“Look at yourself. Who could possibly want you at fifty-eight?” the man tossed over his shoulder as he walked out. Six months later, the entire town buzzed about her wedding to a millionaire.
“Im going to see Sophie,” he said, fastening the strap of his expensive wristwatchthe very one Catherine had given him for their thirtieth anniversary.
He didnt look at her. His gaze drifted to his reflection in the darkened window, where a trim, still-handsome man stood. Not the one in the room with her.
“Shes thirty-two. Shes… alive, you understand?”
Catherine stayed silent, the air in the drawing room thickening like tar. Every word was a small, merciless blade.
“After all these years… just like this?” Her voice came out quiet, almost foreign.
Edward finally turned. His eyes held no guilt, no regretonly cold, weary arrogance.
“What did you expect? A scene with smashed china? Were past that, Catherine. Civilized people dont behave like that.”
He picked up his leather briefcase. Every movement was rehearsed, precise. Hed prepared for this conversation, perhaps for days.
“Ive left everything to you. The flat is yours. Im taking the car. Youll have enough to live onIve seen to that.”
He stepped toward the door but paused on the threshold, glancing back. His eyes swept over her like an appraiser assessing something that had lost its value.
“Look at yourself. Who could want you at fifty-eight?”
He didnt wait for an answer. The heavy oak door clicked shut behind him, soft but final.
Catherine stood motionless in the middle of the room. She didnt cry. Tears felt inappropriate, almost vulgar. Instead, something strange and burning rose inside heran eerie calm.
She walked to the wall where their enormous wedding portrait hung. Thirty years ago. Young, happy, certain of a lifetime ahead.
Without hesitation, she lifted the heavy frame. She tried carrying it to the storage room, but it slipped from her grasp, crashing to the floor. The glass shattered, splitting her smiling face in two.
The phone rangsharp, insistent.
Catherine looked at the broken photo, then at the receiver. The ringing didnt stop. She picked up.
“Mrs. Whitmore? Good afternoon. This is the Heritage Gallery. Im afraid we have bad news. Mr. Whitmore terminated all lease agreements this morning and withdrew the funds. Your gallery is bankrupt.”
The receiver lowered slowly. Two blowspersonal and professional. Edward hadnt just left. Hed burned every bridge she stood on.
The gallery wasnt just a job. It was her soul, her child, born from a love of art. Edward had provided the initial funds, registering it under his name”Simpler this way, darling, with taxes and bureaucracy.” She had trusted him. Always.
Her first instinct was to call him. To say it was a mistake. That he couldnt do this to the artists, the staff, her lifes work.
The dial tone stretched endlessly. Finally, he answered.
“Yes?”
His voice was detached, officialas if she were just another subordinate.
“Edward, its me. Whats happened to the gallery? Why would you do this?”
A faint chuckle. Or maybe she imagined it.
“Catherine, I told youIve provided for you. The money is there. The gallery was a business. A failed one, honestly. I closed an unprofitable project. Nothing personal.”
“A failed project?” Her voice scratched her throat. “There were people there! Paintings we sheltered!”
“Key wordwere. The solicitors will handle it. Dont call me about this again.”
The line went dead.
She dressed mechanically and drove to the gallery. Hoping forwhat? She didnt know. But the doors greeted her with a white sheet: “Closed for technical reasons.”
Inside was dark. Near the entrance stood her staffart historian Martha, administrator Helen, security guard Peter. They stared at her, bewildered, hopeful.
“Mrs. Whitmore, whats happened? They told us everything was”
She couldnt explain. Only shook her head, their confusion becoming her own shame. Hed humiliated not just herbut everyone she cared about.
That evening, their mutual friend Lydia called.
“Cathy, stay strong… I heard… Edwards lost his mind. This Sophieshe could be his daughter. A model, they say.”
Catherine listened, each word salt on a wound. She pictured Sophieyoung, smooth, smiling. “Alive.”
“He said no one would want me,” she murmured.
“Rubbish!” Lydia snapped. “Hes making excuses for his cruelty.”
But the words had already taken root.
The final blow came late that nightan unknown number. She didnt want to answer, but something made her press the green button.
“Mrs. Whitmore?” A young voice, laced with mockery. “Its Sophie.”
Catherine froze.
“I just wanted to saydont worry about Edward. Ill take care of him. Hes so tired of all this… your art. He needs a break. A life.”
Every word was measured, every pause a dagger.
“Oh, and” the girlish voice added. “He asked me to tell you: that painting by the young artist you supported… surname starting with a B, was it? Edward took it. Said it was the only thing in your gallery worth anything. Itll look perfect in my new flat.”
Then Catherine understood. This wasnt just betrayal. It was systematic, brutal erasure of everything she loved.
He hadnt just left. He was deleting her from his life, tearing her out like an unwanted chapter. And the paintingthe final, cruelest stroke. The painting shed considered her greatest discovery.
She hung up silently.
Stepping to the window, she gazed at the city lights, now cold and indifferent.
His words echoed: “Who could want you at fifty-eight?”
For the first time that endless day, she smileda strange, hard smile Edward had never seen.
“Well see,” she thought.
The night passed without sleep. But not the tearful, self-pitying insomnia Edward might have imagined. Catherine worked.
Her old laptopwhich hed sneered at as a “typewriter”whirred as she pulled up archives, old correspondence, auction house catalogs.
Edward had seen her only as a wife, a salon hostess whose art obsession he dismissed as a hobby. Hed never grasped the steel-trap mind beneath her quiet smile. The collectors instinct honed to perfection.
The painting. “Awakening” by Vincent Bell.
A young, unknown talent shed discovered in a neglected studio outside London. Edward thought hed stolen a valuable canvas. He hadnt guessed the truth.
Catherine found the file. Two-year-old correspondence with a Louvre curator. UV photos. Spectral analysis. All done out of curiosity.
Beneath Bells brushstrokes lay another workan early sketch by his mentor, an avant-garde pioneer of the early 20th century, whose pieces were considered lost, worth fortunes.
Bell, broke, had painted over his teachers work. Edward had stolen not just a talented piecebut a masterpiece whose existence hed never suspected.
Catherine leaned back. Adrenaline hummed in her veins. Now she had a plan. Ruthless, elegant, flawlessly destructive.
At dawn, she made one call. Not to London. To Geneva.
“Mr. Beaumont? Good morning. Catherine Whitmore speaking.”
Silence. Alain Beaumont wasnt just a millionaire. He was legend. A collector whose word could make or break artists. Hed once visited her gallery incognito. Shed recognized him. He knew she had.
“Madame Whitmore.” His voice was dry as aged wine. “I remember you. You had an eye. What happened to your gallery?”
“An opportunity, Mr. Beaumont. To acquire a work unmatched on the market in fifty years.”
She spoke coolly, factuallythe double layer, the hidden signature, the analysis. Not a word about Edward, betrayal, or bankruptcy. Just business.
“Why call me?”
“Because only you can arrange this quietly. And because youll understandthis isnt just money. Its history.”
“Proof. And access to the canvas.”
“Ill send proof. Access…” She closed her eyes. “Well arrange. Its in a private collection. Owned by someone… inexperienced.”
Hanging up, she dialed Martha, her former art historian.
“Martha, I need your help. Something delicate.”
Two days later, posing as a luxury cleaning service employee, Martha entered Edward and Sophies new flat. While her partner distracted Sophie with marble-polish chatter, Martha took high-resolution photos of “Awakening.”
That evening, the files flew to Geneva.
Beaumont replied in an hour: “Im in. What next?”
Catherine smiledthe second time in days. Not a grimace of pain, but the quiet thrill of a hunter corner
