Chapter 4

Grace Parker POV

When Adrian came home, it was already past midnight.

I sat in the living room, and the infringement notice letter drafted by Attorney Harris was on the table.

Adrian glanced at it, and his expression grew even darker.

“You really want to take me to court?”

“We’re sending a notice letter first.”

“What’s the difference?”

He tugged his tie loose.

“You ruined Serena’s sharing session, and the arts center is already planning to replace her. She cried all night and said she no longer deserves to be a curator.”

I asked calmly, “Then did you ask her why she didn’t confirm authorization when she clearly knew the materials came from my mother?”

“She just trusted me.”

“And you? Why did you think you could authorize my mother’s work on my behalf?”

Adrian fell silent for a moment.

After a while, he seemed to finally lose patience.

“Grace Parker, do you just feel uncomfortable whenever you see Serena now? She’s young, talented, and doesn’t have as many resources as you. What’s wrong with me giving her a hand?”

“So that means you can step on my mother?”

“Stop bringing up your mother at every turn!”

Adrian raised his voice.

“She’s gone. Does that mean everything has to be locked away in a cabinet with her? Serena can let more people see her work, and that isn’t a bad thing.”

I looked at him and suddenly remembered when my mother was gravely ill.

Adrian had knelt by her hospital bed and promised he would protect me for the rest of his life.

So promises had expiration dates too.

I put the notice letter into a folder.

“I won’t withdraw this matter.”

Adrian sneered.

“Then don’t expect the renovation funds for the Parker Gallery to be approved anytime soon.”

“Fine.”

He seemed not to expect me to answer like that and frowned at me.

I stood up.

“Also, Serena moves out tomorrow. The Hart house is not her dorm.”

Adrian refused outright.

“She’s in a terrible emotional state right now. I can’t possibly kick her out.”

“Then I’ll leave.”

“You dare?”

I turned and went upstairs to take a duffel bag.

Adrian followed me to the doorway, and only when he saw me actually packing a few pieces of clothing did panic flash through his eyes.

“Are you really going to make things this bad with me because of an intern?”

I stopped moving.

“It’s not because of her.”

It was because he chose her every single time.

But there was no point in saying that.

Adrian would not understand, or rather, he understood but refused to admit it.

That night, I did not leave home.

I went to my mother’s old studio and slept on the sofa for the night.

The ninety-sixth love letter was shredded in the early morning.

When the sky brightened outside the window, I called Attorney Harris, my voice terribly hoarse.

“Attorney Harris, I want a divorce. Start preparing the materials today.”

Attorney Harris soon called back and asked if I was sure.

I looked at the old photo on the studio wall.

In the photo, my mother sat in front of an easel, lowering her head to mix colors, while I slept beside her knee when I was little.

Back then, I still did not know that after I grew up, I would turn my marriage into a life where I had to explain to Adrian every day that I had done nothing wrong.

“I’m sure,” I said.

Attorney Harris reminded me, “From preparing materials to truly separating everything, it will take time. Assets, the gallery, copyrights, foundation dealings—all of it needs to be sorted out in advance.”

“Then sort it out.”

“If Mr. Hart finds out, he may try to stop you.”

I was silent for a few seconds, and my voice was soft but steady.

“Then before he finds out, I need to pave every road I can take.”

After hanging up, I did not sleep.

I listed out the marital joint accounts, the Parker Gallery’s financial records, and Evelyn Hayes’s work authorization forms one by one.

When daylight seeped in through the window, I realized my fingers were stiff with pain.

Pain was fine.

Pain meant I was finally doing something for myself.

At nine in the morning, Attorney Harris sent the first version of the list.

Marital assets, gallery funding, Evelyn Hayes’s copyrights, Hart Foundation dealings—every item was densely packed.

My head ached as I read it, but I did not retreat.

I used to think these things were cold and should not be calculated in a marriage.

But precisely because I never calculated them, Adrian was able to mix renovation funds, authorization, and feelings together, then use them in the end to force me to bow my head.

I made myself a cup of strong tea and read down item by item.

When I reached the jointly owned property, I stopped for a long time.

That was the house Adrian bought after proposing to me.

I had grown the lilies I liked on the balcony, and we had also had our ugliest fights there.

I did not delete that column.

I only wrote in the notes: divide according to law.

I would not cling to the past, and I would not pretend to be generous.

What belonged to me, I would take back.