Years ago, when I wore an off-shoulder dress to my first film festival, Erving had glared from the audience. Afterward, he wrapped me in his coat and carried me to the car, scolding, “You’re never wearing something that revealing again.”
Back then, his eyes were full of me. Now, they saw no one but Anya.
Before I could even process that cruel contrast, reporters swarmed around me, microphones nearly brushing my face.
“Mandy, your mother hasn’t been buried yet, but you came to Anya’s art exhibit. Are you confirming you were the model for her painting?”
“Mandy, seeing how much Mr. Pollock favors Anya, does this mean your position as his wife is at risk?”
“Did you volunteer to pose nude for her? Are you really as… open as the rumors say?”
Their shameless questions cut into me like salt poured over a wound.
I opened my mouth to say I’d been tricked here. But before I could, Erving grabbed my wrist.
He pulled me closer, addressing the press with calm detachment. “It’s just family support. Please don’t overinterpret it. Mandy has just suffered a loss; her emotions are unstable. Let’s keep the focus on the exhibition.”