My Craft, Her Gift

Several weeks ago, during my annual health check-up, the doctor detected a risk of breast cancer. Although it hadn't been confirmed, he called multiple times, urging me to come for further tests.

However, to participate in the pottery competition, I begged the doctor to let me postpone the admission, afraid of missing the event. Little did I know that Ryan would betray me by stealing my work and teaming up with Kate to twist everything.

Thinking of this, I clenched the medical report in my hand.

Right then, the results came back quickly. Thankfully, it hadn't progressed to cancer. However, the doctor said I'd need a minimally invasive procedure to remove the affected area.

On the day of the surgery, headlines were flooded with news about Kate, praising her as a major contemporary pottery artist.

I looked at the articles and laughed bitterly.

How ironic.

Here I was, lying in a hospital bed while Kate stood on the highest stage, all because of my work.

Before long, Ryan called, sounding a bit rattled. "Why didn't you tell me you were in the hospital? If Yvette hadn't told me, I'd have never known."

I replied calmly, "We're getting divorced, Ryan. Why would I need to tell you? Besides, it's just a minor procedure."

Hearing this, his breathing slowed, and his tone became unreadable. "Fine, but take it easy during the surgery. I'll come see you right after the awards ceremony."

I didn't respond. I just hung up the phone.

By the time he arrived, my surgery was over, and I'd woken up from anesthesia. He propped me up in bed and handed me a glass of water.

"Here, drink some. Your lips are chapped," he said gently, then added, "Why did you suddenly get sick?"

The hint of doubt in his voice made it clear he thought I might be faking this illness for sympathy.

I pointed toward the door. "If you think I'm lying, feel free to leave. I'll be fine without you."

He hesitated for a second but eventually sat back down, speaking in a lower voice. "That's not what I meant."

I rolled my eyes, too exhausted to argue. Fresh out of anesthesia, my head was spinning, and the pain in my body reminded me that my health was all that mattered now.

Over the next few days, he stayed by my bedside, taking care of me without a break, playing the role of a devoted husband. To anyone watching, it would seem like he was deeply in love.

But on the day I was discharged, his real intentions came out.

As he sat peeling an apple with a fruit knife, he asked, almost casually, "Have you thought it over?"

I looked at him, caught off guard, but before I could even ask what he meant, he clarified, and his words made my chest tighten.

"I mean, for the competition. Could you possibly help Kate—"

The second he said "Kate," I cut him off. "You know, if you're so eager to help her, find someone else. I'm sure there are plenty of pottery artists willing."

He frowned, clearly troubled. "No, Kate said your style is the only one close enough to hers," he insisted. "Plus, your work won't raise any suspicions with the experts."

I stared at him, feeling utterly drained.

Seeing my silence, Ryan only dug in further. "I told you, you're the only one who could help her. It has to be you. Nobody can know she's using a ghost artist."

I let him finish without interrupting, but my silence didn't mean I was on board with his plan.

In all of this, he hadn't once considered how I felt. Before, maybe I'd have agreed to help just to keep him happy.

But, at that moment, I had only one response.

A firm, unshakable no.

I gathered my things, preparing for discharge. When he saw me standing up, he panicked and reached out to grab my hand.

In the struggle, I never expected to get cut by the knife he was holding.

Blood trickled down my hand, dripping onto the floor. Only then did Ryan drop the knife and rush over to check my injury.

The anger I felt made me numb to the pain of the wound.

When I yanked my hand back, the sudden motion tugged at my surgical incision, making me wince as I collapsed back onto the floor.

Right then, his phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID, and I saw his face change. Without a word, he bolted from the room, disappearing from my sight and leaving me alone.

It wasn't until a nurse making her rounds found me that someone finally dressed my wound.