My Fiancé Let His Mistress Steal My Masterpiece

The wedding painting was almost done.

I stepped back from the canvas and wiped my hands on the rag tucked into my jeans. Two figures dissolving into light. That was the image I'd chosen. Not traditional. Not safe. But it felt right. It felt like us.

I'd worked on it for three weeks in secret, stealing hours late at night after Lucian went to bed. I wanted it to be perfect. I wanted him to see it and understand everything I couldn't say out loud—that I loved him, that I was grateful, that I would spend the rest of my life painting beside him if he'd let me.

The studio was quiet. Just the hum of the air filter and the faint chemical smell of turpentine. I looked down at my left hand. The engagement ring caught the overhead light, throwing tiny rainbows across my knuckles. I twisted it once. Then again.

I let myself smile.

The door opened behind me.

"Coraline."

Lucian's voice was flat. I turned, still holding the rag, and my smile widened. "You're back early. I thought you had that meeting until—"

"I need the studio."

He didn't look at me. He was already moving toward the supply cabinet, pulling out a fresh palette, setting it down harder than necessary. His phone buzzed in his pocket. Once. Twice. Three times.

I stepped aside. "Of course. I was just finishing up."

He glanced at the canvas for the first time. His eyes skimmed over it. No pause. No reaction. Just a quick sweep before he turned back to the cabinet.

"What do you think?" I asked quietly.

His phone buzzed again. This time he pulled it out, and for half a second before he angled the screen away, I saw the name.

*Violeta*.

My chest tightened.

"It's fine," he said without looking up. "Leave it to dry."

He typed something quickly, his thumb moving fast across the screen. Then he pocketed the phone and walked past me to the window. He stood there with his back to me, one hand flexing at his side. The damaged one. The tendons never healed right after Paris.

I wrapped the rag around my fingers. "Lucian, is everything—"

"I said leave it."

I flinched. Not at the words. At the tone. Cold. Dismissive. Like I was interrupting something that mattered.

I set the rag on the table and left.

---

The week that followed felt like walking on ice that kept cracking under my feet.

Lucian canceled dinner twice. The first time he texted an hour late. The second time he didn't text at all. I waited at the restaurant for forty minutes before the waiter asked if I wanted to order.

When he came home that night, I was in the kitchen cleaning brushes. He walked past me without stopping. I heard the shower turn on. When he came out, his hair was still damp and he smelled like soap and something else. Something floral. Expensive.

I opened my mouth to ask where he'd been.

I closed it.

The next day he critiqued the canvas I'd been working on for his upcoming exhibition. He stood in front of it for a long time, arms crossed, and then he said, "The light's wrong. Redo it."

I stared at him. "The light?"

"It's flat. Lifeless." He turned away. "I need it by Friday."

I worked until three in the morning fixing it. When I showed him the revised version, he nodded once and said, "Better," and walked out.

I told myself I was being paranoid. I told myself he was stressed. I told myself I should work harder.

---

The gallery opening was on a Thursday.

I wore the black dress Lucian liked. Simple. Elegant. Nothing that would draw attention. I arrived early and stood near the back, watching the crowd filter in. Collectors. Critics. People who moved through the world like they owned the air.

I saw her before Lucian did.

She walked in like she was stepping onto a stage. Tall. Radiant. Blonde hair swept over one shoulder. A red dress that looked like it cost more than my entire wardrobe. She moved through the crowd and people turned. Not because she demanded it. Because she expected it.

Lucian was across the room talking to a journalist. He glanced up.

And froze.

I watched his face change. The hard lines softened. His eyes widened. For a moment he looked young. Unguarded. Almost vulnerable.

She smiled and walked toward him.

He met her halfway.

She said something I couldn't hear and touched his arm. He didn't pull away. A photographer appeared and asked them to pose. She leaned into him. He let her.

I set my champagne glass on the nearest table and walked to the restroom.

Inside, I locked the stall door and pressed my palms against the cold metal. My hands were shaking. I pressed my fingertips together until they stopped.

When I came back out, they were still standing together.

---

Darren Hamilton's dinner party was the following week.

I didn't want to go. But Lucian said we had to. "It's important," he said. "Darren's an investor."

The dining room was all white marble and gold fixtures. Violeta was already there when we arrived. She was seated beside Lucian. I was placed at the far end of the table beside a man I didn't know.

"Kevin Moore," he said, extending his hand. His grip was warm. "You're Coraline, right?"

I nodded.

"I've heard a lot about you."

I doubted that.

Diego Campbell was holding court in the middle of the table, talking about some gallery in Berlin. He glanced down at me and smirked. "Honestly, I've never understood what Lucian sees in his little charity project."

Darren laughed. "The world's most expensive rescue dog."

The table erupted in laughter. I kept my eyes on my plate. My face burned.

Lucian was at the other end. He didn't look up.

Kevin slid a glass of water toward me. "Ignore them," he said quietly. "They're assholes."

I picked up the glass. My hands were steady.

But inside, something had started to crack.