The year Nathan loved me most, he cut ties with his family and eloped with me, moving abroad to start a new life. But on the day he washed his thousandth dish, the day he coughed up blood from sheer exhaustion, I took three million dollars from his parents. Then I stood and watched as he was forced onto a helicopter bound for home. He clung to the helicopter door, begging me not to leave him, even as his fingers broke and bled. And I? I threw the money he'd earned into the sink and told him it wasn't even enough to buy me a single tube of paint. I told him a pauper like him had no right to talk to me about a future. Seven years later, at a lavish charity gala, we met again. I begged him for money. He agreed, on one condition: that I be the artist for his wedding, that I witness his happiness with my own eyes. I nodded without hesitation. He didn't know that the money I needed was to save a little girl. A little girl who shared his blood, a daughter he never knew existed. 1 “I will.” “As long as you keep your word, Mr. Vance.” In a dimly lit corner of the grand ballroom, I stood beside Nathan, my back bowed in deference. A long, slow breath of relief escaped me. The condition was so simple. If I just agreed, I could save my Madelyn. Thank God. But Nathan didn't move. He stared down at the top of my head for a long moment before a cold sneer twisted his lips. “Only seven years, and you’ve already blown through all three million?” “Was it all on paint?” My breath caught. I dug my nails into my palm, then forced myself to look up, plastering a sycophantic, pleasing smile on my face. “Yes, the money ran out a long time ago.” “That’s why I need a man of your stature to help me out.” After seven years, he was a powerful CEO, a man whose world I could no longer hope to touch. He abruptly let go of my arm as if he’d touched something filthy. “Nathan, what are you doing back here? Found an old flame?” “Hey, man, you’re getting married. Don’t let Susan…” The voice died in the man’s throat. “Jess Kang? What are you doing here?” Nathan’s friends stared at me, their faces instantly hardening. “Nathan, don’t be a fool!” one of them said, anxiously studying his expression. “Have you forgotten how she lied to you, how she ruined you? You can’t trust her again!” I lowered my head again, saying nothing. Everyone knew how insane Nathan had been for me back then. To elope with me, he’d jumped from a third-story window of his family’s mansion, shattering his ankle. He hadn't even had it set until after our plane landed. To afford the finest art supplies for me, he’d worked six jobs a day, working himself to the point of coughing up blood, yet he wouldn’t even buy himself a full course of medicine. And I had abandoned him in the span of a single second. So I couldn’t blame his friends for looking at me like they wanted to kill me. “You’re overthinking it,” Nathan said, his voice flat. “I’ve just invited her to be the artist for my wedding. To paint Susan and me.” Susan. His fiancée. I repeated the beautiful name to myself, then looked up at them with a brazen, carefree smile. “That’s right. As long as the price is right.” “What can I get you all to drink? I’ll go get it.” No one offered me so much as a kind glance. They formed a tight circle around Nathan and me, their voices a rising chorus of accusations, calling me heartless, warning Nathan not to fall for my tricks again. I just bowed and scraped, playing along with their insults. I saw my manager across the room, waving impatiently at me, and a knot of anxiety tightened in my stomach. Nathan followed my gaze. His face was a mask, devoid of emotion. He simply signed a check and tossed it at my feet. “You start tomorrow. This is the down payment.” He waved a dismissive hand at me, as if he couldn’t stand the sight of my face for another second. I snatched the check from the floor, my fingers closing around it tightly, and backed out of the circle. Madelyn’s hospital bills. I could pay them. I was so happy I could have cried. Even when my manager made me wash dishes for an extra two hours, I didn't feel the least bit resentful. The thin rubber gloves tore quickly, and the skin on my fingers peeled away, leaving them looking like waterlogged, rotting wood. But I felt no pain. Instead, my mind drifted back to the past, to the nights when Nathan would come home from his own dishwashing job, and I would gently apply ointment to his chapped, raw hands. It was cheap stuff, barely effective, but he was so stubborn, he’d never let me use more than a tiny amount. “I’m a grown man. What do I need this for?” he’d say, hiding his chilblained hands and taking mine instead. “A painter’s hands… those are the ones that are precious.” Lost in the memory, my hand slipped. A plate shattered at my feet. A pang of dread shot through me as I calculated how much would be docked from this month’s pay. But before I could even bend down to pick up the pieces, a figure appeared beside me, yanking me to my feet. “Jess, what are you doing to your hands?!” 2 I looked up and met Nathan’s furious gaze. But the moment the words left his mouth, he froze. It was the same thing he used to shout at me whenever he got angry, back before we broke up. When I’d cut my finger trying to slice fruit for him. When I’d worked at a fast-food joint and hot oil had spattered the back of my hand. He would always say, in that harsh, worried tone, Jess, what are you doing to your hands? He said my hands were for painting, not for menial tasks. He treasured my hands, my art, as much as he treasured me. We had met at an art exhibition, after all. We were in different departments at the same university, a year apart. Our paths had never crossed. But that day, amidst the bustling crowd of the gallery, he was the only one who stood in the corner, in front of my painting, and studied it for a full hour. I was ecstatic. I chattered at him for ages, telling him about my work, asking for his thoughts and advice. But he was a man of few words and offered little in return. I found out later that he was a severe depressive. That day had been the first day he was out after recovering from his last suicide attempt. None of that mattered to me. We quickly became friends. And then, lovers. He came to my studio every day to watch me paint. He listened intently to every word I said, no matter how much I rambled. And those eyes, usually so clouded with a deep-seated gloom, slowly began to find a glimmer of a smile in my endless chatter. I was with him as he slowly, painstakingly, returned to a normal life. Then came graduation, and his family demanded we break up, citing our difference in status. He didn't hesitate. He took me and we eloped, leaving the country behind. He told me that no matter how hard it got, he would make me the most famous painter in the world. He said my art had saved him, so I should never feel guilty for anything he did for me. He saw me as the sun that had pulled him from the abyss. And I betrayed him without a second thought. Because it was all taking too long. I couldn't wait for a future built on the coins he earned washing one dish at a time. “Why are you doing this?” The memory faded. I saw Nathan pull himself back from the brink of his outburst, releasing my arm. “Waitstaff have to wash dishes in addition to serving?” His voice was flat, emotionless, just like when we first met. He was a puppet again, all strings and no feeling. “Just trying to earn a little extra, you know?” I awkwardly hid my hands behind my back, glancing around. A wave of relief washed over me. My coworkers were all gone. No one had seen us. “I was a bit reckless these past few years, made some bad investments. Now I’m working odd jobs to pay off my debts.” I crouched down to pick up the shards, not daring to meet his eyes. “It’s a good thing I ran into you today. You were so generous…” His hand gently brushed mine away. In silence, he picked up the sharp fragments and threw them in a nearby trash can. Then he stood up, looming over me. “Are you still painting?” I remained crouched on the floor, my hands empty. For a split second, my mind went blank. Then I composed myself and looked up at him. “Of course. That’s my main profession.” He just looked at me, saying nothing. My heart hammered against my ribs. I was terrified he would see through my lie and take back his offer to be his wedding artist. Thankfully, the tense silence was broken by a phone call. “Nathan, are you almost home? I made you some soup to help with the hangover.” The woman's voice on the other end was melodious and gentle. I took a step back, the name echoing in my mind. Susan. The fiancée his friends had mentioned, the one who was his perfect match. “Almost there,” Nathan said, then paused. “You have a cold. You should be resting. Don’t wait up for me, get some sleep.” I didn't look up, but I could feel his eyes on me as he spoke. I suppressed the bitter sting in my throat and tried to slip away while he was still on the phone. “Jess.” The moment I turned, he ended the call. “You’ve been hiding for seven years. Is there any point in running now?” “See you tomorrow.” 3 I pretended not to understand the sarcasm laced in his words, simply nodding before hurrying away. The next day, as promised, I arrived at his villa. Susan greeted me at the door and even poured me a cup of tea. “Ms. Kang. It’s been a long time,” she said, a faint, knowing smile on her face as she took in my confused expression. “You probably don’t remember me. Nathan and I were in the same department. I used to see him going to find you all the time.” Now I knew why the name had felt familiar. Susan had known him for just as long as I had. “I used to be so envious of you,” she continued. “A man like him, born to such privilege, so cold to everyone else, yet he only had eyes for you.” “I never imagined you two would break up so… decisively.” I managed a tight, awkward smile and retreated to a corner to set up my easel, not daring to say another word. He was cold because of his illness. And he only had eyes for me probably because… I was relentless. But all of that was in the past. Now, my subjects were Nathan and Susan, a perfect, storybook couple. I spent the morning at their home, painting a scene of them watering flowers in the garden, Nathan’s hand resting on her waist. “It’s beautiful. No wonder Nathan insisted on hiring you,” Susan said with a satisfied nod, handing me a glass of water. “You’ve been painting all morning. You must be tired. Take a break.” I accepted it without a second thought and took a large gulp. Scalding hot water seared its way down my throat. I clutched my neck, coughing violently. “Oh, dear! I forgot this was freshly boiled water!” Susan exclaimed, standing up with a look of apology. In her haste, she knocked over the glass. My morning’s work was instantly ruined, a wash of bleeding colors. But I barely registered it. The pain in my throat led to an endless fit of coughing. Soon, I couldn’t breathe. It was Nathan who came rushing in. He carried me to a room and forced an asthma inhaler into my mouth. The black fog clouding my vision slowly receded. As my breathing evened out, I saw Nathan’s red-rimmed eyes. And behind him, on the nightstand, was a row of unopened asthma medication. The same brand I used to use. “Jess,” Nathan’s voice trembled. “Wasn't three million dollars enough for you to buy yourself the best medicine?” I slowly sat up, waving a dismissive hand. “Of course I did. It was three million dollars. You don't have to worry about me not taking care of myself.” I gave him a weak smile. “I haven't had an attack in ages. What just happened was an accident. I know Ms. Lin didn’t mean to…” “Shut up.” I stared at him, stunned by his sudden interruption. “I looked into it. Painting hasn't been your main profession for years.” Nathan’s voice was numb, as if he were reading my death sentence. “You haven't sold a single painting. Your name disappeared from the art world seven years ago.” “The reason you gave for leaving me was your art.” “But now, even the asthma inhaler you carry is the cheapest kind you can buy.” As if by magic, he produced the small plastic inhaler from my bag. He took a step forward, trapping me against the headboard. “So you tell me,” he hissed, his face inches from mine. “What did you really do with that three million dollars?” 4 My body began to tremble. But I couldn’t let him know. I hid my hands behind my back and dug my nails into my own flesh. The pain in my scarred, calloused hands was sharp, excruciating. But it was nothing compared to the pain in my heart. The three million dollars was long gone. It was all for Madelyn. Our daughter, the one I had given birth to in secret, the one born with a congenital heart defect. I had spent every penny in hospitals, from the day she was born until now, her seventh year. A month ago, she had finally undergone a successful heart transplant, only to suffer a severe rejection. The staggering cost of her ongoing treatment was a mountain crushing the very breath from my lungs. And then, just as I was about to break, Nathan had reappeared. So I had no choice but to seek him out, to tear my own dignity to shreds, to shamelessly exploit our shared past and beg him for help. As for painting… I thought back to that morning, sitting before the easel, the feel of the brush in my hand. A small, sad smile touched my lips. It felt like a lifetime ago. But I couldn't tell him a single word of it. “I’m not some famous artist. My sales are all private deals. It’s normal that no one’s heard of me.” I slipped out from under his arm and gave him a nonchalant shrug. “I told you, I squandered the three million. That’s why I have to work odd jobs to pay off my debts while I paint.” “And as for my asthma… it’s incurable, so it doesn’t matter what kind of medicine I use.” A terrible silence descended between us again, a chasm I couldn't cross. And in the doorway stood Susan, the jealousy and resentment in her eyes undisguised, marring her otherwise gentle, beautiful face. I fled. You don’t deserve him, Jess, I told myself, over and over again. A week later, I finished my work at Nathan’s villa and went to the hospital to see my precious girl. Madelyn said my voice still sounded like Donald Duck. I just smiled and gently pinched her pale little cheek. My throat was healing slowly from the burn. But at least Nathan had barely spoken to me since the incident. He had probably given up on me, again. And that was for the best. I didn't regret my choice. I couldn't be a burden to him seven years ago, and I couldn't be one now. Once the wedding was over and I had the money, I would disappear. I just had to get through tomorrow. “If Mommy’s Donald Duck, then you’re my little Goof—” “Madelyn! Sweetheart! Doctor!” Without any warning, my daughter, who had been laughing with me just a second ago, suddenly closed her eyes, her breathing becoming heavy and labored. The heart rate monitor beside her bed shrieked. I watched, helpless, as she was wheeled back into the operating room, just two hours after her last procedure. I collapsed onto a bench outside, a hollow shell. The world swam before my eyes. The doctor's words echoed in my ears. He said the rejection was getting worse, that if she couldn’t get through this critical period, she might never… I couldn’t bear to hear the rest. I felt my own breathing quicken, the familiar sense of suffocation closing in. “Jess, breathe! Breathe!” In the last second before my consciousness faded, Nathan appeared before me like a dream, holding me, forcing the inhaler to my lips. I pushed his hand away and fell to my knees before him, sobbing. “The rest of the money… the four hundred thousand… can you give it to me now? I can’t wait until tomorrow. I need to transfer Madelyn to a better hospital today…” “She’s my daughter, she’s six years old… I had her with someone else after you left… but she’s so good, so sweet, please, I’m begging you…” I was babbling, incoherent with grief, just begging him, over and over. He held me tight, repeating that it was going to be okay, telling me to calm down. “I have a friend who’s a specialist in this field. I’m messaging him right now. He’ll arrange the transfer.” “The wedding is canceled tomorrow. I’ll go with you. Your daughter will be fine.” “Don’t cry.” Something warm and wet fell onto my neck. It couldn’t be Nathan’s tears, could it? The thought floated through my dazed mind. Then a phone rang. Nathan quickly answered it, putting it on speaker and holding it up to my ear, desperate for me to hear the news that might save me. “It’s all arranged. You can bring the little one over tomorrow,” a strange man’s voice said from the other end. “But there’s one thing you might have wrong. The child isn’t six, like you said.” “The medical records from the hospital say she’s seven years old.”
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