Julian Blackwood demanded three vials of my blood, five thousand strands of my hair, and a jar of my happiest tears. Using these as his raw materials, he created a world-renowned masterpiece, “Beloved.” On our wedding day, I chose that very painting as our backdrop, my heart brimming with joy, waiting for Julian to come and claim me. Until a woman who looked eerily like me slashed the canvas with a small knife. “Julian Blackwood, how much longer until you finally let me go?! I stopped loving you ages ago!” “Don’t you dare find a stand-in to sicken me! You know I despise fakes! Why did you use *her* blood to paint *my* face?!” It turned out the woman in the blood-red wedding dress, shedding tears of happiness in the painting, was her. “I’d marry a dog before I’d marry you!” The woman tore into Julian, verbally eviscerating him. He, usually so proud and quick-tempered, stood with his head bowed, looking as helpless as a child caught misbehaving. Silently, I removed my veil. No tears, no shouts, no mention of the six wasted years of my youth. I simply dug my fingernail into the mole beneath my eye – the one Julian had placed there himself. “Julian Blackwood, we’re done for good.”
I returned to the villa, grabbed a baseball bat, and headed straight for the art studio on the third floor. The studio had been locked for years. I was never allowed inside. Not even on the third floor. “Mrs. Hayes, you can’t go in there!” Marcus desperately tried to stop me. I swung the bat, knocking him down, then smashed it against the lock with all my might. My hand throbbed, numb and agonizing. *Click!* The blood-splattered lock fell to the floor. My palm was a bloody mess, but I felt nothing. Pushing the door open, the sight before me stole my breath, and tears instantly welled up. The room was filled with portraits. Lying down, standing, clothed, nude – even intimate bedroom poses were captured. It was my body, but her face. At the bottom of each canvas, in elegant script, were the words: “To Genevieve.” “Mrs. Hayes!” Marcus rushed in, frantic. He scanned the room, then quietly let out a sigh of relief. “See? They’re all paintings of you. Mr. Blackwood just didn’t want anyone to come in and damage them.” I had believed that lie for six years. All the past events flashed clearly in my mind. Julian had never once said the woman in the paintings was me. He never explained why, with his extraordinary skill, he couldn’t even paint my face accurately. “Everyone has been lying to me.” I wasn’t particularly tall, and my face was only moderately pretty, the kind you’d easily lose in a crowd. A golden boy like Julian, a man as unattainable as the moon itself, how could he have fallen for me at first sight, showered me with endless affection, and spent a fortune just to see me smile? And a man like him, abandoning a brilliant future, to become a renowned art forger. His forgeries were indistinguishable from the originals, yet miles apart in truth, much like the beauty mark he’d placed beneath my eye. I suddenly thought of a pathetic mimicry. Tragic. Laughable. The scars from giving blood still marred my wrist, refusing to heal, and stacks of anemia reports had been gathering dust on my bedside table for half a year. The five thousand missing strands of hair hadn’t grown back either. And tears of pure happiness? I probably wouldn’t shed those ever again. “Get someone to cover this up immediately!” “Delete all photos and videos of the wedding!” Marcus, seeing the trending news, was frantically instructing his subordinates to deal with it. I gave a bitter laugh. “It’s no use.” It was streamed live. Everyone saw it. My dignity and pride were ripped to shreds along with the painting, right there on the spot. If Julian truly cared, how could he bear to let me suffer such public humiliation? He didn’t care. All the love I’d thought I had these past years—it had all been stolen.
As I reached the door, Julian returned. He leaned against the hood of his car, a cigarette butt dangling from his lips, and a swollen handprint marred his cheek. I ignored him, dragging my suitcase forward. “I’m sorry.” Julian grabbed me. “Don’t go.” His hands clamped around my waist like iron vises, tight and painful. He buried his head in the nape of my neck, as if trying to merge his entire body into mine. “I’ll reschedule the wedding. Everything will be exactly as you…” I cut him off. “No.” Julian spun me around, and then I saw his eyes, brimming with tears. They held a desolate, hopeless sadness. “She’s completely abandoned me, Rory. What am I going to do?” “She promised me we’d spend our lives together…” He rambled on about his past with that woman. I was forced to listen, tears streaming uncontrollably down my face. “Stop it! I don’t want to know!” Julian cried too. It was the first time I’d ever seen him cry, and the first time I realized that woman was the very meaning of his existence. “Rory, stay with me. It doesn’t matter if you’re the real thing or a fake. I’ll still love you.” I stopped struggling. My heart was pierced by countless tiny thorns, a throbbing agony that made my limbs numb and my vision swim with every move. It was, quite possibly, the most disgusting thing I’d ever heard in my life. “Fine, I won’t leave…” I choked back the nausea. “Just let go of me first.” We went back to how we always were. He cooked for me, massaged me, and emptied my online shopping carts promptly every night. Playing the dutiful girlfriend, I offered him a glass of milk. “Drink this, and then we can go to bed.” Julian took the glass, stared at the milk for a long moment, then emptied it. As soon as he lost consciousness, I fled the villa. Late autumn. A strong wind whipped fallen leaves into a frenzied dance, blinding me. I found a random food truck and sat down. “A case of beer, please.” In the dead of night, the suppressed emotions came back to haunt me. What had these six years even meant? Had Julian ever had a moment of true feeling for me? I couldn’t even begin to guess. I drank until I vomited, then drank again, until I couldn’t force down another drop. All my memories seemed to be purged with every heave, leaving me hollow. Only muscle memory remained. My fingers, beyond my control, habitually pressed that speed-dial button. “Beep—beep—” No answer. I tapped my phone, muttering, “That’s weird, is it broken?” One call after another. “Julian, I feel so awful…” “Julian, why aren’t you coming to get me…?” I don’t know how long I waited. A pair of heels stopped in front of me. A woman crouched down. “You’re… Rory Hayes?” “The sun’s almost up. What are you doing sleeping in a ditch?” Her gaze fell on my bleeding wrist, and a flicker of pity, and a hint of guilt, crossed her face. I only vaguely registered that her face looked a lot like mine. I immediately lost consciousness.
When I woke up, the woman was sitting by the floor-to-ceiling window, reading. “The fever reducer is by the bed. Take it yourself.” I pushed my scorching body up, fumbled for the pills, and found the water in the glass still warm. Only when I’d taken the medicine did she speak. “I’m Genevieve Dubois.” “Rest up for a bit, then you should go. I have an auction to attend this afternoon.” Genevieve closed her book, smoothed her hair and clothes. Every movement was elegant, a stark contrast to the woman who had caused such a scene at the wedding. Her room was filled with paintings. Their style was unique and consistent. Even I, who had seen countless true masterpieces, was momentarily mesmerized by them. “They’re all Julian’s paintings. If you like any, feel free to take them.” “There’s a whole warehouse full. They’re no use to me.” I froze, my thoughts drifting. The first time Julian gave me a portrait, I was overjoyed for months. Even though it barely resembled me, I cherished it like a treasure and hung it above my bed. Because he said he’d only ever paint true masterpieces for one person. I, in my foolish self-importance, believed he meant me. “Julian, I don’t have a mole here. Don’t just make one up.” I pointed to the corner of the woman’s eye in the painting. “It’s one thing if you can’t get my face right, but a simple mole? How could you mess that up?” He pinched my cheek, then took a ballpoint pen and pricked a tiny hole right where the mole was. The ink seeped in, and when it healed, it became a permanent mark. He said, “There, perfect. My favorite look.” I swallowed my anger, all for his promise to paint me a portrait every six months. In six years, I’d received a total of eight. Not even close to filling this one wall here. Genevieve walked over to me. I noticed the bracelet on her wrist. A one-of-a-kind piece, globally. Yet, at this very moment, I was wearing an identical one – a complete and utter fake – given to me by Julian. She didn’t notice my subtle movement to hide my hand. “Last night, Julian and I finally had it out. He promised to let go and stop bothering me.” The words caught in my throat. A sharp pain pierced me, but I couldn’t swallow them, nor could I spit them out. How could I tell her? That he saw her as his only one, his reason for living. That her importance in his heart was beyond a thousand of me, a million of me. I couldn’t say it. It would be like tearing me open, exposing my raw vulnerability and wounds for all to see. I picked up my phone and realized I’d called Julian over three hundred times and sent over five hundred texts last night. Not a single call answered, not a single message returned. Genevieve frowned. “His talkative habit hasn’t changed. I was so exhausted, but he just kept talking. He even wanted to talk on the phone while sleeping. You absolutely have to make him break that habit later.” I didn’t answer. Because around me, Julian had always been that quiet, reserved man, with a touch of arrogance. My smart watch, synced with his, showed he’d slept soundly last night, better than any night in the past six years. After Genevieve left, I cried silently into the blanket.
I prepared a feast, a table laden with dishes, fresh from the stove, steaming hot. Genevieve, changing her shoes in the entryway, looked surprised. “You’re still here?” I shook my head. “I have nowhere else to go.” “I’m so sorry for the trouble.” She sat beside me, her gaze sweeping over all the dishes. “How did you know my dietary restrictions?” she asked, a hint of surprise in her voice. “There are so many things I don’t eat. It can’t be a coincidence that you don’t either, can it?” The spare rib I’d just picked up slipped from my forks and splashed back into the soup. Hot broth splattered onto my wrist, but I didn’t flinch. Julian had cooked these very dishes for me for six years. He never let me cook, nor would he let me eat food made by anyone else. Every dish had to be his creation. “Watch closely. You’ll have to cook exactly like this when you make your own meals in the future.” “That’s how you make the most delicious food.” To go to such elaborate lengths for a stand-in, Julian, you truly put in a lot of effort. Suddenly, a tear fell into my bowl. I frantically shoveled several mouthfuls of plain rice into my mouth, trying to hide my breakdown. It tasted bitter, acrid, utterly disgusting. I choked it down, only for it to rise back up my throat. Genevieve suddenly tugged at my sleeve. “Your bra strap is showing.” “We really do have similar tastes. I used to have a matching one, but I haven’t worn it in ages.” All my lingerie had been personally chosen by Julian. From my underwear to my outerwear, he had controlled every aspect of my appearance. *Knock, knock—* The knocking was urgent. Before we could reach the door, Julian had already let himself in, standing in the entryway. The overhead light cast a shadow across his low-set brow, making him appear even more ominous. “Rory, it’s time to come home. Don’t disturb Ms. Dubois’s rest here.” He walked towards me. His expression suddenly softened, and he gave Genevieve a slight nod before taking my hand, attempting to pull me away. I stood my ground. His grip tightened abruptly, almost crushing my hand. Yet, on his face, he maintained a polished, gentle smile. The pain made me gasp, but I was forced to let him drag me. Just as we reached the door, Genevieve suddenly spoke. “Ms. Hayes, do you need help? You don’t have to go with him.” The pressure around Julian intensified again. He was at his limit. To avoid causing Genevieve any trouble, I shook my head. “I’m fine.” She cast a sidelong glance at Julian. “Trespassing, and acting like a brute — that’s exactly why I can never take you back.” Julian’s body stiffened. He mumbled an apology, then quickly closed the door. He dragged me, stumbling, all the way downstairs. Genevieve wasn’t here now, so he dropped the smile. His features were harder than steel. “Did I ever tell you that a forgery can stay anywhere, except right next to the original?” “Only then does a fake have value, only then can it bask in the attention of others, instead of being treated like trash and scorned when it’s next to the real thing.” He often said this when he was making his forgeries. The blood drained from my face. “Rory, let me tell you one more thing.” “Who in the world cares most about a forgery?” He smiled. “The original, of course.” Whether it was forging art or finding a stand-in, from the very beginning, his sole purpose was to capture Genevieve’s attention. That was all. Suddenly, I felt a sense of release. After all, I’d never truly possessed Julian. Why grieve a loss that was never mine to begin with? The wind outside was still fierce, tangling my hair, carrying away my shattered heart. It was so cold. Like snow falling on me, melting and draining away all my warmth. It was late autumn just moments ago, but in a blink, it felt like the dead of winter. Julian forcefully brought me back home. He acted as if nothing had happened, never mentioning the drug I’d given him, nor my words about breaking up.
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