I Made Him Famous, He Chose His Mistress

Dana helped me sit up, and through the gap in the door, I caught the figure passing down the hallway.

Mark was carefully smoothing ointment over Lucretia's skin, his movements gentle and patient, his eyes full of tenderness.

"Artistic men are so soft and attentive. Honestly, those two make a fine pair standing together!"

The nurse, seeing me lost in the sight, couldn't resist the jab.

Every word, every syllable, carved at my heart like a slow blade.

Dana shifted to block my line of sight. "Ava, don't look anymore."

But I still couldn't let it go.

With trembling fingers, I dialed Mark. The phone rang for a long while before his impatient, dismissive voice finally came through.

"I'm busy with the exhibition. Whatever it is, tell me later."

The line went dead. He hadn't even had the patience to hear a single word from me.

I sank back into the hospital bed.

I don't know how much time passed before Mark sent me a video.

Curious, I tapped it open.

On a luxury yacht, fireworks burst across the sky in dazzling bloom, and Mark stood shoulder to shoulder with Lucretia.

He turned his head to look at her, exactly the way he'd looked at me ten years ago.

The message that followed twisted something tight in my chest.

"Today is my birthday. My mentor says nothing matters more than my birthday. If big sister has something to say, she can wait until after midnight."

The first year we were together, Mark celebrated my birthday. It was the only birthday we ever spent together.

Holding a tiny cake no bigger than his palm, he made me a promise.

He said that once our lives were settled, he'd buy out the entire night sky for my birthday, set off fireworks all night long, and cook me French steak with his own hands.

But every birthday after that, he always had some reason to be absent.

And to spare him the guilt, I lied every time and said I didn't mind.

I stared at the message thread, dazed, and by the time I came back to myself, both the video and the message had been deleted.

After three days and three nights of fevered sleep, I finally clawed my way back to clarity.

I opened my phone to find the screen flooded with Mark's messages, hundreds of them packed tight, every single one about the exhibition and work logistics.

From start to finish, not one word of concern. He didn't even care where I'd been these past few days.

I suddenly felt that I was less his lover than his business partner.

The college romance I'd once been so proud of had become a cake past its date. The outside still looked whole, but inside it had long gone sour and rotten.

Just then, Mark sent someone over with a gift box. Inside was a couture evening gown.

It was meant for tomorrow's exhibition.

I ran my fingers over the lavish, exquisite fabric, and a thought rose in my mind.

"Take it to Miss Monroe. Tell her Mark picked it out for her himself."

Then I lowered my head and opened an anonymous email.

Mark, I've prepared a special exhibition for you, to put a period at the end of our ten years.