So, when Simon came out of the shower and saw me packing in the bedroom, his mood turned inexplicably irritable.
He stormed into the room and yanked out the clothes I had just folded, one by one.
“I bought this coat for you in France last year, and I gave this dress to you just last month.”
One by one, he pulled every last piece of clothing from the suitcase and tossed them aside, the final one slipping from my sight and landing on the floor.
Then he smirked, his tone laced with mockery.
“Chloe, I bought all of this for you. Do you really think you could afford these designer brands with the scraps you make in a month?”
Simon grabbed my arm and dragged me to the vanity mirror.
He gripped my chin, forcing me to look at my own reflection.
“Chloe, do you think it’s disgusting that I paint on women’s bodies for inspiration? But who are you to act all high and mighty? Haven’t I been the one supporting you all these years?
“Look at yourself—every single thing you’re wearing, from head to toe, I bought it for you.
“You want to break up? Fine.
“Strip. Leave everything behind and get out.”
I didn’t cry or make a scene.
I simply pulled away from Simon’s grip.
Right in front of him, I took off each piece of clothing like shedding layers of restraint.
What Simon never knew was that I never liked these designer brands in the first place.
