Deformed Love in Sculpture

After five years of dating, my boyfriend, Tom, suddenly had a “female friend.”



When I found out she was draped in nothing but a sheer piece of fabric, standing in his studio as a nude model for one of his sculptures, I completely lost it. I made a scene—loud and messy.



But the very next day, a sculpture of me—striking the most provocative pose between two beds—appeared at a public art exhibition.



It wasn’t just casually displayed.

It was placed in the most prominent spot in the gallery, with my full name etched on the plaque beside it.



Panic surged through me. I rushed to Tom’s studio, only to freeze at the door when I heard laughter coming from inside.



"Tom, that sculpture of Sophia is blowing up online. Aren’t you afraid she might actually leave you?"



Tom chuckled darkly.

"That’d be her loss. Who told her to destroy the one I made for Charlotte?"



“Leave you? Please. Don’t be fooled by how bold she looks—deep down, she’s ridiculously traditional. If she’s not already asking you to marry her, she’s practically a feminist rebel.”



The room erupted in crude laughter.



“Tom bro, you’re too generous. Once you’re done with her, you don’t mind us stepping in as your backups, right?”



Tom lazily ran his fingers over an unfinished sculpture and waved them off.



“Sure. Whoever can get her, she’s all yours. Let’s see if any of you have the skills.”



My eyes landed on the sculpture he was working on—a body with a small black mole on the back, carved in the exact same spot as mine.



My heart plummeted.