Cast Out at His Funeral, Reborn for Revenge

Nathaniel's art would indeed appreciate in value over the years. But by then he'd donated every last painting and scroll to the school he credited as his "great patron." Not a single piece left for me—his most loyal follower.

The day I married Nathaniel, Layla was so angry she stayed home.

The night before, she'd still been pushing me to run from the wedding:

"Teresa, just listen to your sister this once. It matters who you tie your life to. That Swanson man—he's not the kind who'll ever settle down and give you a real life. You go with him, sure, maybe it looks good on the outside, but how miserable you are inside? Nobody's gonna know that but you."

She'd even hired a donkey cart. If I was willing to go, she'd take me to the city herself to start a business.

But the next morning, it was still my brother who carried me out the door.

After that, I never saw Layla again.

Looking back now, she tried to save me over and over. I was the one too stubborn to listen.

This time, I held her tight, eyes brimming with tears, and said against her ear:

"I'm sorry. I was wrong."

She hadn't expected this. She stood frozen, the broom slipping from her fingers without her even noticing.

She heard me crying, and all she could do was pat my back the way she used to when we were little, trying to calm me down.

Her warm arms, that familiar smell—for the first time in so long, I felt like I was home.

Nothing like Nathaniel's cold, lifeless house.

I was never going back to that. Falling asleep to the smell of ink, and everything I put on paper was suffering.

I didn't go to the art exhibition. I lay down in my room and slept peacefully for once.

After dinner, Stella came to find me again, bursting with gossip about what she'd seen that day.

"Teresa, honestly? Good thing you didn't go."

"Why?"

"If you'd gone, your heart would've shattered on the spot." Stella's eyes were wide. "Nathaniel confessed his feelings for Vivian Bennett in front of everyone!"

Vivian Bennett.

I turned the name over in my mind, again and again.

In my previous life, Nathaniel never had the nerve to do something like that.

Vivian's father was a man of real standing in the city. As his only daughter, she'd been sent to our county for labor.

Labor, they called it, but her hands didn't have a single callus on them.

Every day she sat in an office sketching and writing, just waiting for someone to bring her back to the city.

That air of refinement around her pulled at Nathaniel constantly, like something he couldn't stop reaching toward.

It was because of Vivian that a place like our little county even had something as grand as an art exhibition.

Everyone knew. The whole thing existed to keep her entertained.

A girl like that wasn't someone just anyone could reach.

Back then, Nathaniel was nobody—a nameless "folk artist" working in the dirt.

Talented enough to look impressive here, sure, among people who didn't know the first thing about art. Big fish, tiny pond.

But outside this county?

Nathaniel's work wasn't worth a damn.

That's not me talking. I heard it myself, years later, pressed against the other side of a wall.

The man speaking was a collector—the kind who lived to acquire pieces.

He'd just paid a steep price for Nathaniel's *Shepherd Boy with Ox*, then turned right around and told someone beside him that Nathaniel didn't understand art at all.

"Then why'd you buy his painting?"

The collector leaned in and dropped his voice. "Because the man knows how to market himself. Once he's dead, those paintings will triple in price."

Hearing that left me torn in half. It hurt—Nathaniel's life's work, in the hands of someone who saw it as nothing but an investment. But part of me was satisfied, too, because in a way, the man had just confirmed what I'd done.

That's right. Every bit of Nathaniel's marketing was my doing.

The gallery visits, the curator meetings, the networking with people in the art world. Nathaniel hated crowds, hated putting himself out there for a few extra dollars. He couldn't lower himself. It would compromise the dignity of being an artist, he said.