Chapter 7
747 Words
Ever since Sophia saw John's incriminating messages, she had discreetly noted down Olivia's contact information. However, when she opened Olivia's i********:, it was a barren wasteland—nothing there.
Undeterred, she dug further and found Olivia's Twitter account. What greeted her there felt like a plunge into icy water. Olivia's entire feed was a gallery dedicated to John.
There were photos of them holding hands on the beach, nestled together in bed, and exchanging lingering gazes that practically radiated intimacy.
John's face was never fully visible in these pictures, but his silhouette, posture, and even the way his shoulders sloped were all too familiar. Sophia knew with gut-wrenching certainty—it was him. Her husband. The father of her child.
The latest post was a close-up shot of John's hand mid-painting. His long, slender fingers with perfectly distinct knuckles were unmistakable. Sophia had always thought his hands were even more beautiful than his face.
And now, those hands she had once adored were creating art for another woman.
The caption read:
"The one I love the most, painting my favorite piece. His love spills beyond the canvas. So grateful. So happy."
To make it worse, the post included a tagged location.
With a bitter smile of self-mockery, Sophia turned off her phone. Her legs moved on autopilot, leading her to the address.
The art exhibition was buzzing with visitors. The atmosphere was lively, and laughter rang out, but the theme of the gallery was unmistakable—Olivia. Every painting captured her beauty from a different angle, in various settings, and with painstaking care. The love that radiated from the brushstrokes was undeniable. The artist's signature was the same on every painting: John.
Sophia stared at his name as her teeth began to chatter. Her mind drifted back to their university days. Back then, John had painted countless portraits of her, always saying, "One day, I'll hold an exhibition just for you."
He had finally kept his promise, but she wasn't the one standing in the spotlight.
As she stood there, frozen in place, her phone buzzed with a message from an unknown number: Old hag, John's been sick of you for ages. He told me you can't inspire him, and you sure as hell can't satisfy him. He only sees you as family now. Love? Ha, that ship sailed long ago. You're pitiful.
With shaky hands, Sophia typed a reply.
Sophia: You must be Olivia. Nice to see the 'sweet, innocent girl' routine is just for show. What's wrong? Couldn't you keep the mask on? Don't get too cocky—you're just a fling. Once you've served your purpose, you'll be tossed aside like the rest. Don't think you're any different.
But Olivia's counterstrike was swift and brutal—a photo that stopped Sophia cold.
It was an ultrasound image.
Having been pregnant herself, Sophia didn't need any explanation. She knew exactly what it meant.
Then came another taunting message.
Olivia: Speechless, are we? Didn't you say John would dump me? Guess what—I'm pregnant. And it's a boy. John won't just stay with me; he'll marry me. As for you, you and your precious daughter can start packing your bags. Enjoy the streets—you might want to practice sweeping.
The world around her faded into the background. The noise of the gallery, the buzz of conversation—it all melted away. All she could see was the memory of the day she gave birth to Mia.
Back then, John had held her close, his voice soft and full of love.
"You've been through so much, honey. We don't need more kids—I can't bear to see you suffer again. One daughter is more than enough."
She had believed him. She thought he truly loved her, cared for her. He didn't even need to do much to make her feel secure.
When he said their daughter needed her, she gave up her dream job. When he said a man's focus should be on his career, she took on the full burden of parenting, even during her postpartum recovery, so that John wouldn't have to lift a finger.
Now, she had nothing—no job, no money, no friends. She had poured all her trust, her entire self, into him.
And Olivia had shattered the illusion with cruel, unrelenting truth.
"Ring, ring, ring."
Her phone rang, jolting her out of her stupor. Mechanically, she pulled it out. The screen flashed with a familiar name.
John.
- Writer
