Erasing the Name He Swore to Keep Forever

I used to be Rowan Mitchell, the realist prodigy who took the New York art world by storm.

Now, still young, I run a tattoo parlor tucked away in a dimly lit alley.

My work is impeccable, but the shop has one ironclad rule: no matter the price, I never ink a persons name.

Roe, I still want her name.

The young guy who comes in every week stood in the doorway again.

He pointed to the photo of a bright-eyed girl. Just Jenna. Please, can you do it?

I looked at him, and saw a reflection of another stubborn boy from years ago.

Finally, I simply set my pen down on the table.

My gaze drifted to my own growing belly.

Some names, you tattoo them thinking theyre profound declarations of love. Later, you realize theyre just jokes.

I told you the rule. No names.

It wasnt until news broke about Preston Van der Zeethe crown prince of the elite Manhattan circlehaving a tattoo that read Rowan on his lower back.

The girls in the shop clustered around me:

Roe, that tattoo has the exact same name as yours!

The gossip rags said the Prince had three ribs broken just to marry her. For a second, I almost thought you were the one!

I smiled, shaking my head, and stroked my pregnant stomach.

The door suddenly swung open. The man stood in a tailored suit, dragging in the cold air from outside.

He spoke with an unnerving detachment: I need a removal.

The moment I recognized him, my heart seized up. I froze.

Tattoo removal, right this way.

Jules, the receptionist, led him to the back room.

Even with the mask covering the lower half of his face and his gaze fixed on the floor, I knew him instantly. He was Preston Van der Zee, the same man the girls and I had just been discussing.

Roe, he said he needs the owner to do the removal personally. Jules approached me, her face clouded with concern.

I pulled myself together.

Its fine. Ill take care of it.

Inside the back room, Preston sat rigidly on the sofa, legs crossed, his clean knuckles idly scrolling on his phone screen.

He had the speakerphone on. I heard the simpering voice of a woman on the other end:

You promised me you would clean up everything that had to do with her! But that tattoo is still there, and every time I think about it

A broken sob filtered through the line.

Preston patiently soothed her:

If you dont like seeing it, then Ill have it removed.

His voice dropped lower, colder. Its just a tattoo. Every second it stays on my body, I find it disgusting.

The sound of me pushing the door caught his attention, and he finally looked up.

The moment he recognized me, his brows knit together almost imperceptibly. His sharp, assessing gaze fell to my prominent baby bump.

Preston quickly pulled his attention away, addressing the phone:

Be good. Ill be home soon.

He hung up.

He looked at me. The Van der Zee name wont be held hostage by a child. However you got pregnant, youll terminate it.

His eyes were heavy and grim.

For a moment, I didn't process what hed said. When the meaning hit, I scoffed out loud:

This is my husbands child, Preston. It has nothing to do with you.

I got married after we separated.

He tapped his fingers lightly on the seat, seemingly considering something.

I ignored him, rolling the laser machine over. As routine, I lifted the fabric of his shirt to expose the tattoo on his lower back.

Seeing the ink again after five months, my heart involuntarily lurched.

Every line, every stroke, had been designed by my own hand.

He had endured the pain to get it, and afterward, hed cradled me in his arms, smiling, treating me like the most precious treasure:

This way, well never be apart.

I steadied myself.

This will hurt a little. Try to stay still. My voice was flat and steady, as if I were addressing the most ordinary client.

In the small treatment room, the laser machine began its rhythmic tick-tock.

Prestons sweat beaded instantly. Each pulse of the laser brought a suppressed grunt of pain.

I didnt know how much time passed until the final stroke blurred into an angry, blood-flecked red blotch.

It was done. Just like a broken promise, a wrong relationship had finally been corrected.

Youll need three more sessions, I said, removing my protective goggles. It will scab, then flake off. Nothing to worry about.

Preston stumbled as he stood up, raising a hand to offer me a credit card.

Whosever child it is, abort it.

He paused. Chelsea is pregnant too. If she were to find out, it would cause unnecessary suspicion, and emotional distress is bad for the baby.

I waved the bank card away, forcing a small smile.

Do you really think Im just some trinket you can pick up and put down whenever you like?

Preston was silent for a beat.

He sighed lightly.

Rowan, I never looked down on you.

I responded with a detached, Mhm.

Then I turned and walked away, terrified that I would lose control, just as I used tolike a desperate, hysterical mess.

And all I would get in return was a look of utter disgust and a cool, dismissive, Are you done with your tantrum?

I watched Preston walk out the door.

My hand began to throb faintly. I forced a laugh for Jules. Its going to rain.

The words were barely out when a clap of thunder split the sky.

Jules looked at me with immediate reverence.

Roe, youre basically a Greek goddess of weather.

I gazed out the window, smiling but saying nothing.

The night deepened, and the rain became a drumming downpour, blurring the glass into a massive watery curtain.

Thirteen years ago, it had been a rainy day too.

My father was a bodyguard for the Van der Zee family.

Preston was only six then. Hed been kidnapped by an enemy family while playing outside.

It was my father who sacrificed his life to save him. His only dying wish:

Look after his daughter.

And so, I became a fixture in the Van der Zee mansion.

I was very young and only knew that my father had died because of Preston. The crushing grief overwhelmed me, and seeing him made me scream and cry.

You killed my dad! I hate you!

I stood alone in the rain, my voice raw and hoarse.

The cold rain drenched me, the chill reaching my bones.

Ignoring the servants frantic attempts to stop him, Preston ran out into the storm and pulled me into a hug, whispering, his small body trembling:

Im so sorry. Im so sorry

We both got sick and passed out from the cold.

When I woke up, Preston was sitting by my bedside, his boyish face serious and earnest:

From now on, I will protect you in everything. I wont let anyone hurt you.

From then on, I was the Van der Zee familys unofficial second daughter.

Preston indulged my every whim. When I had nightmares about my fathers death, he would sit up all night by my bed without fail.

Having just lost the only family I had, I began to depend on him, seeing him as a source of salvation.

To preserve the memory of my father, I begged him to find me a painting tutor. I immersed myself in art, determined to paint the last images of my father from my memory.

It was then that my teachers discovered my extraordinary talent.

By age thirteen, I was studying at the Royal Academy of Arts. By fourteen, I was the protg of a world-renowned master.

At sixteen, one of my pieces sold for eight figures.

I became the it girl, the prodigy, but a photo of me and Preston was leaked.

The media speculation and online gossip were relentless:

Hooking up with the Prince of the Elite Circle at that age? Shameless!

Shes nothing but a scheming gold-digger. Why are you praising her?

Look at her. Shes clearly manipulative. Her awards? Probably slept with the judges to get them!

Genius? More like a cheap hustler.

Spreading rumors is the fastest way to destroy a woman.

Before I could react, all the online filth was scrubbed clean.

Preston took the rare step of posting on his social media:

The girl I consider my North Star is not one for you to judge.

After that single sentence.

No one dared to speak ill of me again. All the major gossip mongers received cease-and-desist letters.

I was still in London for school when he took a red-eye flight, knocking on my door in the middle of the night.

Roe, dont waste a single minute worrying about those people.

His long lashes still held flakes of snow. His expression was focused and full of concern.

I was momentarily stunned.

In that fleeting moment, I understood something deeper in his gaze.

But I dared not entertain the thought. The Van der Zee empire was too vast. Preston, the heir, was destined for a strategically advantageous marriage.

Thanks, Preston, I said, drawing my thoughts back and forcing a smile.

The light in Prestons eyes dimmed. He asked, his voice shaking:

What did you just call me?

It sounded as if he couldnt believe his own ears.

Preston, I said, taking a deep breath. Im meeting friends for class soon, so I cant entertain you for long.

Preston looked like he wanted to say more, but he only ran a hand through my hair.

He spoke, his voice hoarse:

Ill head back then.

The unspoken longing of our youth ended there, in that moment of conscious retreat.

The change came later, on the night of my eighteenth birthday ball.

Roe, Jules gasped, eyes wide, staring at the computer screen. This girl looks just like you!

My heart pounded, and I quickly moved to her side.

Underneath a post discussing Prestons tattoo, someone had uploaded an old photo.

It showed Preston pinning a boy to the floor, fists flying, while I, dressed in a couture gown and wearing a tiara, tried to break up the fight.

Jules scratched her head, asking tentatively:

Roe, so you and the Prince really do know each other?

I nodded.

And I began to tell her the story behind the photo.

At my eighteenth birthday ball, a relatively well-known boy from our circle had confessed his feelings for me.

Preston had immediately grabbed the boys collar, his tone razor sharp:

She belongs to me. What right do you have to touch her?!

The two of them had fought, oblivious to the venue or the crowd.

That night, Preston came looking for me. He started drinking alone, and two glasses in, he was drunk.

He cupped my face in his hands, his expression full of sorrow.

Roe, dont you know?

He collapsed into my arms, his eyes reflecting mine.

Im in love with you.

A burst of fireworks outside illuminated his desolate face. The painters perception of beauty was magnified in that moment.

On impulse, I kissed his perfect lips.

The moment it was done, a wave of regret washed over me.

The next day, he announced to his parents that he was going to marry me. He stood firm even after his father allegedly broke three of his ribs, raging: A Van der Zee heir marrying a bodyguards daughter? Youre degrading yourself!

Preston never backed down, eventually forcing the family to consent to the marriage.

He had completely sealed off any chance for me to change my mind.

After we married, he treated me exactly the same as before.

He wanted me by his side at every event, introducing me proudly to everyone:

This is my wife. Shes a painter, a little known genius.

The entire elite circle declared him a man obsessed with his wife.

Wow, Jules said, shaking her head, a hint of confusion in her voice. So why did you two break up?

The Prince was clearly madly in love with you, and youre so accomplished. Who was this other woman who could possibly steal him away?

When I first heard about Prestons affair, I was dismissive.

He loved me too much, I thought. He loved me enough to tattoo my name on his skin, to be inseparable from me, even immersing himself in art exhibitions and oil painting just for my sake.

Chelsea Bell was the one who appeared then.

Prestons mistress.

She was a struggling, ambitious university student from a poor background.

I was hosting my Phoenix Rising exhibition in the city, and Preston was there with me.

In the gallery, a young woman grabbed my hand, asking excitedly:

Youre Rowan Mitchell, right?

Her eyes sparkled. Before I could speak, she rushed on:

Ms. Mitchell, you are my idol. Ive studied all your work, from when you were a teen until now. I truly hope to be like you someday!

Then her expression dimmed.

But I dont have your resources. My family cant afford to let me continue my studies.

I was moved. I considered testing her skills to see if she was worth discreetly sponsoring.

I asked her,

Can you tell me which Western Art History movement you admire the most?

I She stammered, unable to answer.

Enough. Preston uncharacteristically cut me off. Roe, dont put her on the spot.

I stared, momentarily stunned. I was about to explain my intentions.

But then I saw it: he was looking at Chelsea Bell with a barely concealed expression of pity.

That was how they met.

A few days later, Preston brought Chelsea home to talk with me.

Roe, do you remember Chelsea?

Her family is forcing her to quit school and marry for money. I want to bring her here. You can mentor her personally.

Chelsea clutched at the corner of her dress, biting her lower lip, looking panicked and helpless.

Ms. Mitchell, it would be my honor to be taught by you.

I promise to study hard. Please, just give me a chance.

She immediately knelt at my feet, her eyes wide with desperation and craving.

I felt sympathy for her plight and agreed.

She did nothing in the house but paint, focusing entirely on her art.

Preston told the outside world that she was my new protg, giving her an immediate, huge boost in attention.

Every time I came home from a busy day, I would coach her hands-on.

Watching her gradually improve, and eventually hold her own small exhibition, brought me a genuine sense of fulfillment.

The turning point came at one of Chelseas exhibitions.

She displayed several works that I had never publicly released. My blood instantly boiled.

I immediately confronted Preston, my voice tight with accusation:

What is the meaning of those paintings in Chelseas show?

I had only ever shown those specific drafts to him.

Preston flinched, then said dismissively:

I gave them to her. You have so many pieces, why are you making a big deal out of a few sketches?

He tried to brush the entire matter aside.

He embraced me, his voice calm.

She said she liked them, so I gave them to her. Ill talk to her about it next time.

I refused to back down. I said with a deep, furious calm:

This is theft, Preston!

I then used my official website and social media to release an authoritative statement.

Chelsea was immediately slammed by online outrage.

She posted a desperate-sounding message:

Are you trying to destroy me? I dont have Rowans wealth and privilege. Im just a struggling person from a poor background. What is wrong with trying to succeed?

Preston immediately deployed the Van der Zee PR machine, working through the night to delete any negative comments about Chelsea, including my official statement.

Unwilling to give up, I contacted the media and planned a press conference to clarify the truth.

Preston finally erupted in rage. He came to me, shouting:

Stop it!

Havent you caused enough trouble?!

She tried to kill herself because of you! She cut her wrists! Do you know how important hands are to a painter?

For a moment, I hardly recognized him.

I didnt back down. I even swore I would paint exact duplicates of the stolen pieces and show the world that she was a fraud.

Chelsea finally became afraid. She ran to Preston.

Mr. Van der Zee, please save me. I dont want my reputation destroyed.

The day of the press conference, Preston brought a team to intercept me. He gestured to several men, and they viciously and deliberately struck my hand bones. I heard the sickening, sharp crack of the bone breaking.

Ah!

Preston turned his eyes away, unable to watch, but his voice was unwavering. Dont blame me, Roe.

If you lose your hand, youre still Mrs. Van der Zee. But Chelseashe cant afford to lose anything else.

My face was paper-white. I squeezed out a strangled cry of pain, the agony nearly consuming my sanity.

Take me to a hospital, please! I knelt on the floor, trembling violently.

Preston didnt budge. You can hold on a little longer.

Chelsea, hiding timidly behind Preston, shot me a look of cold, victorious challenge.

That was the darkest day of my life.

In a single afternoon, I lost the man I loved and the career I was so proud of.

Whaaa! Juless cheeks were wet with tears. She looked at me with deep sympathy.

Roe, I just tried to search for your old profile, and I cant find anything.

It was useless.

After Preston and I had our final rupture, he flew into a rage and used his connections to completely wipe out all traces of my life with him. No one was allowed to mention me.

I pretended to be unaffected, smiling at Jules.

Tomorrow is the start of spring holiday. Well take the day off.

Okay.

The spring rain drizzled down.

When I arrived at the cemetery, a tall, familiar figure was already standing there.

Pushing down my emotions, I walked over and silently placed a bouquet of white chrysanthemums at my fathers grave.

I stood beside Preston for a moment.

As I reached the cemetery gate, he suddenly grabbed my arm.

I forced myself to meet his eyes and gave a polite smile. Can I help you?

Prestons gaze was fixed intently on my abdomen.

Abort the child. For the sake of your fathers memory, you can still come back as Mrs. Van der Zee.

He lowered his eyes, his lips barely moving. Chelsea feels deeply guilty about what happened between us. If you come back, she will give you her child to raise as compensation. All she asks is to see him five times a week.