Five years of marriage, and everyone in the Sterling family knew the truth: I was just a placeholder for Julian’s first love, Chloe. When I finally handed him the divorce papers, I only had one condition. "Send me to Paris to study art." Julian flipped through the agreement twice. A mocking smile played on his lips. "So, you’re finally dropping the act." He stood up, walked over to me, and pinched my chin, forcing me to look up at him. "She studied art, so now you want to study art. She went to Paris, so you have to go to Paris. Seven, are you really that obsessed with me, or are you just desperate to become her?" I didn't answer. The next day, he had his driver pick me up, saying everything was arranged. But the car didn't stop at an airport. It stopped in front of a colorful, tacky storefront in a suburban strip mall: "Happy Hippo Kids' Art Class". The receptionist at the front desk smiled warmly and handed me a tiny, paint-splattered apron. "Hi there! Are you here to drop off your kid?" "No," Julian's voice cut in from behind me. He stepped up, hands slid casually into his tailored suit pockets, his tone dripping with lazy condescension. "She's the student." The other parents nearby shot me weird, pitying looks. Julian leaned down, his breath brushing my ear, his voice barely a whisper. "A beginner's class. Just your level, babe." I didn't make a scene. Instead, I turned around and pointed to the framed oil painting hanging in the lobby window. Specifically, at the signature in the bottom right corner. "Julian, I sold that exact painting ten years ago for seventy thousand dollars." I looked him dead in the eye. "Do you still think I'm the one copying her?"
"Seventy thousand?" Julian glanced in the direction of my finger. His eyes lingered on the canvas for less than half a second before his face contorted into a cold, deeply contemptuous sneer. "Seven, are you seriously making up lies this pathetic just to get my attention now?" He stood there, towering over me, a hand in his pocket. He looked down at me like I was a misbehaving pet. There wasn't a shred of doubt in his eyes—only absolute certainty. He was certain I was lying. He was certain I was just a jealous, vain woman acting out. "I don't care about seventy grand," he whispered, leaning closer. "If you love this painting so much, I'll have my assistant buy it and hang it in your bedroom." "But you don't need to embarrass yourself by claiming you painted it." The receptionist couldn't help but let out a soft snort. She covered her mouth, her eyes darting between Julian and me with blatant mockery. "Mr. Sterling, your wife has quite a sense of humor," she said, tapping a glossy brochure. "This piece, "Drowning", is just a high-quality print our franchise bought. The original masterpiece is in the private collection of a billionaire in France." "If your wife could paint at this level ten years ago, why is she signing up for a class that teaches you how to hold a brush?" The parents waiting in the lobby started whispering. Dozens of mocking, amused stares pricked my back like needles. I stood there silently. I didn't defend myself. Ten years ago, when I painted that piece, I signed it with my real name, "Seven". But nobody in this superficial circle knew that. And Julian was the last person who would ever care. For the past five years, his entire world had revolved around Chloe. I was just the quiet, obedient shadow he kept around to fill the void. Looking at Julian's handsome but cold face, a wave of nausea hit me. "Cat got your tongue?" Julian straightened up, adjusting his flawless platinum cufflinks. "Embarrassed because you got caught?" I swallowed the dryness in my throat and kept my voice flat. "If you don't believe me, Julian, forget it." "I'll figure out the Paris trip on my own." His brows furrowed instantly. My indifferent attitude clearly annoyed him. "On your own?" He let out a sharp chuckle, as if I’d just told the funniest joke of the year. "Seven, you've been married to me for five years. You haven't swiped anything but my black card. You're telling me you have a backup plan?" "What are you going to use? Your imaginary seventy-thousand-dollar art money?" Right then, his phone buzzed in his pocket. It was a custom ringtone. Chloe. The harshness in Julian's eyes melted away in an instant. The cold aura around him vanished. He answered the call right in front of me, his voice suddenly soft enough to drip honey. "Chloe? What’s wrong?" "Your stomach is hurting again? Did you take your meds?" "Okay, don't move. I'm coming over right now." He hung up, and the warmth vanished from his face. When he looked back at me, he was the cold billionaire again. "Chloe is sick. I don't have time for your childish tantrums." He pointed at the apron on the desk, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Since you're already here, go inside and take the class. Behave yourself." "And stop trying to compete with Chloe. You're not her, and you never will be." Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked out of the mall. Through the glass doors, I watched his Maybach disappear into the heavy rain. I looked down at the registration form in my hand, slowly tore it into tiny pieces, and tossed them into the trash can. "Um, ma'am? Or... student?" the receptionist called out, her voice dripping with attitude. "Are you taking the class or what? The beginner session starts in two minutes, and we don't do refunds." I ignored her, turned around, and walked toward the elevators. Outside, the rain was pouring, cold wind whipping against my face. Standing under the awning, I pulled out my phone and scrolled to a number I hadn't dialed in five years. My fingers shook slightly. It rang for a long time before a sleepy, deep voice answered. "Who is this?" I took a deep breath. "Zach. It's me." The line went dead silent. For thirty seconds, all I heard was a sudden crash on the other end, like someone had knocked over a desk of art supplies. "Seven?!" Zach’s voice leaped an octave, thick with utter shock. "You've been MIA for five years, and now you finally decide to call?" Looking at the blurry neon lights of the city through the rain, my eyes stung. "Zach," I whispered. "You told me once... that there was an open slot for the residency program at the Paris Academy of Fine Arts." "Does that offer still stand?"
"Seven, did you finally get a brain transplant?" Zach’s voice crackled through the phone, his frustration vibrating across the Atlantic. "Five years ago, you got the prestigious scholarship, and then you dropped out overnight for some guy. You literally vanished. Do you know the Professor almost burned down your studio because he was so pissed?" I leaned against the cold brick wall, staring at my shoes. "I know." "I'm sorry, Zach." Zach scoffed, but his tone softened. "Save it." "I've kept your slot open. But Seven, you haven't touched a paintbrush in five years. Can you even still paint?" I lifted my right hand. My fingers were long and pale. I curled them into a fist. Five years ago, trying to make Julian the homemade soup he’d been craving, I had accidentally knocked over a pot of boiling water. There was still a coin-sized scar on the back of my hand. Julian had been hungover at the time. He had simply tossed his credit card at me and told me to drive myself to the ER. Staring at the scar, my voice was quiet but steady. "Yes, I can." "Good," Zach said, getting straight to business. "Get your portfolio ready. Email me the digital files by next week." "Also, you'll need a financial guarantee for the visa and living expenses. At least a hundred and fifty thousand dollars." "Is that cheap husband of yours going to pay for it?" I bit my lip. "No. I'll figure out the money myself." "Fine. Let me know when you're ready." After hanging up, I stood in the cold wind for a long time. It was 9:00 PM by the time I got back to the Sterling mansion in the Upper East Side. The house was fully lit. The moment I pushed the door open, a high-pitched, sweet laugh echoed from the second floor. Chloe. My hand froze on my keys. I kept my face blank as I walked upstairs. At the end of the hallway, I stopped. It was my old studio. Three years ago, Julian had complained that the smell of turpentine gave him a headache. He had ordered the maids to throw all my art supplies into the basement, turning the room into a storage space. Now, the door was wide open. Chloe was wearing a silk slip dress, gesturing gracefully to a couple of movers. "Yes, throw all those old papers away. They're just collecting dust anyway." She pointed at a dusty, cardboard blueprint tube in the corner, her face twisted in disgust. Julian was leaning against the doorframe, a glass of red wine in his hand, watching her with soft, indulgent eyes. "You don't need to lift a finger, Chloe. Your stomach just flared up. Let the movers handle it." Chloe pouted playfully. "But I want my new yoga studio to be perfect, Julian!" She turned around and finally noticed me standing at the top of the stairs. The smile on her face froze for a second before turning into a picture-perfect expression of sweet innocence. "Oh! Seven, you're back!" She walked toward me like she owned the place, her voice dripping with fake apology. "I hope you don't mind. The room was just sitting here empty, so I thought I'd turn it into a yoga space." "Julian said you don't paint anymore, so I assumed it was fine." I looked at her fake smile. It was hilarious, really. She was the "white moonlight," the girl Julian actually wanted. Even if she burned the mansion down, Julian would probably write her a check for the matches. "Do whatever you want," I said, not even looking at her as I walked past. I went straight to the corner. That cardboard tube contained the only sketch my late mother had left me. As I reached down to grab it, a polished leather shoe stepped firmly onto the tube. Julian. He stared down at me, his eyes dark with irritation. "Where have you been?" "You smell like the street." I tried to pull the tube, but his foot didn't budge. "I went to make plans," I said, meeting his gaze calmly. Julian’s brows knitted. "What plans?" "My plans to go to Paris." The room went dead silent. Then, Julian let out a low, mocking laugh. He handed his wine glass to a maid, grabbed my wrist, and pulled me up to face him. "Seven, are you addicted to playing victim?" "You didn't embarrass me enough at the kids' art studio today, so now you're bringing the drama home?" He glanced down at my damp, ruined skirt. "Are you trying to show me how pathetic you are? Like a wet, homeless dog that can't survive without me?" I yanked my wrist back, my voice completely flat. "Let go." Julian’s eyes narrowed. He hated defiance. Seeing the tension, Chloe quickly slipped her arm through Julian's, speaking softly. "Julian, don't be mad at Seven." "She's just insecure because I'm back. She's saying this because she loves you." She looked at me, her eyes filled with the pity of a winner. "Seven, you really don't have to act out like this." "If you really want to learn how to paint, I can ask some of my friends in the art scene in France. I can get you into a nice, easy hobby class." "After all, we all need to know our limits." I looked at Chloe’s perfect, fake face and felt absolutely nothing. I didn't even want to argue. I leaned down again and yanked the tube out from under Julian's shoe with all my strength. The cardboard was crushed and covered in dust. I wiped it clean with my sleeve and held it tight against my chest. "Don't worry about me, Chloe," I said, walking past them toward the master bedroom. "My life has nothing to do with either of you anymore."
The next morning, I packed up all my expensive jewelry. One hundred and fifty thousand dollars was a lot of money. Over the past five years, Julian might have been stingy with his affection, but he had never been cheap with material things. The jewelry he bought me was worth a fortune. Wearing sunglasses, I walked into the biggest pawn shop in Manhattan. The appraiser’s eyes nearly popped out when I emptied my bag onto the velvet tray—diamond necklaces, emerald rings, platinum bracelets. "Ma'am, these are top-tier pieces. Are you sure you want to liquidate everything?" I nodded. "Yes. The faster, the better." The appraiser grabbed his loupe and started examining the pieces. Half an hour later, he gave me a number. It was below market value, but more than enough for my visa guarantee. "Two hundred thousand. Cash or wire." "Wire is fine," I said without hesitation. "Great. I just need your ID and the bank routing info." I handed over my driver's license and my Chase card. The manager typed on his computer for a minute, and then his expression turned incredibly awkward. He slid the card back to me. "I'm sorry, ma'am." "This card has a hold on it. The primary account holder has flagged it, and we cannot process any transactions or deposits to this account." My heart stopped. It felt like an invisible hand had gripped my throat. "A hold?" I took the card, pulled out my phone, and opened my banking app. A bright red banner flashed across the screen: "[Account Suspended. Please contact primary account holder]." My fingers clamped around the phone until my knuckles turned white. Only Julian had the authority to do this. He was cutting off my escape route. "Do you have another account, ma'am?" the manager asked gently. I shook my head, swept the jewelry back into my bag, and walked out. Outside, the New York sun was blazing, but I was freezing. Julian was forcing me. Forcing me to bow my head, to crawl back to him, and to keep playing the quiet, obedient shadow. My phone rang. The screen lit up with his name. I stared at it for a few seconds before sliding to answer. "Why is my account locked?" I asked coldly. The sound of a lighter flicked over the line. Julian’s voice came through, sounding lazy and completely in control. "Finally decided to call me?" "Seven, I thought you were supposed to be tough." He exhaled a breath of smoke. "Taking the jewelry I bought you to a pawn shop? Nice try." I took a deep breath, trying to keep my voice from shaking. "Those were gifts during our marriage. Even in a divorce, I'm entitled to half." "Divorce?" Julian scoffed, his tone suddenly dropping into ice. "Seven, let's get one thing straight." "As long as I don't sign those papers, you're not going anywhere." "Even if I keep you like a dog in the backyard, you'll stay and wag your tail." I closed my eyes, fighting the urge to throw up. "What do you want, Julian?" "It's simple," he said casually, as if talking about the weather. "Chloe saw that pink diamond necklace you have. She wants to wear it to the charity gala next week." "Bring the necklace to her, apologize for your attitude yesterday, and make nice." "Do that, and I'll double your credit limit." I opened my eyes, a dry laugh escaping my throat. That pink diamond necklace was made from the stones my mother had left me. I had just had them reset. Julian didn't know the history. To him, it was just an expensive trinket to throw at his mistress. "And if I say no?" "No?" Julian’s voice went completely cold. "Seven, be realistic. Without my money, you are nothing in this city." "You want to go to Paris? Let's see how far you get when you can't even buy a plane ticket." He hung up. Listening to the dial tone, an overwhelming exhaustion washed over me. This was the man I had loved for five years. Arrogant, selfish, and convinced that money could buy anyone's dignity. I stood on the bustling street corner, the sun beating down on me, yet feeling utterly cold. After a long time, I dialed Zach's number again. "Zach." "Can you... lend me some money?" The line went quiet for a moment. Zach didn't ask why. He didn't mock me for being broke. He just sighed, his voice more serious than I’d ever heard it. "Seven, text me your routing number." "Also, buy a ticket. I'll meet you at Charles de Gaulle Airport tomorrow morning." I gripped my phone tightly, a single tear slipping down my cheek and hitting my hand. "Okay."
The day I went back to the mansion to pack was gray and overcast. I only brought a small, 20-inch carry-on suitcase. Inside were just a few changes of clothes and my mother’s keepsakes. I didn't touch anything else. The designer dresses, the Birkin bags, the diamond shoes—they remained neatly arranged in the walk-in closet, like trophies of my five-year captivity. As I rolled my suitcase down to the lobby, the front door opened. Julian walked in. He stopped when he saw the suitcase, his eyebrows instantly drawing together. "What kind of tantrum is this now?" He walked over, glancing at my small suitcase with disdain. "Are you packing a lunch? Planning to run away for a few hours?" "Seven, the playing-hard-to-get act is getting old." I stood there, calm. I pulled the signed divorce papers from my bag and held them out to him. "I'm not throwing a tantrum." "I'm divorcing you." My signature was already on the line. Julian stared at the papers, his face darkening instantly. He didn't take them. Instead, he slapped them out of my hand. The sheets scattered across the marble floor. "I don't have time for your high school drama." He loosened his tie, walked over to the velvet sofa, and sat down, crossing his legs in his usual power stance. "Got a taste of what it's like to be broke, have we?" He pulled a document from his leather briefcase and tossed it onto the coffee table. "Sign this, and I'll pretend this week never happened." I looked down. The title read: "Postnuptial Agreement and Asset Arrangement". "What is this?" I asked. Julian leaned back, tapping his fingers on the armrest. "Chloe is moving in next month." "I don't want her to feel uncomfortable, so I need to give her the title of Mrs. Sterling." He looked at me, completely devoid of guilt. "But you've been with me for five years." "Sign this, and the penthouse downtown is yours. I'll also give you thirty thousand dollars a month for living expenses." "You can stay by my side. Nothing changes, except the legal title." He paused, clearly thinking he was being incredibly generous. "As for your art, I'll hire a private tutor for you. Nobody will laugh at you." I stared at him, suddenly finding him terrifyingly alien. What did he think I was? A mistress he could just pay off and keep in a side apartment? I bent down, picked up the scattered divorce papers, and slammed them back onto the table, covering his ridiculous postnup. "Julian, you disgust me," I said, highlighting every syllable. Julian’s face twisted in rage. He stood up abruptly, grabbing my chin in a tight, painful grip. "Don't test me, Seven!" "Do you think you're some pure, innocent saint? You climbed into my bed for my money five years ago." "Don't start acting like you have morals now." Pain flared in my jaw, but I didn't blink. "Believe whatever you want." I looked at him coldly. "Just sign the papers." Julian stared at me for ten long seconds. Suddenly, he let go, letting out a cruel, vicious laugh. "Fine." "You want to be a martyr? Go ahead." He snatched a pen, scribbled his signature on the divorce papers, and threw them right at my face. The sharp edge of the paper cut across my cheek, leaving a thin red scratch. "Take your trash and get the hell out of my house." "Let's see how long you survive out there without my money!" I bent down, picked up the signed papers, verified his signature, and slid them into my bag. Without a single glance back, I grabbed my suitcase and walked out of the mansion. The moment the heavy oak doors shut behind me, the sound of glass shattering echoed from inside the house. Three days later. Paris, Charles de Gaulle Airport. I walked out of the terminal, and the first thing I saw was Zach standing in the crowd, holding a massive, hand-painted sign with my name on it. He was wearing a loud, colorful silk shirt and designer sunglasses, looking incredibly extra. "Seven!" He waved like a lunatic, ran over, and snatched my suitcase. "Finally! The Professor was literally yelling in his office yesterday because he was so excited you were coming." My eyes welled up. The heavy weight I’d carried for five years finally dissolved. "Let's go," I smiled. Looking up at the gray Paris sky, I let out a real, genuine laugh for the first time in five years. Meanwhile, back in New York, Julian was sitting in the first-class cabin of a flight to Paris. Chloe was leaning against his shoulder, her voice sweet. "Julian, I heard there are going to be so many famous gallery directors at the Paris Academy’s exhibition." "I want to show them my work. What do you think?" Julian kept his eyes closed, but his mind kept flashing back to the sight of Seven walking away with her tiny suitcase. An annoying, persistent ache was blooming in his chest. "Sure," he mumbled, completely distracted. He was absolutely sure Seven was crying in some damp basement right now, regretting her choices. In a few days, she’d be calling him, begging to come back. The Paris Academy’s exhibition hall was a masterpiece of modern design. Warm spotlights lit up the canvases, making the art glow. This was the biggest annual event in the European art scene. Anyone exhibiting here was considered a prodigy. Julian, wearing a custom Tom Ford suit, walked through the gallery with a bored expression. He didn't care about art. If Chloe hadn't begged him to come, he would never have set foot in a place like this. "Julian! Look at that painting!" Chloe suddenly gasped, pulling his sleeve and pointing to the center of the hall. A crowd had gathered there, with journalists flashing their cameras like crazy. Julian looked over. It was a massive, abstract oil painting with incredibly bold, violent colors. It was mesmerizing. The plaque next to it displayed the artist's name in French and English. Julian’s eyes casually swept over it, but the moment he read the letters, his heart stopped.
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