What the Light Forgets

Henry didn't return until the next morning.

His eyes swept over the room—no lavish breakfast on the table, no freshly pressed suit hanging by the door—and he frowned slightly.

"Did you get in late last night?"

I nodded. "I had some things to discuss with the lawyer."

I pulled a document from my bag. "Two copies. Sign here."

Without even glancing at it, Henry flipped to the last page and signed.

After all, for the past ten years of his career—and the seven years of our marriage—I had personally handled all his business and logistics operations.

I exhaled in relief, tucked the agreement into my bag, and prepared to leave.

But Henry blocked the doorway, his face dark as he grabbed my arm.

"Don't overthink it," he said.

"After dinner last night, Tamara broke out in hives. I just took her to the hospital. Nothing else happened."

It was the first time in our marriage that Henry had ever offered me an explanation.

But he had forgotten, I, too, had once suffered from hives.

When I stood before him, my body covered in red rashes, begging him to take me to the hospital, he had only said, "Don’t you have legs? If you infect me, how will I paint?"

Seeing my cold expression, Henry opened his mouth to say more, but right on cue, Tamara called.

"Mr. Shepherd…" she whimpered over the phone.

"When I got to the studio today, everyone laughed at me. I’m so embarrassed, so miserable…"

"You silly little thing!" Henry scolded her gently.

"Didn't I tell you yesterday to rest if you’re feeling sick?"

"But if I don't come to the studio, the new exhibition will fall behind schedule. If I ruin your career, I'd die of shame…" Tamara sobbed.

"Don’t be ridiculous! Getting sick isn’t your fault."

As he spoke, Henry turned and cast a look of pure disgust at me.

"Some people," he sneered, "are so blinded by greed they don't care if others live or die.

"Be good. Wait for me in my office. I'll take you home."

He slammed the door behind him as he left, never once glancing at the swollen bruise on my face.

Lowering my eyes, I pulled out my phone and contacted the up-and-coming artist in Valmont who had been speaking to me for months.