The morning light touched the edge of my canvas, turning the wet paint into tiny sparks of gold. I’d been painting for almost an hour—colors spilling, soft strokes calming my chest. It felt foreign and familiar all at once, like breathing after being underwater too long.
Then the door burst open.
“Where are my clothes, Emerald?!” Nathan’s voice crashed through the room. “And my breakfast? My presentation files? Have you forgotten everything?”
I froze, brush midair. His face was red, his tie half-done, frustration already curdling into anger.
“I don’t want to do it anymore,” I said quietly, my voice barely leaving my throat.
He blinked. “What?”
I set the brush down, hands shaking. “I said I don’t want to do it anymore. The cooking. The preparing. The pretending.”
For a heartbeat, there was silence. Only the sound of the ceiling fan and the faint smell of turpentine filled the room.
Since we got married, I had done everything for him. His meals, his clothes, his schedules, his meetings—things a secretary could do, things a wife shouldn’t have to prove love through.