Husband's Affair and Divorce

When my husband won the gold trophy at the painting competition, I rushed into the studio with the pregnancy report I'd hidden for days. But what I saw was my husband entangled on the floor with his young female apprentice.

She was unclothed, her pale skin speckled with various colors of paint. And there was my husband, Bridger Reed, pinning her down, using his paint-covered hands to meticulously "create art."

Bridger insisted they were in the midst of artistic expression. I laughed inwardly. A mediocrity I'd propped up, daring to speak of artistic creation.

Bridger pulled on his pants, irritation etched across his face. "Next time, remember to knock before you come in," he snapped.

The apprentice, Amiri Dixon, seemed flustered—so flustered, in fact, that even after all the time I'd been standing there, she hadn't managed to put on a single piece of clothing. Instead, she picked up a crumpled tissue from the floor and tossed it into the wastebasket.

"Rosemary, don’t overthink it. That was just for cleaning up where the teacher made a mess," she stammered.

I glanced at the chaotic mess they had created on the floor and chuckled coldly. "If not for your reminder, I might have overlooked that insignificant piece of tissue."

"When you first said you wanted to learn painting from my husband, I never imagined you meant every aspect of being a couple too."

What shocked me more was Bridger's reaction when he raised his hand and slapped me. "I told you we were creating art. How dare you wrongfully accuse Amiri like that?"

Amiri...

In five years of marriage, Bridger had never once called me with such familiarity. I raised my hand, intending to return the slap, but he caught my wrist.

Amiri’s eyes shone with triumph. She dressed quickly and left in an instant.

Bridger looked at my reddened cheek, a flicker of regret crossing his face. "Sorry, I didn't mean to hit you that hard," he said, reaching out to touch my cheek. I turned away, avoiding his hand.

He had no patience to continue explaining, and his pride wouldn't let him apologize again. He simply glanced at the report in my hand.

"What's that?" he asked.

I tucked the ultrasound report back into my pocket. "Nothing important," I replied. Bridger Reed no longer deserved to know about the pregnancy.

He could sense something was off with my mood, but that "sorry" was the extent of his generosity toward me. "Rosemary, you're not getting any younger. Stirring up trouble all the time is just pointless."

I laughed to myself, going along with it. "I’ll pretend that I didn’t see anything today."

Bridger, showing rare approval in his eyes, nodded. "You wanted that new necklace from Cartier, right? I'll get it for you."

As soon as Bridger stepped out, I sent a group message to all my friends on WhatsApp. "From now on, if you see any of Bridger Reed's paintings, don't bother with empty praise. Just call it what it is—junk."