I Painted our Marriage, Cheating was His Masterpiece

The door slammed shut behind me.

I sat down on the edge of the bed, too drained to even cry.

My mind drifted back over the past two years. When Winslow sent me and my daughter to the countryside, he promised, “I’ll protect you both from the outside world. Just live in peace.”

He promised to handle the scandal for us, to give me a quiet space where I could focus on painting and taking care of our daughter without worrying about anything else.

And I did everything he told me to do. I cut off all contact with the outside world, logged off my social media, closed every window, and shrank my life down to a single corner of that old villa.

He visited us regularly. He always brought gifts I liked, held me gently, kissed my forehead, and told me about everything he was doing for us.

“I found the best doctor for our daughter. I’ve arranged every step of her treatment.”

“I’ve talked to the publisher. They’ll handle your manuscripts quickly so nothing gets in the way of your creative work.”

“Your artworks are back online. No one’s criticizing you anymore.”

For a long time, I truly believed he was not only my husband but also my protector.

I thought as long as our family stayed united, life would eventually get better, and all the accusations against me and my daughter would be buried in the past.

All these years, he had been the center of my life—my steady support, the one person I trusted completely, without a single doubt.

God, I never imagined that this same man I’d given all my trust to, the one I relied on more than anyone, would secretly steal my paintings and give them to someone else I once considered my best friend!

He had lied to me for two freaking years!

The urge to run to the police burned inside me. I wanted to throw every piece of evidence into the light of day.

But I thought of my daughter still lying in that hospital bed, so I forced myself to stay quiet. Until the divorce was final, I couldn’t risk tipping him off.

My phone suddenly lit up. It was a notification about an email from the publishing house that had been persistently trying to reach me for the past two years.

[We’ve always believed your work is original. If you’re ready to publish, our doors are open to you anytime.]

Those words pierced through my despair like a thin ray of light.

My fingers trembled slightly on the keyboard on the screen.

For my daughter’s sake, I could hold myself back from exposing Erin right now. But one day, I would make sure the truth came out.

Still, when I thought about those paintings—each one drawn stroke by stroke through countless sleepless nights, every piece a little world I created for my little girl—and how Erin took them to build her and her son’s so-called “genius mother-and-son” image, using my love for my daughter to win applause, I felt so disgusted with hatred I almost threw up.

I immediately replied to the publisher.

[I want to publish my work now.]

I attached a new painting I had finished recently, one Winslow hadn’t even seen yet.

The editor replied almost instantly.

[That’s wonderful! We’ve been waiting for this moment for so long.]

I didn’t sleep that night. Excitement kept me awake. I thought it was finally the first step toward proving my worth.

But the next morning, the news shattered that hope.

[Genius Artist Erin Rothwell’s New Collection, “The Light of the Whale’s Fall,” Coming Soon!]

The featured image was unmistakable—my own painting, Moonlight Whale.

There was no need to ask how it happened.

Winslow must have had someone intercepting my submission!

I stood frozen, my throat tightening until no sound came out.

Then, the door opened, and he walked in, carrying my favorite dessert.

“Merry,” he said softly, “did you see the news?”

I stared at him, my voice raw. “Winslow! That was my painting! I made it for Elora!

“I know.” He nodded, his expression terrifyingly calm. “This time… think of it as your compensation. You give up a few signatures on your paintings to make up for hitting Erin. Fair enough, right?”

For a moment, I could only stare at him.

“Compensation?” I couldn’t believe my ears; my heart felt like it had been stabbed clean through. “Erin stole from me, destroyed my name, and you want me to compensate her?!”

He sighed and reached out to smooth my hair, as if calming a child.

“Come on, darling, don’t be upset. The Rothwells are in a very difficult situation right now. Erin needs the money. Once things settle down, trust me; I’ll make sure she returns the credit to you.”

I stepped back, my tears spilling down my face beyond my will. “You know how much those paintings mean to me!”

Every piece I had drawn in the past two years carried my soul. Each was made with the desperate hope of proving myself again, each one as precious to me as a second child.

He knew that too well. And yet, he had casually given them away to another woman!

I gritted my teeth. For the first time, I realized this might have been who he was all along—a man who never truly cared about my passion at all.

“I know,” he murmured, stepping closer.

His voice softened further, yet the pressure grew more suffocating.

“But darling, you have to understand, my mother still doesn’t know you’ve been painting; I’ve been hiding that fact from her for two years now. She believes a decent woman shouldn’t waste her time on art. She nearly made me divorce you once because of it. If she finds out you’re still doing that so-called low-class work, she’ll destroy you. And she won’t spare Elora either.”

Every word he spoke cut through me like knives.

He wrapped his arms around me, and though his embrace was familiar, I felt only coldness.

“Darling, I love you. I don’t want a divorce,” he whispered near my ear. “So let’s just hold on a little longer, okay? Don’t make my mom angry and tear us apart. When things calm down, I’ll clear everything up.”

“Slowly, I’ll help my mom understand that painting isn’t something shameful for my wife to do,” he added.

His voice was soft. His eyes looked sincere.

He looked like he truly loved me and was concerned for what was best for me.

But the more he spoke, the more nauseated I felt.

I tried to push him away, but his arms only tightened around me.

“Merry,” he murmured, “just endure it a little longer, and everything will be like before. I promise.”

“The Rothwells have done so much for me before,” he added. “I can’t just watch them fall now, you know.”