His Art, Her Agony

et over my head. It was probably just another bill collector or a producer rejecting my lat

y popped up on the screen, a video call. I

s voice was tight with urgency, her face

e been in a edit

voice dropping. "His new exh

celebrated conceptual artist who had once been the center of my universe. We h

I asked, my voice

. I clicked it, and

ow it was a picture of Ethan, looking brooding and brilliant in front of his latest installation. But

es o

aptured, moments I thought were only for us. He had twisted them into a public spectacle, a narrative of a tormented artist and his tragic muse. The comments section was

o the floor, the screen dark. I didn't care. I gra

I pounded on his door, he opened it with a glass of wh

'd been expecting me. "Com

m into the spacious, minimalist loft. "Those

g. "Art is supposed to be provocativ

thing for your own fame!" I was shaking, tears o

up with notifications. "They think I'm a villain. My gallery is threatening to pull the

ix this. You're going to issue a public statement. You'll say you were a willing part

f. "Apologize? Never. You d

How is dear old Grandma Susan doing? Still going to church every S

ional woman whose health was already fragile. She knew Ethan and I had married, but she knew nothing of the me

I whispered, my

of the more... sensitive photos. The ones I didn't put in the show. I give you twenty-four hours to

quiet, emotional storytelling. I was drawn to his fire, and he said he found his muse in my soul. Our love was a whirlwind of passion and creativit

noticed by the art world. But I felt exposed, used. It was the first time I realized that for Ethan, the line between our life a

ain, but on a global scale. This was

one I had thrown, began to ring from the floor. The s

where my grandmother l