Two months pregnant, I saw a post from Hunter, my husband, on SnapChat. The photo showed Hunter with his arm around Scarlett, his assistant, holding up a red lace bra. “My boyfriend is too passionate; he ripped my bra! Good thing he bought me a new lace one!” I silently hit the like button. Then, I systematically destroyed every single baby item we owned. The last one was burning just as Hunter’s call came in. He sounded panicked, rushing to explain: “Audrey, the company’s new lingerie design needed promotion. Scarlett and I were just acting… if you like it, I can get you one…” “No thanks,” I said, my hand instinctively caressing my still-flat belly. “Advertising, right? I get it.” After hanging up, I unearthed my long-forgotten palette. Hunter, this time, I’m truly done with you. Outside, the snow fell thick and fast. Hunter returned, and I’d already booked my abortion for two days later. Seeing I wasn’t waiting for him as usual, his face instantly soured. “Why didn’t you come to meet me?” “It’s snowing so heavily, weren’t you worried I couldn’t get back?!” He grumbled, kicking off his snow-caked shoes. Slush and mud seeped into the carpet, leaving dark stains. Normally, I’d meticulously wipe his shoes with a towel, then brew him some hot tea to ward off the cold. But now, “I just don’t feel like it!” Hunter’s expression froze. His Adam’s apple bobbed twice. “What about my coffee then?” “Forgot.” “Forgot?!” A deathly silence hung in the air. “Audrey, what’s gotten into you now?” “Is this all because of those photos?…” He moved to grab my hand, but I subtly pulled back, pretending to adjust my teacup. “New products need buzz, I told you that. I was just promoting them.” “Don’t keep using your pregnant mood swings to pressure me. I can’t handle it…” “You’re overthinking it.” I calmly cut him off, my legs, curled under the blanket, instinctively recoiling. Pellets of snow slapped against the window, reminding me of the blizzard two weeks ago. He’d worn the same frown then. “The company’s new product is launching soon. You don’t need to drag me to a prenatal check-up.” Then, he’d gently explained to Scarlett on the phone, “I notice every single one of your efforts. Don’t worry, no matter what the future holds, I’ll be there for you every step of the way.” But that day, I’d walked home alone through the raging snowstorm. Hunter pressed his fingertips to his temples, leaving a red mark. Finally, he pulled a cheaply packaged item from his briefcase. “La Perla!” “The exact same color and style!” He tossed the bra in front of me, wearing a “don’t be ungrateful” look. “Satisfied now?” I stared at the bra, nestled in the most basic plastic bag from a convenience store. The gold-foil logo was crooked, half-missing. It was starkly different from the one he’d given Scarlett. Yet, I still calmly said “Thank you,” and went back to scrolling on my phone without looking up. Hunter’s brows suddenly furrowed. He grabbed my arm. “I’ve satisfied your vanity, so why the sour face?” “Scarlett is wearing this exact line, it’s trending everywhere online right now! People are fighting to get their hands on it! And this is your attitude?” What else did he expect? “What else should I do?” “Bow down? Or just transfer the money to you?” The flowing air instantly solidified into dead silence. I didn’t want to argue anymore. I tossed the blanket aside and walked directly to the bedroom. Behind me, I heard the crash of Hunter kicking over the tea set. But I truly couldn’t think of a way to express gratitude to him. To accept a fake item as an excuse for his “promotional necessity” betrayal. Then, under the guise of “vanity,” he dismissed all my grievances and disappointment as unreasonable pregnant sensitivity. It was so incredibly pointless. I changed into clean clothes and headed for the front door. Hunter’s angry shouts followed me to the entryway. “Where are you going in this blizzard? You’re pregnant, what if something happens?” I fastened the last button of my coat, a bitter smile tugging at my lips. “So you do remember I’m pregnant, Hunter…” I slipped on my shoes. “Do you remember the last time you left me at the hospital?” “I was thinking the same thing!” “In a blizzard, and pregnant, what if something happens?!” “And what happened?” I spread my hands, then walked out the door without looking back. As the security door closed, I heard the sound of a cup shattering on the floor. But I didn’t rush back in a panic like before, to clean up the mess, or to pacify him with a forced smile. Instead, I straightened my back and stepped into the waiting taxi. The flying snow lashed against the window, and a long-forgotten lightness bloomed in my chest. Before I married Hunter, I was a well-known painter in my circle. Later, because he said “I need you,” I abandoned my cherished passion. My palette was put away, and my paint-stained brushes soaked in turpentine. But now, I could finally, uninhibitedly, chase my passion again.
The scent of turpentine hit me. The students chattered, crowding around me. The gallery owner was the first to step forward, handing me a paintbrush. “I knew it. You couldn’t stay trapped in that golden cage forever.” I took the brush and sincerely said, “Thank you!” In the three years I was married to Hunter, I truly made him my entire world. From the smallest task of managing the household to the biggest sacrifice of shielding him from life’s storms, I gave up the most vibrant passion of my life. Thankfully, I finally realized that love alone cannot be everything. After finishing my last painting, I returned home late at night. The dim light elongated Hunter’s desolate silhouette. I didn’t notice his expression, only the mess in the living room. He’d been drinking. This was the first time in three years, outside of company events, that he’d drunk alone at home. I suppressed my shock, placing my painting supplies by the door. He rushed over and grabbed me. “Where were you?” I didn’t answer, just took off my shoes. “I asked you, where were you?!” His voice unconsciously rose. He saw my paint-splattered clothes, then his face registered a sudden understanding. “Audrey, Audrey, are you serious? So intent on fighting with me that you run away, and you know oil paint is bad for the baby, you know how much I hate the smell of it, but you deliberately went to a gallery to spite me! When are you going to grow up?” I stared at his pale face, momentarily speechless. Finally, a cold scoff was all the answer I gave to his questions. “What do you mean?” He grabbed me from behind. “Is it still about that bra?” “I already explained it, it was for a new product launch. Besides, I bought you the same one. What more do you want?” Dried paint pricked uncomfortably under my fingernails. I indifferently pulled my hand free. “Yes, what more do I want?” “Are you done talking? Because I’m going to sleep.” He suddenly kicked over the shoe rack. Wooden clogs clattered against the wall. Plaster dust mixed with the turpentine scent. “Always with that deadpan face!” “You have a perfectly good life, but you insist on getting involved with those crazy artists, Audrey. What exactly does our marriage mean to you?!” His hysterical accusations were as grating as the cold wind howling outside the window. But I still said nothing. In the face of his illogical arguments, I always believed silence was my strongest weapon against his twisted logic. That night, the crisp pop of a can opening sliced through the stillness of the night. I sat on the bed, staring at my phone, listening to Hunter’s deliberately hushed voice from the living room. “When will she ever be like you?” The next day, I opened my bedroom door. Hunter was slumped over a pile of empty cans, his head drooping. A mountain of cigarette butts leaned precariously in last night’s spilled alcohol. Normally, I’d quietly clean up the mess and carefully create an escape route for both of us. Even if my heart ached with injustice, I’d use the gentlest smile and actions to paint this argument as just another ordinary part of life. But now, I walked straight past the cans and out the door. Before closing it, I heard Hunter’s low growl, “If you’re so capable, then never come back!” And that’s exactly what I intended. Since quitting my gallery job three years ago, I hadn’t picked up a brush for outdoor sketching. Now that I had the chance, I wouldn’t betray this turpentine-scented freedom. Holding Mr. Davies’s letter of recommendation, I signed up for the Perrotin Gallery exhibition, three days away. “It’s a long journey; you’ll be gone for a while. Are you really not going to discuss it with him?” Mr. Davies’s voice crackled through the phone. I traced the unfinished “Morning Mist on the Seine” on my screensaver. It was a sketch from three years ago, for my Perrotin application, a path I’d stopped walking for Hunter. But now, “No need to discuss. We’re getting divorced soon.”
When I got home, Hunter stood in front of the mirror, dressed in a tailored suit. He held an Italian handcrafted comb, meticulously smoothing back the hair at his temples. The sharp, slicked-back style enhanced his handsome, chiseled features. “I have a work dinner tonight,” he said without looking up. Then, he pulled out his phone, a smile playing on his lips, and walked out the door. That smile was identical to the one in Scarlett’s latest photos. Carefree, tender, with an undeniable doting affection in his eyes and the curve of his mouth. I remembered three years ago, he’d smiled at me that exact same way. On a snowy street, he’d wrapped my trembling shoulders in a thick coat. Then he’d wound a scarf around my neck, layer after layer, and said with a smile, “See? This way, my little painter won’t freeze into a snowman.” But now, he warmed someone else’s winter with that same smile. The starlight in his eyes no longer belonged to me. I knew he was going to see Scarlett again. Ever since Scarlett appeared, he’d often come home late or left early. I felt insecure, trying every way to hold onto him. But in the end, all I got was his exasperated, “Can you stop being so annoying?” That evening, on a whim, I opened my social media. I saw a photo Scarlett had posted. Hunter stood beside her. They both held the same bottle of champagne, smiling brightly in front of a giant champagne tower. The caption read: “Wherever you are, it’s always brilliant.” Below it was Hunter’s heart emoji. “It’s never lonely with you around.” Once, I would have cried hysterically, then screamed and demanded answers like a madwoman. “Who exactly is your wife? Have you ever considered my feelings?” But now, I quietly closed my phone and slept until dawn. In the early hours, I was jolted awake by a violent slamming door. Hunter, reeking of alcohol, ripped the covers off me. “I said I had a work dinner, but I didn’t say I wouldn’t eat anything, did I?!” “Audrey, are you so heartless and uncaring now that you can’t even bother to prepare me a late-night snack? How can you be so cold?!” His chest heaved violently, catching me off guard. In the past, whenever he went out for work, no matter how late, I would painstakingly prepare a table full of snacks. Worried about his stomach, I’d even warm milk. But each time, he’d push it away with a frown, then post photos of gourmet late-night meals shared with others on social media. I rubbed my sleepy eyes, speaking as calmly as possible. “You didn’t say you were coming back to eat. You always eat out at these work dinners. I can’t exactly chase after you asking if you’ve eaten, can I? Wouldn’t that make you seem weak? Besides, Scarlett was there.” In the past, every time I questioned him, it would provoke his impatience. He hated all my texts and questions, especially when he was with Scarlett. So, upon hearing my words, his tightly furrowed brow instantly smoothed. “That’s not what I meant. Isn’t preparing a late-night snack what you *should* do? And being with Scarlett? That’s purely for the new product launch, don’t be silly.” I nodded, a knowing expression on my face. “I’m not being silly. I just want to sleep.” With that, I pulled the covers over my head, no longer paying attention to his expression as I had before. But his intense gaze lingered on me for a long time. That night, the living room light stayed on. The next day, I woke up early. After washing up, I walked straight to the entryway to change my shoes. Hunter sat at the dining table, arms crossed. I knew he was waiting for breakfast, but I didn’t give him a chance to speak. I closed the door without looking back. The wind was biting cold. I pulled my coat tighter and walked into the hospital. A cool liquid flowed into my veins. In that moment, there was no sorrow, no sadness. Only a numb calm. As they say, a broken heart isn’t a sudden storm; it’s the slow, steady drip of countless disappointments wearing away what was once burning passion. On the way back, Hunter texted. He said the new product had successfully launched, and he was throwing a party at home. He asked me, for the sake of our marriage, not to make a scene. It was the first time he’d spoken to me in such a pleading tone, and the first time his words carried an almost imperceptible tremble. The ridiculous thing was, none of it was for me. But I still agreed. Not for Hunter, not for anyone else, but to use this opportunity to bring a definitive end to this fractured relationship. It was bad timing. The moment I opened the door, I saw Scarlett sitting in *my* spot. She was holding *my* wine glass, laughing and drinking with Hunter.
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