The exhibition was titled "Regret".
Every piece on display was a portrait of the same woman, capturing her in every shade of emotion—joy, anger, sorrow. The style was unmistakable. It was identical to the paintings that had filled Jacob's private studio.
The difference was that this time, the woman at the center of every canvas was me.
In the corner of each painting, there lay an inscription: My love.
Just as I started to figure out what the scheme truly was, I turned to leave. Yet I was blocked by Jacob, who appeared right in front of me with a bouquet of lilies of the valley. I knew exactly the meaning the flower gave: a fresh start.
Before he could even speak, I already knew why he was doing this.
I'd long heard the news. The Martinez Group's financial chain had snapped. Their sto
