Too Late For "I Love You"

Too Late For "I Love You"

Gavin

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My career as a restorative artist thrived, a perfect mask for the gaping hole my estranged mother left. For years, I'd demonized Eleanor, especially after my father's tragic death, blaming her for everything. So, when a Jane Doe, brutally disfigured, landed on my marble slab, it was just another case. Until I saw it: a familiar, faint burn scar on her forearm. I dismissed it – "evil people live forever," I'd sneered. Then, the pieces clicked. The police timeline, a chilling echo of my last, dismissive phone call with my mother. My colleague pointed out the scar was deliberately removed. Sam, an old family friend, ambushed me, his words a painful hammer. Eleanor had longed for reconciliation, had baked my favorite apple pie for her birthday – for me. He confessed that my father, Richard, had lied about everything. A detective's grim call confirmed the worst. My heart seized. The woman I'd just worked on, the "Jane Doe," was my mother. The woman I'd scorned, the woman whose death I'd scoffed at, was now lying on my table, her face meticulously rebuilt by my own hands. My last words to her, "Stop trying to ruin everything with your drama!", rang in my ears. How could I have been so blind, so cruel? This was the horrifying truth staring back at me. This was Eleanor. And now, I would find out what truly happened.

Introduction

My career as a restorative artist thrived, a perfect mask for the gaping hole my estranged mother left.

For years, I'd demonized Eleanor, especially after my father's tragic death, blaming her for everything.

So, when a Jane Doe, brutally disfigured, landed on my marble slab, it was just another case.

Until I saw it: a familiar, faint burn scar on her forearm.

I dismissed it – "evil people live forever," I'd sneered.

Then, the pieces clicked.

The police timeline, a chilling echo of my last, dismissive phone call with my mother.

My colleague pointed out the scar was deliberately removed.

Sam, an old family friend, ambushed me, his words a painful hammer.

Eleanor had longed for reconciliation, had baked my favorite apple pie for her birthday – for me.

He confessed that my father, Richard, had lied about everything.

A detective's grim call confirmed the worst.

My heart seized.

The woman I'd just worked on, the "Jane Doe," was my mother.

The woman I'd scorned, the woman whose death I'd scoffed at, was now lying on my table, her face meticulously rebuilt by my own hands.

My last words to her, "Stop trying to ruin everything with your drama!", rang in my ears.

How could I have been so blind, so cruel?

This was the horrifying truth staring back at me.

This was Eleanor.

And now, I would find out what truly happened.

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On the night of my career-defining art exhibition, I stood completely alone. My husband, Dante Sovrano, the most feared man in Chicago, had promised he wouldn’t miss it for the world. Instead, he was on the evening news. He was shielding another woman—his ruthless business partner—from a downpour, letting his own thousand-dollar suit get soaked just to protect her. The headline flashed below them, calling their new alliance a "power move" that would reshape the city. The guests at my gallery immediately began to whisper. Their pitying looks turned my greatest triumph into a public spectacle of humiliation. Then his text arrived, a cold, final confirmation of my place in his life: “Something came up. Isabella needed me. You understand. Business.” For four years, I had been his possession. A quiet, artistic wife kept in a gilded cage on the top floor of his skyscraper. I poured all my loneliness and heartbreak onto my canvases, but he never truly saw my art. He never truly saw me. He just saw another one of his assets. My heart didn't break that night. It turned to ice. He hadn't just neglected me; he had erased me. So the next morning, I walked into his office and handed him a stack of gallery contracts. He barely glanced up, annoyed at the interruption to his empire-building. He snatched the pen and signed on the line I’d marked. He didn’t know the page tucked directly underneath was our divorce decree. He had just signed away his wife like she was nothing more than an invoice for art supplies.

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