Goodbye, My Heartless Husband

Bree's POV

'REJECTED'

I should have gotten used to these words by now.

I should have known how fast they came.

It was either this or an email saying 'YOUR QUALIFICATIONS EXCEED….’

Exhausted, I'd accepted my fate because anytime I left for an interview, it was already stamped at the back of my mind that I would be rejected.

"Where the fuck Is she?" A voice I was all to familiar with came from the hallway. The frown on my face only deepened.

My aunt's voice continued to echo throughout the house so loud that I was sure the neighbors two streets away could hear her.

"Another rejection I see." She said, folding her hands on her chest, legs standing akimbo with a scowl on her wrinkled face.

A sigh of irritation escaped from my lips.

Aunt Brianna had taken me in when my mother passed away ten years ago. I want to say she had been like a mother to me but I really don't like to lie.

You see this woman, while not being like the other horror story kids—Lord have mercy on me for that word—who was mistreated by their guardian, she never lost an opportunity to drag me down.

Not physically though. Oh no.

My mind was her battle field. She betrayed me at every given opportunity and I think the only relief I ever felt from her was when I went to college.

And even now, she never forgets to remind me that she paid for my tuition in college for the five years I stayed there. Even though it was from the money Mama left to me before she passed.

Though, I wasn't seeing the need for that college degree right now because two years out, and all I could show was the fucking paper.

I didn't know why all my applications kept getting rejected. It almost felt like….

I shook my head, pushing back the absurd thoughts that swooped in. That was just my mind playing tricks on me…but I wasn't giving up.

Not anytime soon.

"Hey. I'm talking to you, you little twat." Her shrill voice brought me out of the trance instantly.

"When are you going to understand that food in this—" She trailed off, glaring down at the buzzing phone in my hands. Phew.

Whoever was calling, I couldn't have been more grateful.

I hurriedly picked it up and the news I received on the end was….the first good news I'd ever received in a long time.

"Well? Who was that?” She demanded, probably not satisfied with my dumfounded state, “Why are you so pale yet smiling like a baffon."

“I…I just…I just got a job." I whispered to myself, the words so unreal that I could clearly hear the disbelief in my own tone.

Like how did that happen?

And the skeptical eyes my aunt kept throwing at me agreed with the invasive thoughts. Maybe this was really too good to be true.

"No, I actually just got a job.” I repeated, slower this time so she could hear it herself.

My aunt’s brows lifted so high, I thought they might fly off her forehead. “A job?” she repeated, like I’d just claimed to win the lottery in a back alley scratch card. “And let me guess—at the Louvre?”

I didn’t even bother answering her snarky comments. My eyes were glued to the screen, where the email still shone like a glitch in the matrix. "We are pleased to offer you an entry-level position at Kings Art Galleries."

Kings. As in the Kings.

The one I’d applied to three times before with no response. The one with the insanely beautiful showroom on Grayson Avenue. The one with art that made your fingers itch to touch.

“Are you on drugs?” Aunt Brianna asked, scoffing. “They don’t just hand jobs to little girls with pity degrees and a sob story.”

My fingers tightened around the phone.

“It’s real. I know I'm more than qualified for that job." I murmured, partly to her, mostly to myself. “They want me to start tomorrow at 10 a.m.”

A moment of silence, then that laugh hit me.

It was this deep, bitter cackle, like she was struggling to swallow all the resentment she had for everyone—especially me.

“Ha! Good luck with that, girl,” she shot back, turning her back on me. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”

She walked away, mumbling something about “one less mouth to feed,” as if I hadn’t been the one making dinner since I was sixteen.

I stood there in our old kitchen, with those same brown curtains from when I was little, staring at my reflection in the microwave door.

I got the job.

Yep, me—Bree Ferguson, the professional outcast. Well according to my aunt though.

That night, I couldn't sleep, just lying there, tracing the cracks in the ceiling like they were a map to a better life.

Mama used to call me her little Picasso, saying my fingers could create dreams.

I can still smell her lemon shampoo when she used to kiss my forehead, and I can hear her warm voice while I painted alongside her.

She had this unwavering faith in me, always saying things like, “You’re destined for greatness!” or “I know you’re going to do something special one day!” It was one of those things that made my heart swell with pride, even when I didn’t fully believe it myself.

But then, life threw a curveball. Just when everything seemed okay, everything flipped upside down.

It all started with that awful accident. I can still remember the anxiety hanging thick in the air, the silence that wrapped around us like a heavy blanket, and the feeling of dread settling deep in my stomach.

Next came the funeral, which was a blur of somber faces and muffled sobs, the sort of day that blurs into one long, confusing memory.

There I was, surrounded by people who all looked just as shattered as I felt. And then Aunt Brianna showed up.

I can picture her now—stepping into the room with that unmistakable scent of a too strong, bitter perfume that clung to her like an unwanted emotional baggage. She was like a dark cloud looming over me, her expression one of reluctant obligation, like she’d just been tasked with taking in a stray dog who had nowhere else to go.

The tough part?

It wasn’t just losing Mama; it was witnessing the crumbling of our world—a world filled with colorful art supplies splayed across the kitchen table, vibrant laughter echoing off the walls, and that feeling of pure joy whenever we were together, just creating and dreaming. All of that seemed to dissolve before my eyes, leaving nothing but shadows behind.

Fast forward a few years, and here I am, trying to navigate through this mess called life. But lately, I’ve felt this flicker of hope trying to resurface, like it’s struggling to break free from whatever holds it down. It’s strange and a little scary. I can’t help but wonder if I’m really ready to embrace that feeling again or if it’s just safer to keep it buried where I can’t feel the pain of potentially losing it all over again.

******************************

The next morning, I dressed in the best thing I had—which wasn’t saying much. A black midi skirt that didn’t wrinkle too much and a white blouse that screamed I'm serious but ridiculously cheap.

I scraped my curls into a bun and applied mascara with trembling hands, careful not to spill anything for the big day.

And as soon as I walked out, the city hit me with the scent of damp concrete and burnt toast. The bus ride was just a weird mix of nerves and disbelief.

Kings Art Galleries was squished between a couple of fancy designer shops on Grayson Avenue, like it was hiding some serious secrets and a lot of cash.

When I pushed through the glass doors, my heart was racing so fast I could practically hear it thumping in my ears.

Inside looked exactly how I’d pictured it—bright white walls, spotlights shining on the art like it was in a museum, not just a gallery. People were gliding around as if elegance was in their genes.

“Can I help you?” A sharp voice called, bringing me back to reality.

There was a woman behind a spotless marble counter. She had a chic blonde bob, bright red lips, and eyes that seemed to size you up in a fraction of a second.

“I—I’m Bree. Bree Ferguson. I was asked to come in for the new assistant position?”

Her gaze scanned the monitor in front of her, then flicked back to me. “Ah. Yes. One moment.”

She tapped something and then gestured, “Wait over there. Ms. Powell will be with you shortly.”

I sat on a cream-colored chair that probably cost more than my aunt’s entire kitchen.

I’d heard the name Ms. Powell before—she’s the gallery curator and an art historian, known for being a tough perfectionist. You know, the type of person who can totally crush your spirit with just one glance.

Then she walked in.

It was like something out of a creepy old book, except she was rocking a sleek black dress and shoes that were super quiet on the shiny floor.

“Ms. Ferguson,” she greeted me with a voice that was smooth but icy—cool and low.

I shot up so quickly I almost stumbled.

She didn’t shake my hand or anything. Just sized me up slowly, like I was a piece of art she couldn’t decide whether to display or toss aside.

“I checked out your portfolio,” she said. “You’ve got some intriguing ideas. Raw. Not polished yet.”

Was that supposed to be a compliment?

“Thanks,” I replied, trying to keep my cool.

Her lips curled a little, maybe a hint of a smile, but not quite. “We’ll see if you’re of any use. Come on, I’ll give you a tour.”

So, I followed her around the gallery, walking past huge oil paintings, wild abstract sculptures, and installations that felt like dreams twisted into nightmares. And honestly? I loved every minute of it.

We walked into a tiny backroom filled with filing cabinets and shelves stacked with catalogs.

“This is your area. You’ll be doing cataloging, making supply runs, and prepping for curation. Touch anything without asking, and you're in trouble. And while tours are happening, keep quiet. Don't make me look bad.”

“Got it, ma’am,” I replied quickly.

Then she actually looked at me again, and there was something in her gaze I couldn’t quite figure out. “You’ve lasted longer than I expected.”

“Wait, what?”

“I thought you'd be gone by now,” she replied as she walked out, her heels clicking like a ticking clock.

I just stood there, a bit stunned. What on earth just happened?