Five years of marriage, undone by a fleck of paint. On the eve of our fifth anniversary, I took the portrait Isabella had painted of me to a conservator’s studio for routine maintenance. The specialist, a woman with eyes that missed nothing, was effusive in her praise. “She’s captured you perfectly,” she said, her voice echoing in the sterile white room. “Your wife has a tremendous gift.” Then, her practiced eye caught it. A tiny, almost imperceptible chip of crimson pigment flaking away at the canvas’s edge. She leaned closer, her breath misting the varnish. “Wait,” she murmured, more to herself than to me. “There’s a ghost under this canvas. Another painting.” With my permission, she subjected the piece to a specialized imaging process. What emerged from beneath my own staid, formal portrait was a revelation—an incandescent depiction of a reclining man, beautiful and raw. The studio fell silent. Even to my untrained eye, the power of the hidden piece was undeniable. It wasn’t just a painting; it was an act of worship. Every brushstroke hummed with a fierce, frantic passion, the kind of creative ecstasy an artist finds only once or twice in a lifetime. A shame, then, that this naked, saint-like figure was not me. I snapped a photo and sent it to Isabella. Who is he?! 1 “Come home, Alex. I’ll explain everything.” Her text was a cold stone in my gut. I drove back in a daze, the city lights blurring into meaningless streaks. In our bedroom, I sat on the edge of the bed we shared, my eyes fixed on the stark white rectangle on the wall where the painting had hung. Five years. For five years, the naked form of another man had watched over us in our most intimate space. And Isabella had put him there. The front door opened and closed, followed by the hurried click of her heels on the hardwood floor. She appeared in the doorway, her usual composure slightly frayed. “Alex,” she began, her voice tight. “I should have told you sooner.” She walked toward me, her hands clasped. “It’s a common practice for art students, recycling canvases to save money. That was just a practice piece from my academy days. It was thoughtless of me. I’m so sorry.” Did all art students paint their fiancés over their naked lovers? The question burned on my tongue, but I swallowed it. Seeing the storm still in my eyes, she knelt before me, her movements fluid and practiced. She cupped my face in her hands, her touch cool, and pressed a soft kiss to my forehead. “Don’t let your imagination run away with you,” she whispered, her voice a soothing balm I suddenly found toxic. “What we have now… it’s for the best.” Her gaze was so sincere, so convincing. I almost believed her. I didn’t want to tear our life apart over a ghost on a canvas, so I said nothing. But the next day, the unease was a physical sickness. Our marriage had been a merger, a union of the Sterling and Grant families. I knew the broad strokes of her past: a brilliant painter who’d traded her brushes for boardrooms to take over Sterling Corp. After our wedding, she had been a devoted, loving wife. I had never felt the need to dig deeper. Until now. That painting wasn’t a student’s exercise; it was a confession. I forwarded the photo to a friend from my college days, now a curator who’d attended the same art academy. The reply came back almost instantly. “Yeah, I remember him. A life model named Julian Vance.” A breath I didn’t realize I was holding escaped me. Just a model. But then, a second text arrived. “Look, since you’re asking… he was also her boyfriend back then.” The world went white. Isabella. My wife. Had hung a naked portrait of her ex-boyfriend in our bedroom for five years. I couldn’t hear the sound of my own ragged breathing. I mechanically ended the call, my fingers trembling as I texted her. 【Come home. We need to talk.】 When I arrived, the housekeeper handed me a courier box. “It was addressed with the madam’s phone number, so I signed for it,” she explained. “But the name on the label is strange. It says, ‘Belle.’” Belle. Her artist name from the academy. A name I’d never heard her use. A secret self. They were still in contact. I held my breath and opened Pandora’s box. Inside, nestled in black tissue paper, was a whisper of lace and silk—lingerie so outrageously provocative it felt like a scream in my hands. I pictured Isabella, my elegant, poised wife… and a surge of rage so profound it left me dizzy. 2 My fingers flew across my phone’s keyboard, searching for a private investigator. I needed to know everything. “You want me to tail Mrs. Sterling-Grant?” The P.I. on the other end of the line let out a low whistle. “Son, the Stirlings are untouchable.” He paused. “But the Grants aren’t small fry either. I’ll give you an address, on the house. Consider it a professional courtesy.” He knew. Even this stranger knew. My first instinct was to throw the lingerie in her face. But I knew her. She would have a thousand perfectly plausible, cuttingly rational explanations. I had to see for myself. I had just disposed of the box when she walked in, her face a mask of concern. “Alex, what is it? You look pale.” I turned my back, busying myself at the wet bar so she couldn't see the fury in my eyes. “It’s handled.” She visibly relaxed. “The housekeeper mentioned a strange package?” My grip on the crystal tumbler tightened. “Addressed to a ‘Belle.’ Never heard of her. Must have been a mistake. I threw it out.” A flicker of panic crossed her face before she smoothed it away with a practiced smile. “That’s fine.” That night, she slid into bed and wrapped her arms around me from behind, her fingers tracing patterns on my skin. Her breathing grew shallow, urgent. But my eyes were fixed on that blank space on the wall, my mind flashing with images: the painted saint, the life model, the black lace. “I’m tired,” I said, my voice flat. She froze. The warmth of her body receded as she pulled her hand away and rolled onto her side, her back a rigid wall between us. After a long silence, she spoke to the darkness. “I have a business trip tomorrow. I’ll be gone for a week.” “Okay.” The next day, I drove to the address. It was a cobblestone alley in a gentrifying part of the city. I asked an elderly woman tending to her window box for directions. She scowled. “Oh, them,” she said, her voice thick with disapproval. “That artist pair. Have that little gallery, but they never sell a thing. Always all over each other, kissing and cuddling right on the street before they disappear into the back. Shameless.” My feet felt like lead as I walked deeper into the alley. And then I saw her. Isabella. Sitting under a willow tree, a paintbrush tucked behind her ear. Her hair was down, unbound from its usual perfect chignon. She wore a loose, paint-splattered men’s shirt, the top two buttons undone. This wasn’t Isabella, the CEO. This was Belle, the artist. As I watched, frozen, a man emerged from the shop. 3 I recognized him instantly. Julian Vance. He wore a similar white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the muscles of his chest visible through the thin cotton. He leaned down and whispered something in her ear. I could see the blush spread across her cheeks even from a distance. She laughed, a sound I hadn't heard in years, and threw herself into his arms. She was electric, alive, a stray dog finding its master. As she buried her face in his neck, the collar of his shirt slipped, revealing a tell-tale sliver of black lace. He swept her up into his arms and carried her inside. The world tilted on its axis. I don’t know how long I stood there, rooted to the spot. When my limbs finally obeyed me again, I found myself inside the gallery. The walls were a shrine to him. Julian, everywhere. She had painted an entire gallery for him. In every portrait, he was adored, immortalized. Compared to this, my own portrait felt like a soulless corporate headshot. A pathetic joke. I moved toward the back. It was a live-work space. The living area was littered with their life—Polaroids taped to the walls, each with a handwritten caption. “He called after his car accident, a broken leg. But the night-blooming cereus was about to open. A once-a-year miracle. She missed his call.” “Our anniversary. She said she hates performing love. She ran away to me.” Before the tears could fall, I heard it. From the bedroom. The rhythmic, guttural sounds of passion. So this was her arrangement. The poised CEO by day, the debauched artist by night. I leaned against the wall, my body weak, my heart a trapped bird beating against my ribs. Pain, then rage, then a bitter, corrosive sense of injustice. I wanted to storm in there, to rip him away from her, to scream why? But what then? In a pause between their cries, I heard their voices. “Alex found the portrait,” Julian said. “Oh? He must hate me now,” she replied, her voice breathy. “I made something up. He’ll probably buy it. Even if he doesn’t, he’ll turn a blind eye. That’s our relationship. It’s a business deal. Honestly, sending him that painting was a childish act of spite… but when he found out, I can’t deny there was a little thrill of revenge.” She was wrong. I did love her. I did care. And you can’t turn a blind eye when a knife is being twisted in your heart. In that moment, whatever love I had for her died in that hallway. Julian sighed. “If it weren’t for me, maybe you could have accepted him. You wouldn’t be in so much pain.” “He’s a good man, Julian,” she murmured. “But I need… a release valve.” A good man. I laughed silently, bitterly. You cowardly, greedy woman, Isabella. You didn’t have the courage to defy your mother, so you took your anger out on me. I left and drove straight to the private estate where her mother was convalescing. “Your daughter is having an affair,” I said, my voice devoid of emotion. “You forced her into this.” She didn’t pause in her pruning of a prize-winning rose bush. She didn’t seem surprised. “It’s not an affair, Alex. It’s an arrangement,” she said coolly. “It was her condition for agreeing to the merger. That man is tucked away in his little shop. He doesn’t affect you. When Isabella is under pressure, she needs an… outlet. He absorbs some of that for you.” She finally turned, her eyes like chips of ice. “The company is at a critical juncture. Do not distract her. Do not bother her with this. Our families rise and fall together. And as the adopted son of the Grant family, your primary duty is gratitude. Let this go. I won’t tell her you came to see me.” An adopted son. A fool to be played with. I clenched my fists, then forced a calm I didn't feel. “I understand, Mrs. Sterling.” 4 The moment I left, I called my sister, Cate. “Can you come home?” “What, did the old man finally decide he wants me to inherit his crumbling empire?” she shot back. “Tell him I’m doing better on my own.” A pause. “Wait. Your voice… have you been crying?” Cate had been the family rebel, escaping to Europe as a teenager. She hadn’t even come home for my wedding. My father, in a fit of rage, had disowned her. To the world, Catherine Grant was a ghost. “I’m being played, Cate.” “I’m on the next flight,” she said, her voice turning to steel. “Tell me what you need.” A week later, Isabella returned, flushed and almost giddy. “I have someone for you to meet,” she announced. “Now, promise me you won’t get angry.” Before I could respond, Julian Vance strolled into our living room, a smug, knowing smile playing on his lips. The audacity. Before I could explode, Isabella guided me to the sofa and knelt before me. “I know what you must think because of the painting. But this is purely business. I brought him here to help us secure funding from Cygnus Ventures. His sister knows their mysterious majority shareholder.” It was all my plan, of course. The mysterious shareholder was Cate. I just hadn’t anticipated this. “You’ve been in contact with him?” I asked, playing my part. Her excuse was ready. “A chance encounter on my trip. Cygnus is planning a major art exhibition, and they’re looking to invest in a promising firm. He told me all about it.” Julian stepped forward, oozing false sincerity. “Alex, for an artist, nudity is just form and shadow. When I posed for her, it was no different than a plaster cast. Please don’t let that old painting jeopardize Isabella’s work.” A plaster cast. I thought of the sounds from the back room of his shop. Isabella squeezed my hand, her face a mask of corporate focus. “There’s one more thing. I need him to stay here. In the guest room. This project is too sensitive. I can’t risk any leaks.” Her gaze was as sincere as ever. You must be exhausted, Isabella, after all these years of acting. “Of course,” I said, forcing a smile. “The business comes first.” They exchanged a look of triumphant relief. I swallowed the bitterness. In the days that followed, I became a ghost in my own home. A shared glance over the dinner table, a brush of fingers in the hallway… I saw it all. You must be finding this difficult, holding back, Isabella. Don’t worry. I’m about to give you everything you want. 5 I told her I had to stay overnight in the city for a client dinner. From my car, I pulled up the feed from the camera I’d installed in our bedroom. Isabella was lying in bed alone. After a few minutes, the door opened. It was Julian. He wrapped his arms around her, and she responded passionately. Then, as if remembering something, she went rigid and gently pushed him away. “Not tonight,” she whispered. “It’s my anniversary with Alex.” Julian pulled her back. “And what about him?” Isabella hesitated, her voice suddenly small and lost. “I… I don’t know.” A month later, the night of the exhibition arrived. Cygnus Ventures’ mysterious shareholder was set to announce which firm would receive their massive capital injection. In the preceding weeks, Isabella had gone on a ruthless acquisition spree. The media, fed a steady stream of leaks, was certain that with Julian’s connection, Sterling Corp was a lock. Even her mother had come out of retirement for the event. “This is how it should be,” she’d told me earlier. “Composed. Understanding the bigger picture.” All I saw was a woman gambling her family’s legacy to give her lover legitimacy. The gallery was buzzing. Isabella and Julian were the center of attention, accepting premature congratulations. No one seemed to remember the quiet husband nursing a scotch in the corner. “With Mr. Vance at your side, you’re unstoppable, Isabella!” “I remember at the academy, she only had eyes for him. A love story for the ages!” Julian just smiled and nodded, basking in the unearned glory. Feigning drunkenness, I stumbled toward them, spilling my drink all over his pristine shirt. Isabella’s face hardened. She grabbed my wrist. “Alex, stop it. This is just business.” You’re the one who thought this farce was real. I snatched the champagne flute from her other hand and was about to down it when strong arms encircled me, taking the glass away. I finally let myself break. The tears streamed down my face. “What took you so long?” I choked out.
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