His expression froze for a brief second before he regained his composure. “All right,” he said calmly, “but let’s return right after we’ve delivered the gift.”
I knew he didn’t want me to go. He was afraid I might disrupt Camille’s celebration.
But I only wanted to see my family one last time. After all, tomorrow, I would begin preparing to leave.
At the Willow family residence, the place was abuzz with guests celebrating Camille’s pregnancy and her selection for the international art exhibition.
In the crowd, Camille was the center of attention, surrounded by glowing admiration. Guests lavished her with praise, saying her painting submitted to the competition was certain to win a major award.
When I walked in, Camille’s face briefly darkened, but she quickly masked it with a poised smile.
“Ah, Tracy my darling sister, you came too?” she said, her tone laced with mockery. “You’ve been so idle lately.”
Ignoring her provocation, my gaze fell on the painting being displayed.
It was a work so familiar it cut me like a knife.
It was my painting, completed years ago and kept hidden as a treasured piece, never shown to anyone.
How had my painting ended up here? How had it become her “competition entry”?
Camille smiled faintly as she leaned closer, her voice soft but taunting. “Tracy, do you like this painting so much?”
I glared at her, just as I opened my mouth to respond—
She suddenly let out a startled cry, “No—!”
Before I could react, her body tilted backward. She stumbled, clutching her stomach, her face contorting in pain.
The room erupted into chaos.
“What happened?!”
“Camille is pregnant! How could you push her like that?”
“Call a doctor, quickly!”
Amid the commotion, I heard a voice shout, filled with worry, “Camille!”
Perhaps others wouldn’t have recognized it, but I knew instantly.
It was Dennis’s voice.
The tenderness in his tone was unmistakable, shattering the last shred of hope I had been clinging to.
Sensing my gaze, Dennis quickly composed himself.
Turning to me, his voice was calm but carried an undercurrent of reproach. “No matter what happened, Camille is pregnant now. You shouldn’t have pushed her.”
At that moment, news arrived that the painting had made it to the competition’s finals, with a high likelihood of winning first prize.
A glimmer of undisguised joy crossed his face—a look I hadn’t seen even once in our five years of marriage.
In a low voice, I asked him, “Why is Camille’s painting identical to mine?”
His body tensed briefly before he regained his usual composure. “It must be a coincidence,” he said lightly. “Perhaps her style is just similar to yours…”
I laughed coldly and said nothing more.
The painting had been locked away in my private gallery, with access limited to a handful of people.
How the painting had ended up here, and who was behind it, was no mystery at all.
This painting had been meant as a gift for our fifth wedding anniversary.
But now, as I thought about it, even our marriage itself was a facade. The painting no longer had any meaning.
I smiled faintly, my voice so calm it betrayed no emotion.
