My Fiancé Let His Mistress Steal My Masterpiece

Lucian started coming home late.

The first night, I waited in the studio. I'd set up a new canvas for his upcoming exhibition—a commission piece he'd promised the Rothschild Gallery weeks ago. The preliminary sketch was pinned to the easel. I kept glancing at the door.

Eleven o'clock became midnight. Midnight became one.

When the lock finally turned, I looked up. He walked past the studio doorway without stopping. His footsteps moved down the hall. The bedroom door closed.

I stared at the empty doorway for a long time.

Then I picked up my brush and kept working.

The second night, I made dinner. Pasta with the sauce he liked. I set the table. Lit candles. Waited.

The food got cold.

When he came in at one-thirty, I was washing dishes. He stopped in the kitchen doorway. His tie was loose. His collar unbuttoned.

"You didn't have to wait up," he said.

I turned off the water. "I wanted to."

He looked at me for a moment. Then he walked past and went upstairs.

I stood at the sink until the water stopped dripping.

The third night, I didn't wait.

But I didn't sleep either. I lay in bed listening to the clock. Two-fifteen. Two-thirty. Two forty-five. When the front door finally opened at three, I closed my eyes and kept them closed until his breathing evened out beside me.

In the morning, he was already gone.

The rituals disappeared one by one. He used to watch me paint in the evenings, standing behind me with his coffee, occasionally reaching over to point out a shadow or suggest a color. Now the studio stayed empty except for me.

We used to eat breakfast together. Now I ate alone.

He used to touch me when he passed—a hand on my shoulder, fingers brushing my waist. Now he moved through the apartment like I was furniture.

I tried asking. Gentle questions. Careful ones.

"Is everything okay with work?"

"Fine."

"Did I do something wrong?"

"Don't be dramatic."

"Lucian, please just talk to me—"

"I'm tired, Coraline. Can you not do this right now?"

I stopped asking.

I painted instead. Through the nights. Through the exhaustion. I finished the Rothschild commission three days early. Started the next one immediately. If I kept my hands busy, I didn't have to think about the empty space beside me in bed. Didn't have to notice the way he flinched when I touched him.

It rained on Thursday.

Lucian left at six. Said he had a dinner meeting. Investors. He'd be late.

I nodded. Watched him go.

Then I grabbed my coat and followed.

I don't know why. Maybe I needed proof. Maybe I needed to be wrong.

His car was easy to track in the rain. Black Tesla. Vanity plates. I stayed three cars back, my windshield wipers beating a steady rhythm. My heart was beating the same way.

He didn't go to a restaurant.

He pulled into the parking garage of the Alexis Hotel. Boutique. Expensive. The kind of place that didn't ask questions.

I parked across the street. Turned off the engine. Waited.

Ten minutes later, she arrived.

Violeta stepped out of a white Mercedes wearing a camel coat that probably cost more than my car. Her hair was perfect even in the rain. She walked into the lobby like she owned it.

I sat there for an hour. Maybe longer. The rain kept falling. My windows fogged up. I wiped them clear with my sleeve and kept watching.

When they finally came out, they didn't go inside separately.

They went to his car.

I watched Lucian open the passenger door for her. Watched her slide inside, laughing at something he said. He closed the door. Walked around. Got in.

They sat there talking. I could see their silhouettes through the tinted windows. Then the interior light came on for just a second when she leaned across the console.

And kissed him.

Not a polite kiss. Not a friendly one.

His hand went to the back of her neck. Her fingers curled into his collar. They kissed like they'd done it a thousand times before. Like they'd been starving for it.

I couldn't breathe.

The window was cracked. Just an inch. But it was enough.

Violeta pulled back, laughing softly. Her voice carried across the rain-soaked pavement.

"Do you feel guilty?" she asked. Teasing. Light. "About the little painter girl at home?"

Lucian laughed.

It was an easy sound. Unguarded. The kind of laugh I hadn't heard from him in weeks.

"Coraline?" he said. "She's a stray dog I trained to be useful. The cheapest labor I ever found."

Violeta laughed harder.

"She'll do what she's told," he continued. "She always does."

I pressed my hand against my mouth.

They kissed again. Longer this time. When they finally pulled apart, Violeta said something I couldn't hear. Lucian nodded. Started the engine.

I watched his taillights disappear into the rain.

Then I sat in my car and stared at nothing.

My hands were shaking. I pressed my fingertips together until they stopped.

A stray dog.

Cheapest labor.

She'll do what she's told.

I started the engine. Drove home. Parked in the garage. Walked upstairs.

The apartment was dark. Empty.

I went to the studio. Picked up a brush. Stared at the blank canvas in front of me.

My hands were steady now.

But inside, something had shattered.

And I didn't know how to put it back together.