What the Light Forgets

I was reviewing the management contract on my phone when a WhatsApp voice message from Tamara popped up.

"So sorry, Mrs. Shepherd," she cooed.

"Mr. Shepherd insisted on coming to take care of me. I know I’m delaying his exhibition progress—please don’t blame him!"

Her intentions were painfully transparent.

Too exhausted to engage, I instead focused on Tamara’s newly changed profile picture.

Zooming in, I recognized the hands cradling her hives-flushed face, faint smudges of paint still visible on the fingers.

Those hands were unmistakably Henry’s.

So he truly did care for her.

I closed the image and silently changed my own profile picture—from a wedding photo to a lone bird in flight.

On the final day of the exhibition, I stayed backstage to wrap up logistics.

By the time I went out front for the group photo, Henry had already stood center-stage with Tamara tucked under his arm.

Reporters gushed:

"The Shepherds are such relationship goals! Seven years married and still inseparable!"

"Mrs. Shepherd looks so youthful! And to think she manages his studio and curated this exhibition—beauty and brains!"

Neither Henry nor Tamara corrected them.

Then Tamara caught sight of me.

Immediately, tears welled up in her eyes, and she suddenly dropped to her knees with a dramatic thud.

"Mrs. Shepherd, I never meant for this to happen! I didn’t get a chance to explain!

“Mr. Shepherd’s success is all because of you—I’d never dare take credit for what you’ve done!"

Her abrupt performance cast a pall over the room. The only sound left was the rapid clicking of camera shutters.

Henry immediately stepped between us, shielding her. "Rosalind, was this really necessary? Must you be so aggressive?

"Tamara contributed significantly to this exhibition. Bringing her into the spotlight is just part of mentoring a newcomer."

He lowered his voice to a sharp whisper, "This is a public event. Don’t make a scene."

But I wasn’t making a scene. And I never would again.

I fixed a polished smile on my face, helped Tamara up, and calmly introduced her to the press.

The farce ended, smoothed over by hollow pleasantries.

Once the interviews concluded, I pulled out my phone to book a flight—only for Henry to snatch it from my hands.

"You’re booking an international flight? Where to?"

His brows furrowed, his voice laced with disbelief as he fired off his questions.

"Since when do I have an exhibition in Valmont? Why wasn’t I informed?"