass from the bottle scattered beside him.

He wiped the blood from his forehead, face red with anger as he got up and shouted, "I'm filthy rich, damn it! Tell me, what did I say that's not true?"

Before he could finish, Charlie swung the half-bottle and smashed it right over his head.

I rushed over to stop him, but the guy, who'd been running his mouth nonstop, suddenly lost his nerve when he saw the jagged glass in Charlie's hand.

He clutched his head and stumbled out of the room in a panic.

Charlie set the bottle down, shooting me an awkward sideways glance. "It's fine; he's just being a drunken fool."

He walked over to the foyer and bolted the door behind him.

I went back to my room, but I couldn't sleep at all.

I kept thinking that I didn't want to burden Charlie any longer. I really needed to move out early tomorrow.

But the trouble was way bigger and came way faster than I ever imagined.

The next morning, as soon as I turned on my phone, the internet was already blowing up.

Dozens of so-called intimate photos of Charlie and me were going viral.

There were shots of him leaning over to pat my shoulder while we sat on a bench outside the police station.

And there were photos of him taking me into the old neighborhood, unlocking the door, and leading me into the rental apartment.

The media was loving every second of it, even going so far as to call me "Mrs. Foster" in their headlines.

The last photo showed Michael's car parked outside the neighborhood.

He was leaning against the car door, standing under a streetlight.

He was caught in that awkward half-light, half-shadow, and the way the photo was taken made him look so pathetic and alone—it honestly made me sick just looking at it.

I was so furious that I clenched my fists and practically sprang out of bed.

As soon as I opened the door, I saw Charlie standing in the foyer with a stormy look on his face.

Outside, reporters were already shouting through the door, their voices flooding in like a tidal wave. "Mr. Cooper, Mrs. Foster?"

"Mrs. Foster, Mr. Foster is waiting for you outside."

"Could you two come out and explain what's going on?"

The commotion outside was only getting worse.

It wasn't long before the landlord simply unlocked the door and walked right in.

That was when I realized the guy Charlie had punched last night wasn't his roommate at all—it was actually the landlord's son.

The landlord's son was a gambling addict. He'd lost all his money and gotten drunk, so he came over to Charlie's place, making a scene and demanding the rent early.

As soon as the door opened, reporters flooded in, one after another.

Michael was the only one left outside, standing there with a nonchalant, almost amused look—like he was just here to enjoy the spectacle.

The middle-aged landlord came in with his son, first giving his son a pained look at the bruises on his face, then turning to the media with a face full of anger and grief.

"If Charlie hadn't been avoiding paying rent and holing up at home after work, my son wouldn't have had to come over and ask for it.

"Who could've guessed he'd walk in and see something so indecent?

"I-I can't even bring myself to say it out loud.

"My son's still young—he hasn't even dated anyone yet.

"He walked in and caught the two of them together on the couch and right next to them was Mrs. Foster's mother's urn and her photo.

"They totally lost it and beat up my son. Isn't that just ridiculous? Who am I supposed to complain to?"

I was shaking with rage as I snapped, "Stop twisting the truth!

"Your son barged in here, running his mouth, and honestly, he asked for it."

Charlie clenched his fists, looking like he was about to deck the landlord right then and there.

But a reporter reacted fast and jumped in to block him.

The other reporters were jeering, "Mr. Cooper, there are so many people here. You can't just silence everyone by throwing punches.

"If you're really a man, why don't you just man up and apologize to Mr. Foster?"

Charlie suddenly realized Michael was still out there, standing just outside the door.

It was obvious who was pulling the strings here.

Charlie's eyes were blazing with fury as he tried to charge forward. "Apologize my ass!"

The crowd quickly blocked him.

Michael stood on the other side of the crowd, keeping his distance from everyone.

There was a subtle smile in his dark eyes as he calmly, with a hint of satisfaction, watched me.

In that look, his eyes were full of mockery, saying loud and clear, "Serves you right."

The camera flashes hit me right in the face, the glare so harsh it made my eyes burn and water.

Charlie got into it with someone, and suddenly, somebody grabbed something and smashed it right over his head.

He stumbled and crashed to the floor, then climbed back up, absolutely furious.

With the crowd roaring around me, Eve spoke up again, her voice steady. "Yes, I stayed here last night, but there's absolutely nothing between me and Mr. Cooper.

"Michael and I are already divorced. He's just my ex-husband."

Michael had been standing calmly and silently at the back of the crowd, not saying a word. Then, out of nowhere, he let out a soft, mocking laugh. "Oh, really? Divorced, are we?"

*****

I stared at him, waiting for him to say whatever came next.

It felt like a storm was about to break, and suddenly, it all made sense.

He wanted every single member of the James family to burn in hell.

Michael pulled out the divorce papers I'd signed and waved them in front of the cameras for everyone to see.

"Eve, you brought these to me last night, wanting a divorce. But you seem to have forgotten—I never agreed to it," he said with a cold smile.

I blurted out, "Divorce papers..."

Michael interrupted me softly, feigning innocence. "Divorce papers? I have no idea what you're talking about."

He made his way through the crowd, walking toward me, each step slow and deliberate.

Suddenly, it hit me—the man I'd shared a bed with for five years now felt like a total stranger, almost monstrous.

He was close enough to touch, yet his face was just a blur—as if I couldn't see him at all anymore.

He kept speaking, every word captured by the cameras, his voice carefully crafted to sound gentle and devoted, like he was playing the perfect husband for the media.