ManyWriters

Three months ago, Ryan Mitchell became obsessively infatuated with a singer at a jazz club.
That girl, Scarlett, exuded a rebellious New York vibe, with heavy makeup but clear eyes. When Ryan handed her the keys to a Manhattan apartment, she rejected them without hesitation.
"I'm not anyone's caged canary, Mr. Mitchell."
Those simple words made Ryan completely lose his mind.
He spent a fortune on her, even renting an entire LED screen in Times Square for her, completely forgetting about his wife of seven years who had dedicated her youth and talent to him.
I, Emma Collins, didn't argue or yell. I just quietly tore up one of the oil paintings he had created for me every time he stayed out all night for Scarlett.
When he left me in the pouring rain because of one negative Instagram post from Scarlett, I shredded the first painting he had ever given me.When he missed his father's funeral just to rent out an entire club to hear Scarlett sing, I destroyed the tenth painting.
When he removed our wedding ring because of a single contemptuous glance from Scarlett, I ruined the twenty-ninth painting.
Now, he has abandoned me alone in the Alaskan wilderness because Scarlett casually complained about the cold weather.
And in my hands, only one last painting remains.
Taking a deep breath, I dialed the phone:
"Jack, I need divorce papers."

The Muse Who Shattered Our Vows

At 3 AM, Ryan collapsed in the rain and was rushed to the hospital by his assistant. I heard he was muttering my name while running a high fever, but I felt nothing but coldness.


From that day on, for a whole month, an oil painting would appear punctually at my studio door every single day, rain or shine.


I didn't even look at them, just tossed them straight into the trash.


Until today, when I opened the door to find Ryan standing there, holding his latest oil painting.


The painting depicted the silhouette of a pregnant woman from behind, her belly gently swollen, hands softly caressing the unborn life within.


A wave of nausea swept over me, and I knocked the painting out of his hands.


Ryan didn't move to pick up the painting. He just slowly extended his hands.


His palms were covered in paint and scars, some scabbed over, others still bleeding. Then, his voice suddenly softened as he reached out to touch my face:


Chapter 8