The Art He Couldn't Keep

In the penthouse apartment I designed myself, Caspin Thorne, my fiancé of ten years, wrapped his arms around me from behind. His breath was a warm caress against my neck, a stark contrast to the icy words that followed.

He told me he couldn’t move into the home we’d designed together. He’d fallen for a twenty-year-old intern, and to “give her a sense of security,” he’d married her at City Hall that morning.

He explained that he was another woman's husband now, and our housewarming party would upset his new wife.

I was too stunned to speak. "Why?" I finally choked out. "The party is next week."

He kissed my forehead, shamelessly declaring that I was the one he loved most, but "it's just how men are—always chasing youth." He then "thoughtfully" suggested that if I couldn't bear to cancel the party, I could hire an escort to "save face."

I gazed out at the Manhattan skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows, a bone-deep chill seeping into my veins. I silently shoved the ultrasound photo I’d planned to surprise him with deeper into my pocket.

A tremor ran through me. He was right. I shouldn't be the one to suffer.

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1

Caspin acted like nothing was wrong, his fingers habitually caressing my cheek.

But every word that left his lips was laced with poison.

"You know how it is. Girls these days can be so naive. She wouldn't sleep with me unless I put a ring on it."

"I spent the whole weekend trying to coax her at my cabin in the Hamptons. Finally sealed the deal yesterday."

I felt a hand tighten around my throat, my limbs turning to ice as I stared at him.

But he just smiled, a deep, satisfied smile. "It was on the Italian sofa we picked out together. She was a little wildcat—feral one moment, purring the next."

My gaze followed his to the empty space by the window, as if I could see their entwined shadows.

A wave of overwhelming nausea surged up my throat.

I gripped the armrest of the sofa, my eyes bloodshot.

He cupped my bloodless face, his brows knitting in confusion. "Why are you crying? The title of Mrs. Thorne was always meant for you."

In Caspin Thorne's charming eyes, there was an affection so deep it seemed unshakable.

Was this the same man who’d just casually announced his marriage? The same man who, moments ago, had been blissfully describing their tryst?

A dizzying sense of absurdity washed over me.

I couldn't breathe. I was suffocating.

He sighed, a picture of helplessness. "I know you're upset, but she's a sensitive girl. If I show up at the party, she'll cry. She's not like other women; she’s innocent, a blank slate. All she wants is a devoted relationship. I was her first, so I have to do right by her. You've always been so understanding. You get it, right?"

Six months.

We had spent six months furnishing this new home.

So, while he was here with me, arranging the home I loved and selecting the art I adored,

he was also, somewhere I couldn't see, moving heaven and earth for another woman. Completely infatuated.

I curled my cold fingers into fists and numbly closed my eyes.

"Since you're married, let's end this."

He froze for a beat, then chuckled. "You don't mean that."

"You got with me when you were twenty and gave up Yale for me. If you walk away, what firm is going to hire a designer with no solo portfolio to her name?"

I stared at him.

My heart felt like it was being seared by a hot iron.

For ten years, we had lived in the worst apartments, split single slices of pizza, and at our lowest, drank tap water to fill our empty stomachs.

After the car accident that nearly killed him, he’d clutched my hand from his hospital bed, his words seared into my memory: "Clementine, I swear I'll give you the world. If I ever betray you, may I die old and alone."

That promise was a weight I carried seriously for ten years.

But now, he had been so easily conquered by a woman he’d known for only six months.

I couldn't comprehend how someone who had loved me so fiercely could turn so rotten.

A special ringtone chirped.

It had sounded countless times in the dead of night, and Caspin always claimed it was a client.

I had trusted him so completely that I never doubted him.

Only now did I realize what a fool I had been.

He didn't answer the call, his voice as calm as if he were soothing a petulant child.

"Why get worked up over some gold digger? Are we really going to throw away ten years of history for a piece of paper?"

"Clementine, you're not young anymore. You have no family. No one but me will give you the life you have now. If you keep making a scene, it's not going to look good."

He slipped the car keys back into his pocket. "Cool off. I have to go pick her up. Think about what I said."

The apartment door clicked shut like a slap across my face.

Gazing at the empty living room, I finally lost control, rushing to the bathroom and dry-heaving until my face was streaked with tears.

Caspin was wrong. No one goes to City Hall to marry a "gold digger."

That piece of paper was something I had waited ten years for and never received.

His heart hadn't changed—it had just found a new home.

I stared at the gloomy sky, my own heart feeling hollowed out and raw.

After a long time, I picked up my phone and made a call.