The Forgery of a Life Chapter 2

Zoe beamed, a genuine, unburdened smile.

Hidden in the shadows, my limbs grew numb. I felt like I was about to collapse.

I stumbled back to the event organizer’s office. He was still hoping I could smooth things over.

“Mrs. Burke, this is a very awkward situation for us. You see…” He gave me a strained smile.

In the past, to expand Andrew’s network in the art world, I had endured so much. I’d sipped wine with greasy collectors, listening to their half-baked theories on art, and plastered a polite smile on my face.

Not anymore. I wasn't that fool any longer.

I stood up and grabbed my clutch. “Mr. Davies, your business with my husband is your own to solve. I have other matters to attend to. You’ll have to excuse me.”

I walked out of the gallery like a zombie, my body moving on autopilot, and returned to the Burke estate.

Andrew’s mother was in the living room, perched on a rosewood chair, sipping a rare single-origin tea.

She heard me enter but didn’t bother to look up. “The luncheon with the museum board tomorrow, have you confirmed the artist list for the dinner gala?” she asked, her voice crisp.

“And for the biennial in Europe next month, the butler has emailed you the itineraries for our family friends. I expect you to arrange everything personally.”

“Hope, we allowed you into this family to be its artistic face. You are expected to handle these duties flawlessly. Otherwise, what’s the difference between marrying you and some common craftsman from a print shop?”

Craftsman. The word stabbed into my heart again.

I stood silently at the entrance, then turned toward the staircase without a word.

“Stop! Are you deaf? Or is all that supposed culture you affect just an act?”

I paused on the first step, my back still to her. “Find someone else,” I said, my voice flat. “I’m tired.”

Her stream of venomous words followed me up the stairs, but I tuned them all out.

I slammed my bedroom door shut, the sound a welcome finality.

Memories rushed back, and I suddenly remembered the first time I saw Andrew Burke.

I was working my way through college as a dogsbody in a small gallery, restoring broken frames. It was my first glimpse into the world of high-end art, a world that made me feel small and crushingly poor.

One day, I accidentally smudged the packaging of a client’s painting. He exploded.

“Watch where you’re going, you clumsy little gutter rat!” he screamed, his finger jabbing at my face. “Do you have any idea what this is worth? More money than your kind will ever see in a lifetime!”

I just stood there, a prisoner in the dock, apologizing over and over, my face burning with a mixture of humiliation and shame.

Then Andrew stepped in, his voice as cool and smooth as silk.

“It’s a decorative piece, hardly a masterpiece. Is it really necessary to terrorize a young woman over it?”

The way he signed the check to cover the perceived damages—effortless, elegant, utterly dismissive—is burned into my memory.

My heart had hammered in my chest. For the first time, I felt the chasm between our worlds. I was an art student, just like the names on the gallery walls, but because I was born poor, I was destined to be trod into the mud, a nameless craftsman.

But I didn’t want to be a craftsman. I wanted to be an artist.

I wanted a life that glittered. And I wanted the man standing before me.

In that moment, a dangerous cocktail of desire and ambition gave birth to an audacious plan.

I forged paintings. I wove lies.

All for a ticket into the hallowed halls of the art world.

All to stand beside him.

And in the end, I succeeded.

Only to discover it was all a game to Andrew. He didn’t love my perfect technique; he was captivated by the clumsy, amateurish scrawls of an intern.

All because she was real.

How utterly laughable.

I picked up my phone and called my lawyer, telling him to draw up divorce papers.

It was time to end this.

I tossed and turned in bed for hours. Andrew didn’t come home until well after midnight. I could hear his mother’s muffled complaints from the living room before he came upstairs.

He still smelled faintly of turpentine. The scent of Zoe’s studio.

He unfastened his cufflinks as he spoke. “Mother said you were rude to her today. Go down and apologize later.”

I lay still, my back to him.

He gently patted my shoulder. “What’s wrong, darling? You seem upset.”

He leaned over and pressed a kiss to my forehead.

The same gentle touch, but this time, I felt nothing but cold.

I forced my voice to be steady. “It’s nothing. I just don’t feel well.”

“By the way, how did things go with the auction house?”

“They’re not resolved.”

Andrew paused for a second. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll cut ties with them if I have to. The last thing I want is for you to be upset.”

A bitter laugh almost escaped my lips.

I wanted to ask him, who was it he didn't want to be upset?

But in the end, I said nothing.

“Okay.”