The apartment echoed with Andrew's absence. I moved through the rooms methodically, gathering information like ammunition. Bank statements. Gallery contracts. The lease for his studio—my name, my credit, my money funding his artistic pretensions.
By midnight, the hunt had shape; by dawn, it had a schedule. I slept in fragments and woke only to black coffee.
I dressed carefully for reconnaissance: dark jeans, leather jacket, nothing that would catch attention. The gallery district welcomed me like an old friend.
"Angie!" Jeff Palmer, senior curator at Meridian Gallery, kissed both my cheeks. "Haven't seen you at the openings lately."
"Work's been demanding." I accepted his offered champagne. "How's Andrew's new collection coming?"
"Brilliantly. That new consultant of his—Hannah?—she's been revolutionary for his process." Jeff leaned closer, conspiratorial. "Between us, she's here constantly. Very hands-on with the artists."
"How dedicated."
"Some say too dedicated." His eyebrow arched meaningfully. "But the work speaks for itself."
I filed the information away, moving through three more galleries, each conversation revealing more. Hannah is haunting Andrew's studio. Hannah was pressing herself into every aspect of his professional life. Hannah with her catlike eyes and calculated charm.
The next evening, I took a table on the street terrace of a café across from Hannah’s building, drinking black coffee. She emerged at seven, phone pressed to her ear, pacing her balcony in agitation.
"I told you, I need more time," she hissed. "The payments are coming, I promise."
Her free hand gripped the railing, knuckles white. "No, you can't call them. I'm handling it."
A pause. Then: "Three months. That's all I need."
Debt. Desperation. The perfect pressure point.
I followed her for two more nights during the week, mapping her routine. The expensive apartment she couldn't afford. The designer clothes were bought on credit. The lifestyle funded by someone else's success—soon to be Andrew's, if I let her.
But I wouldn't let her.
Friday evening, I stood outside Andrew's studio. The converted warehouse space I'd signed for three years ago, when he'd convinced me his art needed room to breathe. The key still worked.
He stood at his easel, brush in hand, so absorbed he didn't hear me enter. When I cleared my throat, he spun, immediately stepping in front of the canvas.
"Angie. What are you doing here?"
"Visiting my investment." I moved closer, but he shifted to block my view. "What are you painting?"
"It's not ready. You know I hate showing unfinished work."
Lies. He'd always sought my opinion on works in progress, desperate for validation. This was different. This was guilt made manifest on canvas.
"Of course." I set down the wine I'd brought. "I respect your process."
His eyes narrowed, suspicious of my easy agreement.
"Are you hungry?" I asked. "I was thinking of ordering dinner."
"I should probably—"
"I'm not inviting you home, Andrew." I removed my coat, hanging it on the familiar hook. "I'm respecting your decision to live separately. But we can still eat together, can't we?"
He studied me, searching for the trap. I kept my expression neutral, almost warm.
"I already ordered Thai from that place you like," I continued. "Remember when we first rented this space? We'd work all night, feeding on nothing but—"
"Each other's bodies." His smile came unbidden, genuine. "You'd pose for me between—"
"Between rounds." I moved to the window, looking out at the city lights. "You were insatiable then."
"We both were."
The air shifted, charged with memory. I felt his gaze track down my body, recognizing the dress I'd worn on one of those early nights.
"The food will be here soon," I said, not turning around.
"Angie..." His voice carried warning and want in equal measure. "This doesn't change anything."
"I'm not trying to change anything." I faced him, letting him see the truth in my eyes—that I hated him, wanted him, refused to surrender him. "But Tuesday night proved something."
"What?"
"That underneath all the careful performances, you're still capable of being real." I stepped closer, noting how he didn't retreat. "Hannah might be your muse, but she doesn't know the artist I created."
"You didn't create me."
"Didn't I?" I gestured at the studio. "This space. The connections. The freedom to paint without worrying about rent. Who gave you that?"
"That doesn't mean you own me."
"No. But it means I know exactly what you're worth." I reached past him for the wine, my body brushing his. "And I don't let go of my investments easily."
His breath caught. "Even investments you hate?"
"Especially those." I poured two glasses, offering him one. "Hatred requires attention. Indifference is what kills things."
"So this is what? Some game to you?"
"Everything's a game, Andrew. You're playing one with Hannah. She's playing one with you." I sipped my wine, watching understanding dawn on his face. "The only question is who wins."
"You don't know anything about Hannah and me."
The doorbell rang. Thai food arrived, breaking the tension.
As I moved to answer it, Andrew caught my wrist. "Why do you care? You haven't wanted me in years."
"I didn't want the ghost you'd become." I twisted free, but stayed close. "Tuesday night, you weren't a ghost. You were the man I married, except harder. Sharper. Better."
"That was anger. Not love."
"Who said anything about love?" I opened the door, accepting the delivery with a smile that didn't reach my eyes. "Maybe anger is all we have left. But at least it's real."
"I want love, Angie." His voice cracked, revealing the lost boy beneath the artist's facade. "I want the passion too, but I also want to be loved. To feel cherished, not just desired in some violent fever."
We ate in charged silence, the studio filled with ghosts of better nights. When I left, Andrew didn't stop me. But he watched from the window as I walked to my car, his silhouette a question mark against the light.
The game was set. Hannah wanted my husband for his potential wealth. Andrew wanted someone easier than me. And I—I wanted to win.
I loved him—God help me—but the anger burned hotter than mercy. I wouldn’t hand him over, not after the insult. If anyone was going to break his heart, remake his life, decide his fate, it would be me.