I Painted our Marriage, Cheating was His Masterpiece

The basement air was cold and damp. I’d been locked inside for three days.

My stomach twisted in pain, my head spinning badly.

I lost track of time long ago, measuring the hours only by the faint light that filtered through the tiny window above me. When it dimmed, I guessed it was night. When it brightened again, I told myself morning had come.

On the third night, my body couldn’t hold on anymore. Everything went dark.

When I woke up, I found myself lying in a hospital room.

The antiseptic smell stung my nose. A needle was taped to the back of my hand, IV fluid dripping rhythmically into my vein. My throat burned dry like fire.

Through the half-open door, I heard two nurses whispering in the hallway.

“Did you hear? Mr. Weinstein is so good to Miss Erin.”

“I know, right? Last night, he sent her nine hundred and ninety-nine roses—filled the whole corridor with the scent.”

“I heard from the doctor that she’s been emotionally unstable since the miscarriage. He’s been with her every night, making her soup himself and personally feeding her.”

“Gosh! If a man ever treated me like that, I’d die happy.”

Their voices faded into the background as I stared at the ceiling, counting the slow drips from the IV bag.

Nine hundred and ninety-nine roses…

He had done that for me once, too, back when we were still dating.

At the time, I was still living off commissions in a cramped studio. He’d shown up on my birthday carrying an armful of red roses, smiling gently and with certainty.

“Merry,” he’d said, “I want to give you all the romance this world has.”

I’d believed in that warmth. In his promises. In his love.

Now, I knew the truth—his romance was something he could recycle, word for word, gesture for gesture.

He could easily give the same flowers, the same words, the same tenderness to another woman.

What he left for me was nothing but an IV line and the dull ache of betrayal.

A quiet laugh escaped my lips, followed by tears that trailed slowly across my pillow.

The strangest thing was, I felt calm.

A little while later, the door opened, and Winslow stepped inside.

He looked tired—his shirt wrinkled, his brow tightly furrowed, as if suppressing anger.

“You’re finally awake,” he began. There wasn’t a hint of concern in his tone, and he went on bluntly to reprimand me. “Do you have any idea what kind of chaos you’ve caused?”

I turned my head toward him, my face expressionless.

“The press conference—public opinion’s still blowing up,” he continued coldly. “Because of your outburst, Erin’s being harassed by her fans. They want proof she’s the real artist. She’s under a lot of stress. She just lost the baby; she’s weak. Now, you’re going to apologize. Record a statement; clear her na—”

I cut him off, my throat hoarse. “Her baby… It was yours, wasn’t it?”

He froze. His expression faltered, but he didn’t deny it.

The silence hurt more than anything he could’ve said.

I closed my eyes, feeling the last bit of strength drain from my body.

After a long pause, he exhaled and muttered, “It was an accident.”

‘An accident?’ I repeated inwardly, almost laughing. “So now you want me to apologize to your mistress?”

“Don’t be so stubborn, Merry,” he said with a frown, his patience running low. “What matters now is controlling the public narrative. Erin is in a fragile condition; she’s already been through enough. Just record a video, clarify what happened, say you were emotional that day… That’s all I’m asking.”

I looked at him coldly. “And if I don’t?”

His expression hardened. Whatever patience he had left disappeared.

“Then I’ll cut off Elora’s oxygen,” he spat. “You know what that means. A daughter in a coma means nothing to this family. The only reason she’s still alive is that I love you. But if my parents find out—”

My entire body went still. My heart gave a painful lurch, then went numb.

He pulled out his phone and held it in front of me.

On the screen, a live feed showed my daughter lying unconscious in her hospital bed, a nurse quietly adjusting the tubes beside her.

“I’ll give you three seconds to think, Merry,” he warned.

I stared at the screen, every muscle in my body trembling.

My heart felt numb—beyond pain, beyond fear.

I regretted everything—bringing Elora into the Weinsteins’ life and for giving her a father who could do something like this.

All I wanted now was to take her and disappear from his life forever.

Two seconds passed. Then, I lifted my gaze, my voice steady and frighteningly calm.

“Fine. I’ll record it.”

Some of the tension eased from his face.

I looked down, pretending to think, and added quietly, “But I want a house in my name. Elora needs somewhere to live.”

He frowned, but it didn’t last a second before he nodded. “Fine.”

I gestured to the lawyer waiting outside the door. He stepped in and handed over a folder.

The document looked like a property purchase agreement—but it was really the divorce papers I had prepared weeks ago.

Winslow signed without even skimming the content. “Once you finish recording, I’ll handle the paperwork,” he said.

Glancing at the signed paper, I nodded slowly.

Under his watch, I picked up his phone and started recording.

“About what happened at the press conference,” I said, forcing a smile, “I made a mistake. Erin Rothwell has always been my closest friend. I misunderstood her. I hope everyone can forgive my outburst that day. Please pretend it never happened.”

When it was done, I stopped the recording, handed the phone back to his assistant, and walked toward the door without another word.

“Merry!” Winslow called after me.

I didn’t look back.

He caught my wrist, his grip firm. “What are you doing?”

I turned and met his gaze with calm and detachment. “Let go.”

He hesitated. For a split second, panic flashed in his eyes as if he had suddenly realized that I was no longer the woman who would soften at his words.

I pulled my hand free, opened the door, and left. The sound of it closing behind me cut the air cleanly.

I went straight to the lawyer’s office to submit the papers, then headed to the hospital.

The hallway outside my daughter’s room was quiet, the door slightly ajar. I reached out and pushed it open.

A chill ran through me as my gaze locked on the scene inside—a teenage boy, his body pressed against my daughter’s fragile, unmoving frame!