A Masterpiece and Her Reproduction

It was a foundation with almost no public income. Its funding came almost exclusively from Julian's personal fortune and allocations from the Blackwood Group.

Despite this, its portfolio was extensive. Every major art acquisition inevitably involved an artist named Cora Monroe.

Eventually, I found Cora's profile on an exclusive social media app for the art world. She lived in a penthouse overlooking Central Park, a life of high-society leisure. Her latest post was a photo of her hands laced with a man's.

The caption read: "I love you, till the end of time."

I zoomed in. On the man's ring finger was a custom band, a perfect match to the one Cora wore. I also noticed the faint tan line from a watch on his wrist, right where the limited-edition watch I had given Julian for our anniversary used to be.

Julian had told me he disliked wearing accessories for business. For our wedding, besides the necessary vows, all other details were kept simple, just as he preferred.

I had been naive enough to believe him, to pour my heart into selecting that watch. He had kissed it and told me it would be his lucky charm, something he would treasure forever.

Yet the moment he was going to see Cora, he had taken it off.

It turned out he didn't dislike wearing rings; he just disliked wearing one with me.

I kept scrolling. On Valentine's Day, Julian had bought her an expensive sculpture, a piece custom-made by a famous artist.

That same day, he gave me a print reproduction of it.

On our wedding anniversary, he bought Cora's entire series of paintings and held a grand solo exhibition for her.

That same day, he gave me an art book from that exhibition.

...

As I scrolled, I buried my face in a pillow and laughed—a hysterical, broken sound. In the throes of it, my heart seemed to stutter to a halt.

To Julian, I was just Cora's shield. A PR tool.

Every gift he'd ever given me was a hollow echo, a cheap reproduction of a treasure he'd already given her.

Five years of devotion, annihilated in a single day.

I cried all night.

In the middle of it, Julian texted. I once thought he loved me, that he wanted to know what I was doing at every moment.

It turned out he was just worried I would slip from his control.

I wouldn't make it that easy for him. The first thing I did the next morning was contact my data privacy consultant, instructing him to erase every trace of my digital footprint.

When Julian came home in the middle of the night, the first thing he did was bury his head in the crook of my neck.

"Rowan, did you miss me? I couldn't sleep a wink last night without you."

I could see the dark circles under his eyes. He really hadn't slept.

In the past, I would have been deeply moved. Now, I felt as stiff as a statue.

He didn't love me. This performance of affection was disgusting.

"Shy?" he chuckled, pulling me into his arms. A soft moan escaped my lips against my will as he reasserted his possession. The thought that he might be disturbing my rest never even crossed his mind.

Silent tears slid from the corners of my eyes, soaking the pillow, unheard and unseen.

The next morning, I woke to his grim expression. His sheer presence made me tremble.

"Your phone's buzzing. What's this email about deleting your personal data?"

I glanced at my phone. My consultant had just sent the confirmation: the process was initiated, and all my personal data would be irrevocably deleted in three hours.

I forced a smile. "It's nothing, just an old social media account I don't use anymore. Figured it was safer to delete it."

"Oh." He leaned in, his hand grabbing the back of my head roughly. He stole my breath until I went limp in his arms.

"Rowan, don't lie to me. Don't you ever betray me."

I nodded desperately, tears welling, my fingertips icy with fear.

Just hold on a little longer.

I'll be free soon.

Soon, there will be no Rowan by Julian's side.

Fortunately, his phone rang, stopping him from taking things further.

"What? Cora's having a creative crisis? Who let her come back? Wait for me, I'm on my way." His voice was stern. He left without a backward glance.

I kept reminding myself to breathe.

One more thing to do. Even if my digital footprint was gone, I didn't want my name associated with him ever again.

After I calmed down, a text came from my private investigator. It was a string of numbers—Cora's personal assistant's phone number.

"Hello, this is Julian's wife. I need to meet with Miss Monroe."