Guilt is not love

The next few days passed in a blur of weakness and silent determination.

My body felt like it was breaking apart piece by piece, but my mind was clear for the first time in years. I spent hours painting, creating pieces for the upcoming exhibition. Each stroke felt like reclaiming a part of myself I had buried long ago under Logan's expectations and society's judgments.

Every morning, I woke before sunrise, wrapped in a thick shawl, sipping ginger tea by my window as the city slowly came alive below me. I watched dawn bleed into the skyline, painting it in pinks and golds. Those few quiet minutes were my sanctuary before the nausea set in.

On Thursday afternoon, as I was sealing my final canvas for the gallery, Maria knocked on my door.

"Mrs. Carter," she said softly, peeking in. "Mr. Carter is asking for you in his office."

I paused, wiping sweat from my brow. My heart thudded uneasily. Logan hadn't called me to his office in months. Usually, he only summoned me when his parents were visiting, to play the role of doting wife.

I changed out of my paint-stained tee into a loose cream sweater and black leggings. My hair was tied in a low bun, wisps falling around my gaunt face. I didn't bother with makeup. What was the point?

---

His office door was slightly ajar. I knocked once before entering.

Logan sat behind his massive mahogany desk, fingers steepled under his chin, gray eyes fixed intently on his laptop screen. He looked up the moment I stepped in.

For a brief second, something flickered in his eyes – worry? Relief? But as always, it vanished before I could read it.

"You wanted to see me?" I asked softly.

"Sit," he said, gesturing to the leather chair across from him.

I sat, folding my trembling hands in my lap. Silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating.

Finally, he spoke. "Your gallery exhibition is on Saturday."

I blinked, surprised. "How do you know that?"

"I told you," he said curtly. "I read the email."

I clenched my jaw, swallowing the anger that rose in my chest. "What about it?"

"I'm coming with you."

My heart skipped a beat. "What?"

"I said I'm coming." His tone left no room for argument. "You're my wife. You will be presented as such."

I laughed bitterly, shaking my head. "Presented as what, Logan? Your possession? Your dying wife who's suddenly worth showcasing because she's become an artist?"

His eyes narrowed, his jaw clenching. "Don't twist my words."

"I'm not twisting anything," I whispered, tears burning my eyes. "I just… I don't want you there."

His gaze snapped to mine, sharp and cold. "Why?"

"Because…" My voice broke. "Because your presence suffocates me. Because every time I see you, I'm reminded of the love I begged for and never received."

Silence filled the room like a storm waiting to break.

For a moment, he looked almost pained. His fingers tightened on the edge of the desk, knuckles turning white.

"You will go with me," he said finally, his voice flat and emotionless. "That's final."

I stared at him, feeling my chest tighten with grief. Guilt burned behind his eyes, but I knew better than to mistake it for love.

"Guilt is not love, Logan," I whispered brokenly. "Don't fool yourself."

I stood up and walked towards the door, my legs trembling with exhaustion. Before I left, I turned back to him.

"And don't fool me either."

---

Back in my room, I collapsed onto my bed, pressing my face into the pillow as silent sobs wracked my body.

Why did his words still have the power to break me?

Why did my heart still yearn for his love, even when I knew it would never come?

---

That evening, as I was organising my brushes, my phone buzzed with a text.

Paige: Hey sunshine. Big day Saturday! I'll be there with flowers and embarrassing tears 🥲💛

I smiled through my tears, typing back quickly.

Me: I don't know if I can do this.

Her reply came instantly.

Paige: You can. You've survived worse than an art exhibition. You survived a loveless marriage, Madison. This is nothing.

I let out a shaky laugh, wiping my tears away.

She was right.

I had survived worse.

And now, I was finally living for myself.

---

That night, I couldn't sleep. I tossed and turned under my blanket, my mind replaying Logan's cold voice over and over again.

You will go with me. That's final.

Tears slipped down my cheeks into my pillow. My body ached with chemo pain, but my heart ached worse.

Finally, just before dawn, I crawled out of bed and sat by my window, watching the first streaks of gold paint the sky.

My chest burned with determination.

He could control my marriage.

He could control my name.

But he would never again control my art.

Or my soul.

---

The next morning, as I painted delicate cherry blossoms against a turquoise sky, Maria entered quietly.

"Mrs. Carter," she said hesitantly, holding out a box. "This was delivered for you."

I frowned, taking the box from her. It was small and white, tied with a silver ribbon. There was no card.

I opened it carefully.

Inside lay a delicate rose gold bracelet, thin and elegant, studded with tiny white diamonds. My breath caught in my throat. It was beautiful.

But it didn't warm my heart.

Because I knew who it was from.

And I knew why he sent it.

A peace offering.

A silent apology.

A gesture to soothe his own guilt.

I placed it back in the box, closed the lid, and set it aside.

Guilt is not love.

I would not mistake it again.

---

Across the penthouse, Logan sat in his office, staring at his phone as the delivery notification flashed on his screen.

He pictured her delicate wrist adorned with the bracelet. He imagined her smile, her tearful eyes, her whispered thanks.

But when his phone remained silent, an uneasy feeling twisted in his chest.

He didn't know why her silence bothered him so much.

He didn't know why her pain felt like a bullet lodged in his ribcage.

He didn't know why… he suddenly cared.