The Love I Choose Was Me

When Chloe opened her eyes again, the first thing she saw was Arthur, sitting by her bedside.

He was holding her hand, his expression a carefully constructed mask of concern.

The morning light streamed through the window, making the sterile white room feel almost peaceful.

It was a lie.

"Chloe, you're awake," he said, his voice soft.

"You scared me. The doctors said you'll be fine. Just a concussion."

A nurse bustled in, checking Chloe's vitals.

"You're very lucky, young lady," she said with a bright, misinformed smile.

"Mr. Thorne was so worried. He donated his own blood for you when he heard there was a shortage. Such a devoted fiancé."

The nurse's words were meant to be comforting, but they landed like stones in the pit of Chloe's stomach.

Devoted?

He had tried to give her blood, her resources, to Isabella.

He had only donated his own blood after Isabella was declared perfectly fine and the doctors, finally free from his bullying, could attend to their actual patient.

He hadn't done it out of love for her, he'd done it to save face, to maintain the public image of a caring partner.

The public sacrifice was just another performance.

Chloe looked at him, truly looked at him, and for the first time, she saw past the charismatic artist and the grieving brother.

She saw a weak, selfish man, a man so enslaved by his obsession with the past that he couldn't see the love and loyalty right in front of him.

The love she had felt for him curdled into a cold, hard pity.

He was pathetic.

Over the next few days, Arthur played the part of the doting fiancé perfectly.

He brought her flowers, expensive meals from her favorite restaurants, and sat by her bed for hours, reading art journals aloud.

He even brought her a new sketchbook and a set of charcoal pencils.

"For when you feel up to it," he'd said with a gentle smile.

Chloe accepted it all with a quiet, numb detachment.

The gifts felt hollow, his presence an intrusion.

She knew he was just trying to buy his way back into her good graces, to smooth over his monstrous behavior with a layer of shallow kindness.

He wasn't sorry for what he'd done, he was sorry he'd almost gotten caught.

The man who had been the center of her universe for years was now just a stranger sitting in a chair, and she felt nothing for him but a profound and weary sadness.

One afternoon, he was holding her hand, stroking her knuckles.

"When you're out of here, we'll go away somewhere," he murmured.

"Just the two of us. We'll forget all this unpleasantness."

The word "unpleasantness" was so inadequate, so insulting, it almost made her laugh.

Her heartbreak, her public humiliation, her near-death experience—all just "unpleasantness" to be swept under the rug.

Her silence was interrupted by a light knock on the door.

Isabella swept in, carrying a bouquet of lilies, their scent thick and cloying.

She shot Chloe a look of pure venom before arranging her face into a mask of sweet concern.

"Chloe, darling, I'm so glad to see you're looking better," she cooed, placing the flowers on the bedside table.

"I feel just awful about what happened. Arthur has been so worried, he hasn't slept a wink."

She sat on the edge of the bed, on the other side of Chloe, and took her other hand.

"Arthur was just telling me about your plans to go to Paris after the wedding. How romantic! He took me there once, you know. Years ago, before he even met my husband."

She sighed dreamily.

"We stayed in this tiny little hotel in Le Marais. He painted a portrait of me there. He said it was the best thing he'd ever done."

Her words were a deliberate, surgical strike.

She was flaunting her history, her deep, unbreakable connection to Arthur, right in front of Chloe.

It was a declaration of ownership.

Chloe pulled her hand away from Isabella's grasp.

She felt a cold dread creep over her.

The portrait.

Arthur had never shown it to her, but she knew of its existence.

It was a ghost in their relationship, a masterpiece he kept locked away.

Later that evening, after Arthur had finally gone home to "rest", Chloe asked his assistant to bring her a portfolio from Arthur's studio.

She said she needed it for reference for a new piece.

The assistant, looking guilty and miserable, brought it to her.

Inside, tucked away in a hidden flap, was the portrait.

It was Isabella, young and luminous, reclining on a velvet chaise, a knowing, seductive smile on her face.

It was a painting of a woman who was deeply, intimately loved.

And on the back, in Arthur's familiar scrawl, were the words: "My Izzy. Forever."

The truth was undeniable, a physical object she could hold in her hands.

Everything Isabella had said was true.

The next day, Arthur was back, his mood inexplicably foul.

He paced the room like a caged animal.

Chloe learned from his assistant that he'd had a fight with Isabella.

Apparently, a guest at the gala had made a clumsy pass at Isabella, and Arthur, in a fit of jealous rage, had punched the man, causing a scene.

People were talking.

"Fools," Arthur muttered, running a hand through his hair.

"They have no idea. No respect."

He was talking about himself, about his precious Isabella being "offended."

He hadn't once shown that kind of protective rage for Chloe.

He had stood by and let her be humiliated in front of the entire art world.

Seeing the cold, dead look in Chloe's eyes, he seemed to realize his mistake.

But his apology was just as self-centered.

"I'm sorry, Chloe. This is all my fault. I've been under so much stress."

He blamed everyone and everything but his own weakness.

The hypocrisy was sickening.