บททั้งหมดของ Falling For His Forsaken Wife: บทที่ 61 - บทที่ 70

Two weeks after Boston, I still had not told anyone about Katherine and Rebecca. The secret sat heavy in my chest, but I was not ready to share it. Not ready for opinions or sympathy or questions I could not answer.Katherine texted occasionally. Short messages. Photos of artwork her students created. Updates about Rebecca's condition. Nothing that required more than a brief response.*Mom had a good day yesterday. Sang old songs she used to sing to us. Thought you would want to know.*I stared at the message, not knowing how to respond. I had no memory of Rebecca singing to me. Those memories belonged to Katherine, not to me.*That's nice* I finally typed back. Inadequate, but honest.I was in my studio working on the final details of the Whitney commission when Mrs. Martinez called."Mija, I have not seen you in three weeks. Are you avoiding me?" Her voice was teasing but I could hear the concern underneath."Just busy. The Whitney deadline is in six weeks and I am behind schedule."

The Whitney installation day arrived with perfect November weather. Cold but clear, the kind of day that made New York feel like the center of the universe.I stood in the museum's contemporary wing watching the installation team carefully maneuver my twelve-by-sixteen-foot painting into position. It had taken four people and specialized equipment just to transport it from my studio. Now they were mounting it on a wall specifically reinforced to handle its weight."This is the largest piece we have installed in this space in five years," Dr. Patricia Wong said beside me. She was the curator who had commissioned the work. "It is going to be the centerpiece of the entire wing."I could barely breathe watching them work. One wrong move and months of work could be destroyed. But the team was professional, precise, experienced. Within two hours, the painting was mounted, lit, and ready.Seeing it on the museum wall was completely different from seeing it in my studio. Here, it had context.

The engagement announcement went viral overnight. By morning, my phone had over three hundred notifications. Congratulations mixed with invasive questions about wedding dates, dress designers, guest lists. The art world publications ran headlines like "Emily Carter and Alexander Reed: A Second Chance Love Story" and "From Broken Marriage to Artistic Success: Emily Carter's Journey."I turned off my phone and buried my face in the pillow. "I hate this. I hate that my personal life is public property.""Then we control the narrative," Alex said from beside me. He was already up, scrolling through his tablet. "We give one interview. Tell our story on our terms. Then we stop engaging. Let the media talk but do not feed them anything new.""Who would we even talk to? Everyone wants an exclusive.""Your choice. Who do you trust to tell the story fairly?" Alex set down the tablet. "Or we say nothing. We let people speculate. We just live our lives and ignore the noise."I thought about it. I

The morning light filtered through the penthouse windows as I stood in front of my easel, studying the canvas before me. This piece was different from the others I had been working on for London. Where the previous three had been about transformation and rebirth, this one felt quieter. More intimate.I mixed cadmium yellow with a touch of white, creating the exact shade of early morning sun. The kind that had streamed through Mrs. Martinez's motel window on my first morning there, when I had nothing but a duffel bag and the clothes on my back."You are up early." Alex's voice came from behind me, rough with sleep.I did not turn around, keeping my focus on the brushstroke I was laying down. "Could not sleep. This piece has been in my head for three days."His arms wrapped around my waist, chin resting on my shoulder. I felt him studying the canvas, the way he always did now. Really looking at my work instead of glancing at it while checking his phone."It is the motel," he said softly

The Reed family townhouse sat in the Upper East Side like a monument to old money. Five stories of limestone and history, the kind of place that had been in the family for generations. I had been here exactly three times—once during my first marriage to Alex, once after we got back together, and now tonight.Each visit felt like walking into a museum where I was simultaneously the guest and the exhibit.Alex squeezed my hand as we climbed the front steps. "My mother promised to be on her best behavior.""Which version of her best behavior?""The one where she only makes passive-aggressive comments instead of overtly aggressive ones.""How generous of her."The door opened before we could knock. Richard Reed stood there in slacks and a cashmere sweater, looking exactly like an older version of his son. He smiled when he saw us, genuine warmth in his eyes."Emily, Alexander. Come in, come in. Catherine is in the dining room arranging flowers for the third time.""Nervous?" I asked, hand