“Look at yourself. Who would want you at fifty-eight?” the man threw over his shoulder as he left. Six months later, the whole town was gossiping about her wedding to a millionaire.
“Im going to Sienna,” he said, fastening the strap of an expensive watch around his wristthe very one Kate had given him for their thirtieth anniversary.
He didnt look at her. His gaze drifted sideways, fixed on his reflection in the dark windowpane. There stood a trim, still-handsome man. Not the one in the room with her.
“Shes thirty-two. Shes alive, you understand?”
Kate said nothing, feeling the air in the parlour thicken like tar. Each of his words was a small, merciless blade.
“After all these years this is how it ends?” Her voice was quiet, almost foreign.
Edward finally turned. His eyes held no guilt, no remorse. Only cold, weary arrogance.
“What did you expect? A scene with smashed china? Were past that, Kate. Were civilised people.”
He picked up a leather briefcase from the chair. Every movement was precise, rehearsed. Hed prepared for this conversationperhaps for days.
“Ive left everything. The house is yours. Im taking the car. Theres enough for you to live on. Ive seen to that.”
He stepped toward the door and paused on the threshold, glancing back. His eyes swept over her like an appraiser assessing a devalued asset.
“Look at yourself. Who would want you at fifty-eight?”
He didnt wait for an answer. The heavy oak door clicked shut behind himsoft, final.
Kate stood motionless in the parlour. She didnt cry. Tears felt inappropriate, almost vulgar. Inside, something else stirreda strange, searing calm.
She walked to the wall where their wedding portrait hung. Thirty years ago. Young, happy, certain of forever.
Without hesitation, she lifted the heavy frame. It slipped from her grasp, hitting the floor with a dull crack. The glass split, slicing her smiling face in two.
The phone rangsharp, insistent.
Kate looked at the shattered photograph, then at the receiver. The ringing didnt stop. She picked up.
“Mrs. Katherine Whitmore? Good afternoon. This is Heritage Gallery. Im afraid we have bad news. Mr. Whitmore terminated all rental agreements and withdrew the funds this morning. The gallery is bankrupt.”
The receiver lowered slowly. Two blows. One personal, one professional. Edward hadnt just lefthed 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 funded it, insisting everything be in his name”Easier with taxes, darling.” Shed trusted him. She always had.
Her first impulse 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 dragged on. Finally, he answered.
“Yes?”
His voice was detached, formalas if she were one of his subordinates.
“Edward, its me. What have you done to the gallery? Why?”
A faint chuckleor maybe she imagined it.
“Kate, I told you Id taken care of you. The moneys there. The gallery was just business. A failed venture, frankly. Nothing personal.”
“Failed venture?” Her words scraped her throat. “There were people there! Paintings we gave a home!”
“Key word: *were.* The lawyers 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 door greeted her with a white sign: *Closed for technical reasons.*
Inside was dark. Her staff stood by the entranceMartha the curator, Ellen the administrator, Peter the guard. They looked at her, lost, hopeful.
“Mrs. Whitmore, whats happened? They said everything was”
She couldnt explain. Just shook her head, their confusion becoming her shame. He hadnt just humiliated her. Hed trampled everyone she cared for.
That evening, their mutual friend Lydia called.
“Kate, darling, I heard Edwards lost his mind. This Siennashes young enough to be his daughter. A model, they say.”
Kate listened, each word salt in the wound. She pictured Siennasleek, smiling. *Alive.*
“He said no one would want me,” Kate murmured.
“Nonsense!” Lydia scoffed. “Hes justifying his own wretchedness.”
But the words had already taken root.
The final strike came late that nightan unknown number. Kate almost didnt answer.
“Mrs. Whitmore?” A young voice, laced with amusement. “Its Sienna.”
Kate froze.
“I just wanted to saydont worry about Edward. Ill take care of him. Hes so tired of all this your *art.* He needs life.”
Every word deliberate. Every pause a stab.
“And” the girlish voice added, “he asked me to tell you: that painting by the young artist you championed surname starting with W? Edward took it. Said it was the only thing in your gallery worth anything. Itll look perfect in my new flat.”
Then Kate understood. This wasnt just betrayal. It was systematic erasure.
He hadnt just left. He was deleting her, tearing out chapters. And the paintingthe final, cruelest stroke. The one shed considered her lifes greatest discovery.
She hung up without a word.
At the window, she watched the city lightscold, indifferent now.
His words echoed: *Who would want you at fifty-eight?*
For the first time that endless day, she smiled. A hard, unfamiliar smile.
*Well see,* she thought.
The night passed without sleep. Not the tearful, self-pitying insomnia Edward mightve imagined. Kate worked.
The old laptop hed sneered at as a “typewriter” hummed, pulling up archives, old correspondence, auction catalogues.
Edward had seen her as just a wife, a salon hostess whose art passion was a quirk. Hed never grasped the steel beneath her gracethe collectors eye, the analysts mind.
The painting. *Awakening* by Vincent Wexley.
A near-unknown talent shed found in a grim London studio. Edward thought hed stolen a costly canvas. He hadnt guessed the truth.
Kate found the file. Two-year-old exchanges with a Louvre expert. UV images. Spectral analysis. Done purely for her own curiosity.
Beneath *Awakening* lay another workan early sketch by Wexleys mentor, an avant-garde master whose pieces were thought lost. Wexley, broke, had painted over it.
Edward had stolen more than a talented piece. Hed taken a masterpiece whose existence hed never suspected.
Kate leaned back. Adrenaline buzzed in her veins. Now she had a plan. Precise, devastating.
At dawn, she made one call. Not to London. To Geneva.
“Mr. Beaumont? Good morning. Katherine 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 recognised him. He knew she had.
“Madame Whitmore.” His voice was dry as aged wine. “I remember you. You had *the eye.* What became of your gallery?”
“An opportunity, Mr. Beaumont. A painting unmatched on the market in fifty years.”
She laid out the factsthe hidden layer, the signature, the proofs. Not a word about Edward, betrayal, or ruin. Just business.
“Why call me?” he asked after a pause.
“Because only you can arrange this quietly. And because youll understandthis isnt just money. Its history.”
“Ill need proof. And access.”
“Youll have both. The painting is in a private collection. Owned by a very inexperienced collector.”
She hung up, then dialled Martha, her former curator.
“Martha, I need your help. Something delicate.”
Two days later, posing as a cleaner, Martha entered Edward and Siennas new flat. While her partner distracted Sienna with marble-polish chatter, Martha photographed *Awakening* in high resolution.
By evening, the files were en route to Geneva.
Beaumont replied within the hour: *Im in. What next?*
Kate smileda hunters smile.
“Wait for the auction announcement. And prepare the funds.”
A month later, Londons elite buzzed. A small but ambitious auction house, risen from Kates gallerys ashes, announced its first sale.
The star lot: *Awakening* by Vincent Wexley.
Edward laughed when he saw the news.
“Shes lost it,” he told Sienna. “
