The Last Laugh

It was the fifth year of our relationship when Seraphina finally said yes.
But on the day of our engagement party, she vanished. No calls, no texts. I waited all night, only to be greeted the next morning by a trending photo on social media: Seraphina at a gala, arm-in-arm with her childhood friend, Marcus Thorne.
In the high-resolution image, I could see them pressed close together. I could also see the distinct, angry purple of a hickey on her neck. I laughed.
I laughed at how blind she was. To have a king by her side for five years and mistake him for a pawn.

1
"Explain this," I said, sliding my phone across the table. The headline glowed in stark red letters. I was hoping for some kind of explanation, any kind.
She barely glanced at it, a frown creasing her perfect brow. "What's there to explain, Jason? It was a work event."
Her casual dismissal was a shard of glass in my heart. "A work event? So, working with Marcus Thorne is more important than our own engagement party?"
Seraphina rubbed her temples, the picture of annoyance. "Jason, I don't have time for this drama. We can always have another party. This career opportunity won't come again."
She stood to leave for the bedroom. I let out a bitter, humorless laugh. "And the hickey on your neck? Was that a 'career opportunity' too?"
Her steps faltered. She turned, her voice sharp with anger. "What are you even talking about? Are you jealous of Marcus again? God, can't you stop being so insecure? We're just friends. Don't project your own dirty mind onto everyone else!"
"If there was really something between us, do you think you would have ever had a chance to be my boyfriend?" she scoffed. "You're just too sensitive."
A leaden weight settled in my chest, making it hard to breathe. I pressed a hand to my heart and sneered, "Oh, you'd love for there to be something, wouldn't you? But can that frail body of his even handle it?"
CRACK.
The sound of her palm connecting with my cheek echoed in the silent apartment. She was trembling, her eyes blazing like a cornered leopard. The movement was so violent that an invitation slipped from her coat pocket and fluttered to the floor.
It read: We cordially invite Mr. Jason Vance and Ms. Seraphina Dubois to the Starfall Art Gala.
It was always like this. Every invitation that came for the two of us, she went to alone.
"You're the artist, Jason," she'd always say. "You belong in the studio, behind the scenes. Let me handle the schmoozing."
So, we never appeared at a public event together. Just as she'd never publicly acknowledged me as her boyfriend. Just as she'd never once said she loved me.
"Jason, you've disappointed me so much," she seethed, her voice dripping with contempt.
"If you have a problem, go see a therapist. Stop inventing things about me and Marcus. You know he's not well. How could you say something so vile?"
"Take a good look at yourself. Who are you to judge him? I get it—a washed-up painter being jealous of a true genius. But don't you dare cross the line!"
Every word was a dagger, twisting in the fresh wound. Her look of disgust was the salt, searing and agonizing.
Seraphina grabbed her purse and walked toward the door without a second's hesitation. "I'm not coming home tonight. I have to be with Marcus for the gala tomorrow."
The words to ask her to stay died on my lips.
Normally, this is when I'd swallow my pride, chase after her, and beg for her forgiveness. This is when I’d apologize for her mistakes. When she needed a painting for a show, I’d work day and night, ignoring the searing pain of the arthritis that was already setting into my hands—a gift from the countless sleepless nights spent creating masterpieces for her exhibitions. On rainy days, I could barely hold a brush.
But today, I was just... tired. Too tired to even form a single word of protest.
My cheek throbbed, a bright red handprint blooming on my skin. I managed a weak, broken smile. "Seraphina... we're done."
"Don't be so dramatic," she called back, her voice cold and distant as she opened the door. "We're not children anymore. You're making a scene over nothing. You've changed, Jason. You never used to be like this."

2
Watching her figure recede down the hallway until it was just a blur, I remembered the first time we met.
It was love at first sight—for me, at least.
She had burst into my world holding a canvas, a whirlwind of energy and charm. She was like a little sun, orbiting me, begging me to help her with her art. She would grab my arm, swaying it back and forth as she cooed, "Jason Vance, you're going to be the greatest painter in the world."
"And I'll be the greatest curator," she'd promise. "I'll give you the grandest exhibitions. The whole world will know your name!"
But she never did. She never gave me a single exhibition. She never let anyone know my name.
My phone buzzed, shaking me from my thoughts. It was a notification. An invitation from Marcus Thorne.
Marcus Thorne—An Exclusive Exhibition by the Maestro "V." You are cordially invited.
My eyes locked onto the bottom of the invitation, on the name of the organizer: Seraphina Dubois.
A text message from him followed: [Sera just insisted on throwing me a welcome-home exhibition. You know how she is, I could never say no to her. It’s in three days. Hope you can make it. You should get out of the house more.]
Every word dripped with condescending triumph. He was flaunting their connection, painting a picture where they were the destined couple, and I was just the third wheel, the placeholder who had slipped in while he was abroad for his "treatments." A temporary amusement for a bored Seraphina.
Five years we were together, and she never once offered to host an exhibition for me. But for him, it was her idea.
The one thing I had yearned for was something he was handed on a silver platter.
It was pathetic. Utterly pathetic.
A slow smile spread across my face. My fingers danced over the screen as I typed a reply.
"Wouldn't miss it for the world."
He wanted to call himself the Maestro "V"? Fine. I was dying to see how he planned to produce my life's work.
I scrolled down. A message from my online friend, Lex.
[Painted anything new lately? Eager to see the master's latest!]
During my years with Seraphina, my own work had taken a backseat. I was too busy running her studio, managing her business. I only picked up a brush a few times a year, producing a pitiful two or three paintings annually. Lex was a fellow artist I’d met online three years ago. We’d bonded over sketches and techniques. He was the only person I ever shared my real work with, the only one I could talk to when the frustration became too much.
His message was a small comfort.
Just then, the studio's number flashed on my screen. I answered.
"Jason? It's the office. Seraphina asked me to tell you to come by tomorrow and clear out your things."
A knot of confusion and anger tightened in my stomach. "Why?"
There was a pause on the other end. "...She said she's turning your office into a new studio. For Mr. Thorne."

3
When I arrived at the studio, Seraphina’s assistant was already hauling my belongings out into the hallway in cardboard boxes.
The atmosphere was thick with tension. The other staff members whispered amongst themselves, shooting me looks of disdain.
"Ugh, he actually showed up. I can't stand seeing that freeloader here."
"Right? We're swamped as it is, and now we have to deal with him."
"Mr. Thorne is so much better. His art is incredible, and he's so kind. He and Sera are the perfect match."
I listened, my face a mask of indifference, but inside, a bitter acid churned. All those late nights I’d worked alongside them, all the deadlines we’d met together... and this is what they thought of me? A demanding mooch.
The assistant shot them a look, and they fell silent.
I strode towards Seraphina’s office, determined to get an answer from her.
The assistant stepped in my way, her expression pained. "Jason, please. Mr. Thorne is creating in there with Sera. You can't disturb them."
I pushed past her and reached for the doorknob. Just as my fingers closed around the cold metal, I heard their voices from within.
"Sera, my inspiration has run dry. You have to be my muse."
Through the crack in the door, I saw Seraphina hesitate, chewing on her lower lip.
Marcus pressed on, his voice like honeyed poison. "You've always been my muse. If you model for me, I know I can create another masterpiece that will stun the world."
Her hesitation vanished. Before my widening eyes, in the sliver of space I could see, Seraphina began to slowly undress.
Until she was completely naked, sitting on the velvet chaise lounge opposite him.
She was posing nude for him.
My hand trembled on the doorknob, shaking so violently I couldn't even find the strength to turn it.
"It's been so long, Sera," Marcus murmured. "You feel so distant. Did getting a boyfriend make you forget all about me?"
Panic flashed across her face. "Of course not!" she said quickly, her voice a little too loud. "I've never forgotten you, Marcus. I... I was only with Jason because he looked a bit like you. And he was a painter."
My body reacted before my mind could process it. A wave of nausea rose from the pit of my stomach. I swallowed, the taste of bile burning my throat. I stood frozen, a statue of stone, and slowly, deliberately, let my hand fall from the door.
I thought, even if we didn't last, that what we had was real. That we had, at some point, loved each other.
Reality was a cruel joke, and I was the punchline.
Seraphina... she had been using me as a stand-in for Marcus all along.
The truth was so sudden, so brutal, it almost knocked the wind out of me. I stood there for a long time before the cold tide of reason washed back in.
The moment I let go of that door, Seraphina, was the moment I let go of you.
In the taxi on the way back, I made a call. It was to a rival curatorial firm that had been trying to sign me for years.
I gave them the exclusive rights to every painting I had ever created under my pseudonym.
When they asked what my conditions were, I took a deep breath. "I want the exhibition to open in two days," I said, my voice like ice.
"And I want it billed as the one and only exclusive exhibition of the artist 'V.' And make it clear: V will be there in person."
Two days. The same day as Marcus Thorne's exhibition.
He wanted to be the master? Fine. Let's hold two shows, side-by-side, and let the world decide who the real artist was.
That evening, I met with the curator, and we planned late into the night. When I finally got home, I was surprised to see Seraphina sitting on the sofa, waiting for me.
The moment I walked in, she was on her feet.
"Where have you been? You didn't even make dinner!"
When I didn't answer, her voice grew sharp with impatience. "What's wrong with you? Are you mute?"
She stormed over to me, then stopped short. Her nose twitched, and her eyes narrowed. "Why do you smell like another woman's perfume?"
I must have brushed against the curator during our meeting. The hypocrisy was breathtaking. She could get naked for another man, but a hint of perfume on my jacket sent her into a rage.
"What's the matter?" I said, my voice devoid of all emotion. "You're allowed to be a naked muse, but I'm not allowed to stand near another woman? Don't be such a hypocrite, Seraphina."
Her face paled, a flicker of panic in her eyes. "That's different! That was for work! For art! Stop being so disgusting!"
"Don't you trust me?" she demanded, her voice wavering.
I looked into her eyes, saw the guilt she was trying so hard to hide, and nodded. "No, Seraphina. I don't."
"And when I said we were done," I added, my voice as final as a death sentence, "I wasn't joking."

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