Jasmine’s face turned ashen as my words hit her. She trembled, her lips quivering as she glanced at my hand, but she still stubbornly retorted, “Christopher loves me. I’m carrying his child, and he’ll divorce you eventually! When that happens, everything will be mine!”

I withdrew my hand and crossed my arms, looking at her with nothing but pity.

“Is that so? Well, I’ll be waiting to see.”

As I took my hand away, Jasmine finally exhaled in relief.

After this confrontation, who knows if she’ll even be able to carry that child to term. Let her deal with it.

After returning from the birthday party, I didn’t go home. Instead, I headed back to the studio.

Inside, it was pitch black. I turned on the lights, walked over to the canvas, and splashed black paint across it. I watched as the paint slowly spread, staining the white surface, but I couldn’t bring myself to pick up the brush.

When I looked up, I saw the portrait Asher had painted of me. In the painting, I was sitting gracefully, gazing forward with soft, gentle eyes.

It was like looking at a completely different person from who I had been just moments ago.

I grabbed a bottle of wine and drank recklessly.

I don’t know how much time had passed when the studio doorbell rang.

Stumbling, I opened the door to find Asher standing there, his eyes red and puffy.

The moment he saw me, he rushed forward and hugged me tightly.

“Grace, I called you so many times. Why didn’t you answer? Did I do something wrong? Are you going to leave me?”

Asher sounded as pitiful as a little puppy.

I wrapped my arms around his neck, stood on my toes, and kissed him.

He hungrily kissed me back.

Pulling him inside, I locked the door behind us.

He impatiently tugged at my clothes, but I stopped him.

“Happy birthday,” I said to him. “Did you like the gift I gave you?”

A flush spread across Asher’s face, and he nodded shyly. “I liked it.”