1 In the eighth year of our relationship, Cade Miller asked for a divorce. Or rather, he asked to end us. We weren’t married—not legally—though for nearly a decade, I had been his wife in every way that mattered. I was in the kitchen, poaching eggs and browning sourdough when he said it. “Sienna, you’ve spent your best years on me. I don’t want you to waste any more of your life in my shadow.” The smell of butter was suddenly nauseating. I didn’t turn around. “We’ve been together eight years,” he continued, his voice as smooth and detached as if he were critiquing a canvas at a gallery opening. “I’ll write you a check. A settlement for your time. Think of it as a severance package for a life lived well.” He was leaning against the doorframe, his eyes devoid of the warmth that had once burned through me. He looked exactly the same as he did when he spent a year relentlessly pursuing me—decisive, focused, and utterly self-involved. Years ago, Cade had offhandedly mentioned over wine: “An artist needs inspiration. They need new women to spark the fire.” At the time, I thought he was talking about the Greats—Picasso, Dalí, the tortured men of history. Now, I finally understood the subtext. I was no longer the spark. I was just the ash. I simply nodded. On the day he was set to marry someone else, I’d be on a flight to Germany with nothing but a suitcase and a recommendation letter he’d written years ago. The day Cade broke up with me started like any other Sunday. I was his anchor, his chef, his manager, his peace. I knew the rhythm of his breathing better than my own. For eight years, we lived in a chic, light-filled loft in Brooklyn, moving through life with the practiced ease of a long-married couple. I had met him at a subway station. He had chased me down, begging for my number, claiming I had “the most haunted eyes he’d ever seen.” I didn’t know then that he was the Cade Miller, the darling of the contemporary art world. I only knew he was gentle and attentive. A year later, I was won over. To the public, he was the sophisticated artist—bow ties, linen shirts, a brilliant conversationalist. To me, he was a man who couldn’t remember to eat, who didn’t know how to pay a utility bill, who would paint for forty-eight hours straight until his fingers bled. I was the one who bandaged those fingers. I was the one who made sure he didn’t starve. But eight years is a long time for a man who feeds on novelty. The tide of “us” had gone out, leaving nothing but wet sand. “Sienna, let’s end this,” he said from the kitchen doorway. “I know this isn’t what you wanted, but I’ve realized I’m just not the marrying type. Not with you.” He paused, adjusting the cuff of his shirt. “I don’t want to fail you anymore. Let’s make this a clean break. The eight years you’ve given me… I’ve calculated a figure. It’ll be in your account by Monday.” Clang. My fork hit the floor. 2 I looked at him, searching for a flicker of regret. There was none. Only the terrifying clarity of a man who had already moved on. “Fine,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “If that’s what you’ve decided.” I moved past him to go to the bedroom to pack. “Stay until you find a place,” he called out after me. “There’s no rush.” “Right,” I replied. The bedroom was dominated by a massive oil painting on the far wall. It was a portrait of me he’d painted during our “honeymoon” phase. Back then, a piece of his could easily fetch five million at auction. I knew I was looking at a fortune, but I never saw the dollar signs. To me, it was a testament of love—something that couldn’t be quantified. The doorbell rang. I assumed it was his Postmates order. I opened the door to find a woman standing there. She was radiant, glowing with that specific, irritating energy of someone in their early twenties. Her eyes… they were a three-quarter match for mine eight years ago. But I was twenty-eight now. Life had happened to my face. “Hi! I’m looking for Cade,” she said, her smile wide and bright, though her eyes scanned me with a sharp, territorial instinct. “Is he in, Ma’am?” Ma’am. The word felt like a slap. “He’s in,” I said, stepping back. She brushed past me, leaving a trail of white tea perfume in her wake. “Cade! Cade, honey, I’m here!” Seconds later, I heard her giggles from down the hall, followed by Cade’s low, indulgent laugh. Eight years ago, that was us. I was the one causing the chaos; he was the one smiling through it. We had shared every inch of this space for nearly a decade. He used to tell me I had a natural gift for color. He used to hold me and whisper, “Sienna, you are my Muse. Without you, the canvas is dead.” I realized then that an artist doesn’t just have one Muse. They have a gallery of them. 3 I heard footsteps approaching. Cade was walking her to the door. As she left, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him—a lingering, performative kiss. “I’ll be waiting for your answer,” she chirped. The door clicked shut. A moment later, there was a knock on my bedroom door. “Sienna? Can we talk?” I opened the door. Cade’s handsome face was marred by a smudge of bright pink lipstick on his jaw. “What is it, Cade?” His voice was hoarse. “You noticed, didn’t you? How much she looks like you used to look.” He stepped into the room, his eyes suddenly alive with a frantic, manic energy. “It’s been years since I felt that… that electric charge from you. But she? She gives me blood. She makes me feel like it’s eight years ago again.” “But it isn’t eight years ago, Cade,” I said softly. “People change. You changed. I changed.” His excitement flickered, turning into a strange sort of melancholy. “I know. But I’m captivated. In her, I’m talking to the ghost of who you were. I’m communicating with the version of you that I loved most.” I looked at him and realized I didn’t know this man anymore. He was more obsessed with the idea of art than the reality of human beings. I couldn’t find the energy to argue. “I’m going to marry her,” he said suddenly. “It’s the ending we should have had eight years ago.” He turned and walked back to his studio without waiting for a response. Marriage. I let out a jagged, self-deprecating laugh. So, he was the marrying type. He just wasn’t the “staying” type. He wanted to marry a memory, not a woman. To him, a Muse was just a piece of equipment—something to be used until the inspiration ran dry, then replaced. 4 I stayed in that room for a long time, staring at the portrait on the wall. In the corner of the closet sat a dusty box of professional-grade paints and brushes he had gifted me in our second year. He’d told me then that I had a “soul for light,” and for a while, I believed I could stand beside him as an equal. But then came the dinners, the laundry, the scheduling, the emotional labor of keeping a “genius” afloat. I had become the frame, and he was the masterpiece. I picked up a brush. It felt like an old friend, familiar and heavy with potential. I decided to paint him. Just once. The way he had painted me so many times. The paint moved for me. It didn’t feel like work; it felt like an exorcism. I worked through the night, the colors bleeding together as the sun began to peek through the Brooklyn skyline. When I was finished, I took down the multi-million dollar portrait of myself. In its place, I hung my own canvas. I wrapped his portrait of me in bubble wrap and took it to a high-end gallery in Chelsea. The curator’s eyes nearly popped out of his head when I told him what I had. “You’re saying you have the ‘Sienna’ original? The one Miller swore he’d never sell?” In the art world, a piece dedicated to a specific person—especially a long-term partner—is considered the “holy grail.” Cade’s output had slowed significantly in recent years; his value was skyrocketing because of the scarcity. I signed the consignment papers. As I stepped out of the gallery, I ran right into Cade and the girl from the day before. Talia. “What are you doing here?” Cade asked, his brow furrowing in confusion. He knew I didn’t care for the “scene.” He assumed I had no interest in the world he inhabited. He had no idea that for him, I had spent years studying art history and market trends in private, just so I could understand his world. “Just taking care of some business,” I said. “Cade, babe, let’s go,” Talia pouted, tugging at his arm. “You promised we’d look at the new expressionist wing.” The gallery owner stepped out just then, spotting Cade. “Mr. Miller! What a surprise. If word gets out you’re here, we’ll be at capacity in ten minutes.”
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