The Penniless Artist's Cruel Awakening

Sleep wouldn't come.

No matter how hard I tried, my mind kept replaying images of Clark and Delilah. I didn't have to see it to know he was holding her with a tenderness he once reserved for me, whispering comforts in her ear.

I had to pack. I had to leave this place tomorrow.

The next morning, I was jolted awake by a commotion in the apartment. Irritated, I climbed out of bed.

I opened the door to see movers carrying out my paintings and furniture, their voices carrying from the other room.

"Are we really throwing all this out? What if she asks about it?"

"She's leaving anyway. Who cares?"

"Boss said the new Mrs. Davenport is moving in soon, and she wants the place redone in her style. Everything's gotta go."

My heart seized. I stepped forward to stop them. "Stop! Those are my paintings!"

But Clark emerged from the study and casually grabbed my arm, his eyes cold. "It's just stuff, Nina. You can buy new things in Europe."

My brow furrowed in disbelief. Had he completely forgotten? That we found this old sofa together at a Brooklyn flea market? That this painting commemorated our first date?

I had always cherished them, but clearly, that didn't matter anymore. I lowered my gaze, pulled my arm from his grasp, took a deep breath, and conceded. "Fine. Throw them away."

His gaze was indifferent, his tone icy as he added, "The apartment needs to be cleared out for renovations. Your flight is in three days. Get a hotel until then."

I stared at him, shocked he could be in such a rush to dispose of me. His eyes were serious, utterly devoid of warmth. To him, I was just a pet he'd grown bored of.

As the movers helped load my luggage into a taxi, my heart felt like a lead weight in my chest. Watching Clark stand at the door, personally supervising the renovations, completely absorbed in preparations for his new wedding, I managed a bitter smile.

The sight sent a searing pain through my chest, like a blade twisting in my heart.

Halfway to the hotel, the taxi came to an abrupt stop at a quiet intersection. As I glanced at the driver in confusion, the back door was yanked open. Two burly men dragged me roughly from the car.

A red Ferrari was parked by the curb, and leaning against its door was Delilah, the very picture of a victor.

In person, she was even more striking than on screen—and far more cruel.

She was beautiful and flamboyant, the kind of woman born for the spotlight. No wonder Clark was so captivated.