The smell of freshly painted cherry-red and victory filled my garage. My venture capital firm might build empires, but this 1969 Mustang Mach 1 was my anniversary gift to myself-a reminder of where I came from. For my wife, Nicole, I' d acquired a fortune-costing, reclusive artist' s painting, a bridge between our worlds. But as I reached for my phone, a notification flashed: Instagram. Ryan Chavez, Nicole' s latest art foundation project, a kid with "mediocre talent." The air froze in my lungs. There, in his studio, hung my painting, framed by his smug pose and a caption thanking Nicole for the "life-changing gift." I called her. Her voice, smooth as silk, turned dismissive. "It' s just a painting. He needed the encouragement. It' s for the good of the foundation." She hung up, leaving me standing there, the symbol of us casually given away. Loyalty, respect-the foundations of my life-shattered. She said it was "just a painting." Fine. Then her favorite sculpture, my first anniversary gift to her, was "just a sculpture" too, as I donated it to a rival museum. Her rage was immediate, venomous. But what truly sealed it was seeing her with Ryan on her arm at the gala, publicly declaring I didn't matter. This wasn't just about a painting or a sculpture. This was war. She had underestimated me. I knew her secrets, her family's weaknesses. And I was about to use every single one of them.
The smell of freshly painted cherry-red and victory filled my garage. My venture capital firm might build empires, but this 1969 Mustang Mach 1 was my anniversary gift to myself-a reminder of where I came from.
For my wife, Nicole, I' d acquired a fortune-costing, reclusive artist' s painting, a bridge between our worlds.
But as I reached for my phone, a notification flashed: Instagram. Ryan Chavez, Nicole' s latest art foundation project, a kid with "mediocre talent." The air froze in my lungs.
There, in his studio, hung my painting, framed by his smug pose and a caption thanking Nicole for the "life-changing gift."
I called her. Her voice, smooth as silk, turned dismissive. "It' s just a painting. He needed the encouragement. It' s for the good of the foundation." She hung up, leaving me standing there, the symbol of us casually given away.
Loyalty, respect-the foundations of my life-shattered.
She said it was "just a painting." Fine. Then her favorite sculpture, my first anniversary gift to her, was "just a sculpture" too, as I donated it to a rival museum.
Her rage was immediate, venomous. But what truly sealed it was seeing her with Ryan on her arm at the gala, publicly declaring I didn't matter.
This wasn't just about a painting or a sculpture. This was war. She had underestimated me.
I knew her secrets, her family's weaknesses. And I was about to use every single one of them.
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