AllFreeNovel
Share Us
My sister meets my gaze, horrified. And that’s when I realize the room has gone silent. Dozens of pairs of eyes are on me as I turn my back to the paintings and watch each and every person in the room make the connection.
My heart thumps. I want the ground to swallow me up, because this is the most humiliating moment of my life. My ex-husband, the decorated, genius artist, has painted a story that in no way reflects reality. The people staring at me whisper behind raised hands, and I can hear what they’re saying.
That’s her. That’s the woman who took his kids and left him.
I want to scream. Where’s the painting that shows him cheating on me? Where’s the painting that shows me raising our kids? Where’s the painting of me giving him thirteen years of my life? Where’s the painting of every snide comment he made to cut me down?
I’m shaking. I can barely stand. I grip my sister’s arm so hard she winces, but I can’t let go or I’ll fall. I can’t… I don’t…
What the fuck?
Kevin appears in my line of vision, a smug smile on his lips. He spreads his arms. “What do you think, Katrina? Some of my best work, no?”
“No,” I answer.
Kevin chuckles and joins me, looking up at his paintings. “I think I captured the essence of the past year quite well, actually.”
“You had no right to paint me,” I hiss.
“The muse strikes at the oddest times,” he replies, eyes on the painting of me in bed.
I feel sick. I need a shower. I need to scrub my body raw just to get rid of this slimy feeling on my skin.
I want to rip it up. I want to take a knife and tear through that canvas until it’s reduced to ribbons. I want to burn it from my memory, from everyone else’s mind. I want to erase this from existence, forever.
A woman in all black hurries toward us. She leans toward Kevin, her face pulled tight with excitement. “Mr. Paulson, we’ve just had an offer on all four pieces.”
Kevin’s eyes dart to me, triumph written in his gaze. “All four of them to the same buyer?”
I’m going to puke.
“There’s just one condition,” the woman says quietly. “They ask to take possession of the paintings immediately.”
Kevin’s eyes leave mine as he frowns, looking at the gallery manager. “Immediately? So they wouldn’t be displayed beyond tonight?” He glances around the room. “There aren’t even fifty people in the room, and they’re all from around here.” His voice goes up. “No one has seen these yet! No one important, anyway.”
The woman spreads her palms. “It’s your choice, of course, but it’s a very generous offer.” She drops her voice. “The buyer said that he would double the purchase price to take possession immediately. He was quite taken with them.”
“Double—” Kevin chokes on the word, then he can’t agree fast enough. “Yeah, of course. Sure. He’s got great taste.” He smiles, eyes flicking back to me. “The buyer was quite taken with these, Trina, so I guess I have you to thank.”
The woman produces a paper from a black folder held under her arm, and with a few quick strokes of his pen, Kevin makes the deal in front of me.
Twenty thousand dollars. Someone paid twenty grand to buy these four paintings right now because they loved my pain so much. What kind of sick fuck would—
Mac walks out from a side room and nods to the gallery manager, then strides to the first painting—the one of me in bed. He tears it off the wall and tosses it facedown on the floor. It lands with a loud slap on the hardwood. Everyone jumps.
I look at the wooden frame, the canvas stapled around the edges, then back at Mac.
He’s already got the second canvas in hand and is tossing it down on top of the first. It clatters down, then slides off the first one, landing at an angle.
The crowd gasps. I look up to see my mother on the other side of the room, both hands held to her mouth.
The third canvas lands on top of the other two, and I finally snap out of my stupor.
I look at Mac—really look at him—for the first time. He’s dressed in black jeans and a perfectly fitted white tee, his leather jacket unzipped and hanging open. His hair is mussed, face covered in scruff and jaw set in a tight line.
He reaches for the last painting, the self-portrait of Kevin crying, then pauses. Ignoring Kevin, he turns to me. “I think this one should stay up. What about you?”
“I…” I gulp. “Mac, what are you… I’m… I don’t…”
