My Grief, His Masterpiece

s art museum. Ethan's name was prominent on the host committee. My first instinct was to tear it to shreds. But then I sa

a small, quiet affair that Ethan hadn't bothered to acknowledge. Now they wante

loset, pulling out a simple black dress I hadn't worn in years.

e'd insisted. "He's just

lied, my voice flat

d Ethan and Amelia holding court near the silent auction tables. He looked dashing and unbothered. She was radiant in a red dress, clinging to his arm. They looke

oice low and conspiratorial. "It's so importan

ord tasting like ash in my m

r smile never faltering. "You know w

Muse." At the time, I'd thought it was just her typical, provocative style. Now, looking at her smug face, I realized with a sickening jolt that the painting was of Ethan's

t you?" I asked quietly. "You publicly

side, placing a proprietary hand on her back. "Chloe. Glad you could make it. You look... tired." He looke

lone. His words were a clear message: Amelia

Ethan walked to the podium to thunderous applause. He spoke eloquently about the power of a

, personal pain and love. My wife, Chloe, was my collaborator in this journey, my partner in truth. Her strength and understanding made it possible. In her na

pity and admiration. I felt sick. He was using my grief, my grandmother's death, as

ed. A velvet cloth was pulled away to reveal a large, abstract sculpture of twist

t's tragic, isn't it? How some people just... break." She was looking directly at me. "I heard Chloe had a

at me, their eyes filled with suspicion. The narrative was shif

t. I turned to leave, but Ethan blocked my

e seethed, his grip

I said, trying to pull a

ctly feigned look of concern on her face. "Amelia would never do that.

seemed to stretch into grotesque masks. They saw a husband trying to calm his

ed ballroom, hidden by the press of bodies, he shoved me. Hard. I stumbled backwards, my heel catching on the leg

concerned husband. But I saw the flash of triumph in his eyes. He had won. In one move, he