The Shattered Hand

Tears slid down my temples as I let out a soft, deliberate cough.

Vincent's entire demeanor shifted.

He burst through the door, his face a mask of concern, clutching a bouquet of my favorite white roses. "Isabella, you're awake?"

I kept my expression blank, as if I'd heard nothing.

"How are you feeling? The doctor said you and the baby are both fine." He sat on the edge of the bed, taking my hand.

"We're having a baby," I said, meeting his eyes. "Are you happy?"

"Of course." He kissed the back of my hand. "This is a miracle."

A miracle he planned to orphan.

"Vincent, I love you," I whispered, pulling him into a hug. "No matter what, I'll always trust you."

His body stiffened for a fraction of a second. "I love you too, Isabella. Always."

Always. The word was a joke on his lips.

The next day, a scandal erupted.

The headline on Art Weekly's cover was a bombshell: "GENIUS OR FRAUD? SOPHIA MARTINEZ ACCUSED OF PLAGIARISM!"

I sat in the living room, watching the news report.

"An anonymous source alleges many of Sophia Martinez's signature works were stolen from acclaimed artist Isabella Torrino, who has been unable to create since a tragic accident three years ago..."

Vincent stormed down the stairs, his face a thundercloud.

"Did you do this?" He grabbed my shoulders. "Did you leak this?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Isabella! Are you going to keep playing the innocent?" he shook me. "Do you have any idea the trouble you've caused this family?"

"If the work is mine, why can't I say so?" I shoved him away. "Or are you afraid of the truth?"

Crack!

He slapped me again.

"Enough! You will not say another goddamn word about this!"

I held my burning cheek, refusing to let him see my tears.

That afternoon, Vincent held an emergency press conference in our living room, packed with reporters.

Sophia sat on the sofa, looking like a fragile, wronged angel.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I've called you here to address a malicious rumor," Vincent began, his tone grave. "The accusations of plagiarism against Sophia Martinez are utterly baseless."

"Mr. Torrino, what about your wife's claims?" a reporter shouted.

Vincent took a deep breath, his eyes flicking up to where I stood on the landing.

"Isabella... has been mentally unstable for some time," he said, his voice heavy with false sorrow. "She suffers from delusions. A nerve injury three years ago made it impossible for her to create."

The room erupted. "Are you saying your wife is mentally ill?"

"I hate to admit it, but... yes. She needs professional help. I tried to keep this private, but now her condition is hurting innocent people."

My legs gave out and I sank to the steps.

He was telling the whole world I was crazy.

Sophia looked up, tears streaming down her face.

"I understand Isabella's pain," she sobbed. "But I cannot be slandered. These works are mine, and I have the drafts to prove it."

"Will you release that evidence?"

"Of course," Vincent said. "We will provide everything. Sketches, notes, timestamps. All of it."

I knew the "evidence" was a lie.

But who would believe me now?

After the conference, a smear campaign began.

"Isabella Torrino's tragic breakdown..."

"Poor Sophia, targeted by a madwoman..."

"Mafia wife's psychosis: from princess to pariah."

My phone exploded with calls from friends, colleagues, strangers.

I turned it off and locked myself away.