At a dinner party, my genius painter husband was peeling crab for his young assistant with his hands—hands insured for millions. Just to coax her into eating something because she had "no appetite." Meanwhile, I was drinking until I threw up blood, trying to secure investment for him. When I asked him to pass me some stomach medicine, he flatly refused: "My hands are for painting. Don't you have hands of your own?" For ten years, he hadn't even bothered to change his excuse for rejection. That night, sobering up in the cold wind, I asked my lawyer to draft a divorce agreement. Gavin, this life is long and the road is hard. From now on, we walk it separately. When Gavin was personally peeling crab for his assistant, Trixie, because she didn't feel like eating, everyone at the table looked at me awkwardly. Just a minute ago, I had been swearing to the investors: "Gavin's hands are insured for millions. To protect them, he doesn't even pick up a steak knife." To smooth things over, I punished myself by downing three shots of liquor. Blood welled up in my throat, but I forced it back down. Just as the tension was easing, Gavin decided to leave early to take Trixie to McDonald's. He even got into an argument with an investor over it and ended up punching him. To apologize to the investor, I took a slap to the face and paid out compensation. Turning back, I just wanted to check if his hands were okay. But Gavin said coldly, "If you weren't so obsessed with money, insisting on sucking up to these tacky tycoons, the poor girl wouldn't be starving." "I'm taking her to McDonald's. Don't follow us. You'll ruin our appetite." Trixie, the little assistant, apologized to me with pitiful eyes: "I'm so sorry, Wenny. If I knew Gavin cared about me this much, I would have kept my discomfort to myself." Gavin rubbed her head disapprovingly. "Little one, what did you do wrong? You're just innocent." "She's the one who's too calculating. She'd rather drink until she pukes blood than leave." My heart went cold. It wasn't that he didn't see me coughing up blood; he just didn't care. I stood there in the freezing wind for half an hour before calling my lawyer. "Prepare a divorce agreement for me." Gavin didn't come back until the next morning. Scanning the table and seeing no lavish breakfast, and the coat rack missing his freshly ironed suit, he frowned slightly. "Late night?" I nodded. "Had a chat with a lawyer." I pulled a document from my bag. "Two copies. Sign here." Gavin didn't even look at it. He flipped to the last page and signed. After all, in the ten years since his debut and our seven years of marriage, I had handled all his business and logistics. I let out a breath, put the agreement in my bag, and prepared to leave. Gavin blocked the door, his face dark as he grabbed my arm. "Don't overthink it. After dinner last night, Trixie broke out in hives. I just took her to the hospital. We didn't do anything." This was the first time Gavin had explained anything to me since we got married. But he forgot—I used to get hives too. Back then, covered in a red rash, I begged him to take me to the hospital. He said: "Don't you have legs? If I catch it, how am I supposed to paint?" Seeing my cold expression, Gavin wanted to say more, but Trixie called. "Sob... Gavin, I went to the studio today and everyone laughed at me. It's so embarrassing, I feel terrible..." "You silly girl! Didn't I tell you yesterday to rest if you're sick?" Trixie sobbed, "But if I don't go, the new exhibition won't be ready in time. If I delay your career, I'd die of shame..." "Silly girl, how can getting sick be your fault?" Saying this, Gavin glanced back at me with disgust. "It's all because of some greedy people who only care about money and ignore others' lives." "Be a good girl, wait in my office. I'll drive you home." Gavin slammed the door and left. From start to finish, he ignored the swelling on my face. I lowered my eyes and contacted the rising painter in Paris who had been inviting me for a long time. As I was reading through the agency contract on my phone, I received a voice message from Trixie on WeChat. In her baby voice, she said, "I'm so sorry, Wenny. Gavin insisted on coming to my place to take care of me. I'm the one delaying his exhibition progress. Please don't blame him." Her intentions were too obvious. Exhausted, I ignored the message but noticed her new profile picture. Zooming in, it was a pair of large hands, faintly stained with paint, tenderly cupping her face flushed red from hives. I knew those hands too well. They were Gavin's. He really did care about her. I closed the image and quietly changed my profile picture from our wedding photo to a bird flying free. On the last day of the city art exhibition, I stayed backstage handling logistics. When I went out front for the group photo, I saw Gavin already standing center stage with his arm around Trixie. Reporters were gushing: "Mr. and Mrs. Sterling have such a great relationship. Seven years of marriage and still so inseparable." "Mrs. Sterling looks so young! I heard she manages the studio and planned this entire exhibition single-handedly. Beauty and brains!" Gavin and Trixie heard the praise, but neither spoke up to correct them. Until Trixie saw me. Suddenly, her eyes welled up with tears, and she dropped to her knees in front of me. "Wenny, I didn't mean to! I just haven't had a chance to explain! Gavin is where he is today because of you. I wouldn't dare steal your credit." The sudden move made the atmosphere weird. The only sound was the clicking of camera shutters. Gavin immediately shielded Trixie. "Wenny, do you have to be so aggressive?" "Trixie contributed a lot to this exhibition. I'm just giving a newcomer some exposure. It's normal mentorship." He lowered his voice. "We're in public. Don't make a scene." I wasn't making a scene. And I never would again. I put on a polite smile, helped Trixie up, and introduced her to the media. The farce ended with a glossed-over peace. After the interviews, I took out my phone to book a flight. Gavin snatched it from my hand. "You're booking tickets? International? Why didn't I know about this?" He fired off three questions, brows furrowed in shock. "Since when do I have an exhibition in Paris? Why didn't you tell me?" Honestly, I didn't expect Gavin, who usually kept his hands off everything, to react like this. Maybe my recent change in behavior had finally caught his attention. A flash of panic crossed his eyes. He grabbed my hand. "What exactly are you planning?" Before I could tell the truth, a scream came from backstage. Gavin threw my phone aside and sprinted away. I silently picked up my phone, pressed the "Pay" button for the ticket, and then walked backstage. Broken frames littered the floor. Trixie was lying there, her wrist bleeding from wood splinters. "Boo hoo, Gavin, my hand is hurt. What if I can't paint anymore?" "Wenny asked me to organize this. I really didn't expect the frames to fall. I was so careful. Did I do something wrong?" Gavin cradled Trixie's hand delicately, his eyes red. The next second, he turned and roared at me: "Wenny, are you done acting out?" "Trixie is my assistant. She only handles my personal items. Why did you make her do heavy lifting? What is wrong with you?" "I tolerated your behavior at those drinking parties all these years, but have you sunk so low as to frame someone?" Ignoring the suspicious looks around us, I explained calmly: "I didn't ask her to come here. I was out front the whole time..." Gavin cut me off, patience gone. "Of course you didn't have to come personally. You run the studio; you can tell anyone to do your dirty work!" "Apologize to Trixie right now, or I'm calling the police!" I forced a self-deprecating smile. Just as I was about to agree to call the cops and check the security footage, Trixie hugged Gavin, begging him not to call. Whatever she said, Gavin agreed to. He gritted his teeth. "Trixie won't let me call the police. Fine. But I won't let you off the hook!" With that, he grabbed a painting from the corner and smashed it at my feet. The solid wood frame nearly shattered my shin bone. Sharp edges sliced my skin. Blood gushed out. "This is payback for Trixie! Everyone listen up: from now on, studio business has nothing to do with Wenny! Anyone who listens to her is fired!" "Wenny, don't come back until you've reflected on yourself and apologized to Trixie!" Gavin scooped Trixie up in his arms, shoved past me, and left without looking back. I stood there, tears falling despite my best efforts. They mixed with the blood, dripping onto the ruined canvas at my feet. It was the painting Gavin spent three months on to propose to me. It used to be his most treasured work. Thirty thousand repetitions of my name, forming the future we once promised each other—watching the sunset in Paris. But now, he had shelved that passionate love and personally shattered that promise. I took the canvas out of the frame, tore it 48 times, and threw the shreds into the trash. Gavin was right. His studio had nothing to do with me anymore. I was never his official agent, just managing his career as his wife. But soon, I wouldn't be that either. The next day, I went to the office to pack my things. I overheard the studio manager trying to reason with Gavin. "Mr. Sterling, you were too impulsive yesterday. Mrs. Sterling has been running everything all these years. If she really quits out of anger, the upcoming exhibition will be chaos." Gavin snorted. "She was just riding my coattails. The exhibition's success is due to my talent." "If she doesn't come, let Trixie handle her work. It's just busywork. Anyone can do it!" Then, remembering something, he added: "Trixie is different from her. The little one doesn't like sucking up to people. Don't make her go to dinner parties." I had planned to hand over my work to the manager, but now it seemed unnecessary. Just then, a WeChat notification popped up.
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