Lorenzo furrowed his brows. “It’s him,” he said. “Your son must’ve told him.”
I looked at him sharply. “Wait–how did Mateo get your number?”
Lorenzo rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “There was a time, a few months ago, when he stopped by the gallery. Said he wanted to buy something for his wife. A painting that would ‘remind her of strength.” We exchanged numbers. That’s probably how.”
I leaned back in my chair, stunned. “I thought… I thought Mateo never paid attention to art. Or to me.”
Lorenzo glanced down at his phone. “Do you want to answer it?”
I didn’t speak right away.
“I posted that photo,” I said quietly, “because I thought Mateo wouldn’t see it. He doesn’t follow me. Never liked a single post. Never called. I assumed he didn’t care. But now, maybe…
My voice trailed off. I didn’t want to finish the sentence. Didn’t want to admit that part of me had hoped he’d see it and remember that I existed–that I was more than just the woman who served dinner and folded clothes.
Lorenzo watched me carefully. “Let me answer it.”
Before I could respond, he accepted the call and held it up to his ear.
But it wasn’t Mateo’s voice that came through.
It was Bradley’s. Cold. Demanding. Furious.
“Where the hell is my wife? Where are you hiding her, Lorenzo?! I swear to God, if you don’t
tell me ”
“She’s not your wife anymore,” Lorenzo said evenly, his voice low and calm like a blade being drawn. “She’s mine now. So get lost.”
And then–he ended the call. Blocked the number.
I stared at him, mouth parted. “That was… a bit dramatic.”
He turned to me. “He deserved worse.”
I sighed, guilt seeping in like fog. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for things to get this messy. shouldn’t have posted the photo,”
1
“No,” Lorenzo said quickly, taking a step toward me. “Don’t do that. Don’t shrink back because of him. We can use this.”
“Use this?”
“Yes,” he nodded. “You won’t let him ruin you again, will you?”
I hesitated.
He reached out, gently taking my hand. “Even if this is all fake–even if you’re still unsure you can use me. Let him think whatever he wants. Let them all think it. You deserve peace,
Vou docania nower over unir own etons”
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Joyce. You deserve power over your own story.
I blinked fast, my throat tightening 1 feel bad.”
“For what?” he said softly. “For finally choosing yourself? For letting someone fight for you?”
I looked at him–really looked at him. “You’d really do this for me?”
“For you?” he smiled. “I’d do everything.”
Tears pressed against the backs of my eyes. I nodded. “Thank you.”
Lorenzo squeezed my hand gently. “I won’t let him near you again. Ever
I nodded, holding onto the warmth of his words like a shield
A week passed. The buzz from the photo lingered on social media, even if no one mentioned it directly. Mateo hadn’t called again. And Bradley, if he was still watching, had gone quiet. Or I thought so.
It was another gallery day–a live painting session.
I’d been doing them more often lately. Lorenzo said people liked watching me create. That there was something soothing about the way I held a brush, as if it was telling a story that words couldn’t carry. The studio was full–artists, collectors, tourists. People I didn’t know but who smiled warmly when I greeted them.
I stood at the center of the room, a fresh canvas stretched before me, paint trays laid out like an orchestra of color.
I dipped my brush into a deep shade of crimson, letting it soak for a moment. My breathing steadied. The room hushed, the crowd quiet with anticipation.
I made the first stroke–bold, curved, confident.
Then another.
A streak of gold. A line of ash gray.
The image was forming. A woman standing in a field of burning flowers, untouched by the flames.
I heard whispers from the crowd–admiration, curiosity.
But then…
The door opened.
Heavy. Loud.
I didn’t turn.
I didn’t need to.
I knew that presence.
Bradley.
He stepped into the gallery like he owned the place, his polished shoes clacking against the marble floor, his eyes locked on me. I could feel them–burning through the back of my
neck.
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19:55 Sat, 24 May
the marble floof, mis eyes locked on me. I could feel them–burning through the back of my neck.
I tried to focus.
Brush, Paint, Color. Movement.
But my hand slowed.
The whispers turned tense.
Then, without warning, he crossed the room. Pushed through the onlookers. Ignored Lorenzo’s voice as he stepped forward to stop him.
And then–he grabbed me.
His hand clamped around my arm and yanked me back from the canvas.
Hard.
Gasps echoed. Brushes clattered. I stumbled, nearly falling into a table. “What the hell are you doing?” I shouted, my voice cracking in shock.
He didn’t answer. His jaw was clenched, eyes wild.
Lorenzo was already at his side, pushing him off of me.
“Let her go,” Lorenzo growled. “Right now.”
Bradley shoved him off. “She’s my wife!”
“Ex,” Lorenzo snapped.
Bradley turned to me, eyes flashing. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Joyce? Posting photos. Pretending like you’ve moved on. With him?”
The room was silent.
My heart was pounding–but I refused to be small again.
“I have moved on,” I said, my voice shaking–but not with fear. “I’m not pretending.”
“You think I’m just going to let you go?” he spat.
“You already did.”
His eyes faltered for a second.
And then–security arrived, pulling him back, pushing him toward the exit. Lorenzo stood in front of me, shielding me with his body.
“Don’t come here again,” he told Bradley. “If you do, I’ll call the police.”
Bradley’s face was red with fury and disbelief. He looked at me one last time.
“You’ll regret this,” he hissed.
But I didn’t flinch.
I watched him leave, and as the door slammed shut behind him, it was as if the air had cleared.
I turned to the crowd, heart still racing.
Lorenzo looked at me. “Are you okay?”
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Chapter 17
