The rule held firm for three years—the length of our marriage and the length of our divorce: Rhys, the acclaimed painter, would not paint me. Not once. Now we were back together. I no longer raised a fuss about entering Rhys’s studio, nor did I care what time he stumbled in at night. When Dahlia—The Muse—showed up at our loft for a modeling session, I even helped Rhys craft a plausible excuse. “I get it,” I said, shrugging. “It’s art.” Rhys froze. He gripped my wrist, his eyes searching my face with an intensity that used to make my stomach clench. 1 Rhys’s expression hardened, and he offered a flat, impatient explanation: “I just had her over to model.” “She’s my inspiration. I can only find my vision with her. Her clothes got wet, so I gave her a clean shirt.” As he spoke, he positioned himself, subtly shielding Dahlia, his eyes brimming with a familiar mix of annoyance and defensiveness. “What we have is a purely artistic relationship, Anya. It’s not the filth you’re imagining.” I glanced past him at Dahlia. She was wearing one of his expensive dress shirts, the hem barely covering her upper thighs, exposing two slender, pale legs. Seeing my silence, Dahlia’s eyes welled up with performative tears. “Anya, please don’t fight with Rhys because of me.” “Maybe… maybe I just shouldn't come back.” I cut her off, my voice even and calm. “I understand, Dahlia. It’s art, after all. I’m not angry.” Rhys’s face went completely blank. He stared at me for a long, bewildered moment, trying to burn a hole through my calm exterior. “Then why are you dragging a suitcase?” he demanded, his brows furrowed. “The old you—when we fought, you’d always storm out, threatening to leave. How long are you planning to disappear this time?” Ah. I blinked up at him. Rhys’s eyes were already faintly red, and his voice actually held a hint of a tremor. I suppose it made sense. He'd been holed up in his studio with Dahlia for days, completely losing track of time. Fearing I’d interrupt his creation, I hadn't bothered to tell him I was leaving the city for a week-long business trip. He hadn’t even noticed I’d been gone. I wheeled the luggage into the room, explaining flatly, “I’m dragging a suitcase because I just got back from a work trip.” The tension finally eased from his tightly-knit brow. I caught sight of my guest bedroom. It was cluttered with Dahlia’s things. “She needed to stay here temporarily for convenience,” Rhys mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. I simply nodded, pulling my bag toward the master bedroom. “Oh, and I’m pulling an all-nighter at the office tonight. I won’t be back.” I was creating a perfectly serene environment for their art. I turned to leave, but Rhys suddenly grabbed my hand. “You’ve always wanted me to paint you, right? When the gallery show wraps, I’ll paint you.” “Consider it a birthday gift.” His tone was assured, imbued with the casual condescension of a king bestowing a favor. Rhys was certain I would melt. After all, for the three years we were married, I had begged him to paint me. Each time, he’d dismissed it with the same, cold refusal: "I only paint landscapes. I don't do portraits." It wasn't until I accidentally walked into his studio that I saw the meticulously framed paintings, all featuring the same subject: Dahlia—his unattainable ideal, his Golden Girl. I was young then, desperate, and foolish enough to issue an ultimatum: Choose between me or her paintings. I lost. Instantly. Rhys didn't hesitate; he chose the latter. His rejection was so quiet, so cold—so cruel. He made it clear I was an insignificant stranger. That relationship ended with my hysterical, tearful divorce petition. I cried myself sick for six months, convinced I would never recover. But hearing the story now, there was nothing but a dull indifference. Time truly is a remarkable thing. “You should go back to your work. Dahlia is waiting.” I gently withdrew my hand from his grip, my voice as unremarkable as if commenting on the weather. Rhys finally let me go. 2 I worked a grueling rotation for a full week to complete the project. Late that night, a text from Rhys arrived. I have more important things tonight. I'll make up your birthday later. Be good. I wasn't surprised. Last year, one phone call from Dahlia, and he’d ditched me to fly overseas and watch the sunrise with her. The year before, he was at an international exhibition, with Dahlia, his model, by his side. What was I doing on those birthdays? I cooked a full-course meal and waited—from the time the sun rose until it set, and then again until it rose. I didn't realize that my partner of many years was, in fact, painting portraits until I saw the headline featuring the beautiful, perfectly-matched pair—Rhys and Dahlia. His paintbrush, it turned out, only moved for Dahlia. She was his only Muse. In those days, blinded by jealousy and a crushing sense of inadequacy, I called him countless times, teetering on the edge of hysteria. He finally answered. On my end, it was a desperate, screaming interrogation. On his, it was tired, dismissive platitudes. “Anya, you’re not a child. Can you stop being so dramatic?” But I couldn't stop. I was reckless enough to demand a definitive answer. “Rhys, tell me. Who matters more—me or Dahlia?” The silence lasted forever, so long that I thought he wouldn't answer. Then came his featherlight reply: “Don’t be ridiculous.” “Fine. I’ll burn those paintings.” He lost his composure. His voice, for the first time, was sharp with anger and panic. “Anya, you wouldn’t dare!” “Try me.” I hung up, shaking. But when I burst into the studio with a sledgehammer, I stopped dead in front of the canvases. His paintbrush truly did possess warmth. Dahlia, captured by his hand, was beautiful. Even sitting still, she was vibrant, youthful, and playfully alive. Every stroke was infused with love... That night, I sat alone in the studio, wide awake. And I cried for an entire night. I cried until my tears ran dry, and the reservoir of love in my heart was bone-dry, too. 3 When we reconciled this time, Rhys had been clear: he wasn’t a man to be held back by petty, small emotions. He was an artist who needed to create and had no time to coddle my feelings. I smiled and told him I understood. After all, I was busy now, too. I had a major meeting tomorrow. I needed rest. On the way home, I bought myself a tiny strawberry shortcake from a local bakery. I went to the apartment I’d kept since before we married. As the cake melted in my mouth, I remembered the one birthday Rhys did spend with me. It was ridiculous, but that one birthday landed me in the ER. He came home very late, carrying a cake box. I was as delighted as a child and didn't look closely at the packaging. I didn’t even mind that a slice had already been cut. But one bite revealed the flavor: pineapple. I’m severely allergic to pineapple. Fearing I would spoil the moment, I forced myself to swallow it. Later that night, I woke up covered in hives, struggling to breathe. As I lay in the hospital, hooked up to an IV, Rhys apologized from the chair beside the bed: “I’m sorry, I mixed it up.” I didn't press for details then, only accepted the apology. I learned later. That cake he brought home was the slice Dahlia had left over. He hadn’t even remembered my birthday; he was just too lazy to deny it, seeing my excitement. Pineapple cake had always been Dahlia’s favorite. I lit the single candle, blew it out, and silently made a wish. In the past, my wishes were always about him: I wished he would spend more time with me. I wished he would paint me a portrait. I wished he would love me a little. This time, my wish was just for myself. I wished I would focus on my career, live well, and never mourn a worthless person again. Wish made, I took a hot shower and went to sleep. 4 I was woken up in the middle of the night by an insistent ringing. It was Toby, Rhys’s friend—the same one who once called me Rhys's doormat. “Anya, Rhys got into a fight, and his right hand was cut with a knife. Get to the hospital!” His voice was frantic. After a pause, he hesitated, then added sheepishly, “It was for Dahlia, but don’t freak out, okay, sis?” I replied, “Got it.” The voice on the other end went still. “Anya, you—” I hung up before he could finish. I felt nothing but the sheer annoyance of having my sleep interrupted. I slowly, deliberately changed my clothes before finally leaving the apartment. I used to cherish those hands more than he did. I wouldn't let him cook, terrified he'd injure himself. I hand-knitted gloves for him every winter to protect him from the cold. If he got a papercut, I’d panic for half an hour. I went to the hospital. Not out of concern. Just because, with the title of "reconciled couple" still hanging over us, not showing up would be harder to explain. As I reached the room, I heard Rhys's friends talking. “Remember? Three years ago, when Dahlia announced her new boyfriend overseas, Rhys went absolutely insane. He was speeding, then crashed his car. Ended up in a wreck.” “But that’s Dahlia we’re talking about. Rhys is usually so cold, so rational, but for her, he’s broken every rule. The only fool who thought he actually cared about her was Anya.” “Tell me about it. When he crashed, Anya dove across the car to protect his drawing hand. She got several stitches on her forehead. When he woke up, he just proposed to her to piss Dahlia off.” They were right. I’d chased Rhys for years. Since college. He was the popular, handsome, and talented senior. I joined the art club for him, brought him coffee every morning, and organized his supplies. I even threw myself in front of him during the crash, protecting his livelihood. I thought, when he finally said, “Let’s try,” he had seen my good heart. I never imagined it was just a spiteful reaction to Dahlia’s official announcement. “Anya… Anya’s here.” Someone saw me. The group flinched, their faces sheepish. “We were just kidding, Anya. All that stuff is in the past.” I walked past them without a word, nodding as I entered the room. Rhys, lying in the bed, immediately scanned my empty hands. As if to remind me, he exposed his bandaged right hand. “Anya, I’m hurt.” Seeing no reaction, he explained, defensively, “Dahlia and I grew up together. I couldn't just stand by while she was harassed. Anya, stop being so petty. Don’t obsess over small things.” I looked up at him, my expression perfectly serene. “I’m not being petty. If you’re injured, call a doctor and change the dressing on time. It’s your hand. I have no authority over it.” He froze, blinking, confusion flickering in his eyes. Then annoyance. He seemed unable to comprehend why I wasn't falling apart, weeping with fear, as I used to. 5 As we stood in awkward silence, the door swung open. Dahlia rushed in, eyes red, and flew into Rhys’s arms, ignoring me completely. She was sobbing. “Rhys, it’s all my fault. If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t be hurt.” Rhys’s face softened. He gently patted her back, soothing her. “It’s not your fault, I wanted to help you.” “I brought you bone broth. Try it.” They leaned into each other, intimate, like a real couple. I was the superfluous outsider, standing awkwardly in the corner. While comforting Dahlia, Rhys kept glancing at me, checking my reaction. He was waiting for the familiar storm—the jealousy, the temper tantrum, the tears. Instead, I took out my phone and checked the time. Tomorrow’s meeting starts at eight. It’s a forty-minute drive from the hospital to the office. Accounting for time for a shower and breakfast, I needed to wake up by six-thirty. It was best to leave now and rest. In my peripheral vision, Rhys took the thermos. He took a sip and frowned instantly. “Rhys, I’ll stay the night to take care of you,” Dahlia offered gently. Perfect. I was about to suggest I leave. Rhys, however, pulled his arm away from Dahlia, his face suddenly stern. “Go home, Dahlia. You’ve had a long day. Anya can take care of me.” Dahlia looked stunned but nodded. After she left, silence descended. Rhys watched me for a long time, then spoke: “Anya, I want your soup.” He was particular about his food. The rich, complicated broths he liked took me a dozen hours to simmer over a carefully controlled flame. Even a slight deviation in the seasoning would be instantly rejected. The year I graduated college, I had a job opportunity in Hong Kong—excellent pay, a great position. But he said, “I don’t want a long-distance relationship. Anya, don’t leave me.” I gave it up without a second thought, staying behind to cater to his every need. I left a light on for him every night for three years. I cooked meals, reheated them, and reheated them again. Even though he rarely came home, I persisted. On the rare occasion he returned, he’d barely look at the food. Then he’d frown and ask, “Are you this bored all the time? Is all you do wait for me and cook?” Now, I stepped back, avoiding his outstretched hand. “I don’t have time to cook.” “I have an important meeting tomorrow. I have work to focus on.” Rhys’s expression instantly darkened. This was the prelude to his familiar, cold rage. I ignored his reaction, turned, and walked out the door.
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