When Alexander's text arrived, I was still lying on the frigid operating table.

The anesthesia hadn't fully worn off, leaving waves of pain twisting through my abdomen like dull knives stirring my insides.

The phone's harsh glow stung my eyes, but his message was perfectly clear—and brutally cruel.

"Vivian, enough with the theatrics. The baby is gone. Call it karma."

Our child.

He was referring to the baby I'd lost three years earlier.

And now, I'd just lost our second.

My phone buzzed again—his assistant this time, sending a photo with a brief message.

The photo showed Alexander supporting Claire Lawrence, her belly visibly rounded. They stood at the entrance to the private maternity wing—he devastatingly handsome, she radiantly beautiful—the perfect power couple.

The message read: "Miss Shen, Mr. Grant is accompanying Miss Lawrence to her prenatal appointment and cannot be disturbed by your dramatics. The signed divorce papers will be delivered tomorrow. Please conduct yourself with dignity."

I stared at the image until my vision blurred and my eyes burned, then finally darkened the screen.

Perhaps it was for the best.

This one-woman show I'd been performing for five years needed to end.

I yanked the IV from my arm and, ignoring the nurse's alarmed protests, staggered toward the door.

The corridor's antiseptic stench suffocated me. I braced against the wall, forcing one foot in front of the other toward freedom.

As I passed the VIP wing, I heard Alexander's voice—gentle enough to drip honey.

"Claire, darling, what are you craving? That spicy fish soup from Meridian? I'll have someone fetch it immediately."

Claire's voice dripped with practiced sweetness. "Alex, you're too good to me. Not like certain people who use pregnancies as manipulation tactics. It's pathetic."

Alexander's soft chuckle carried equal parts indulgence and contempt. "A woman who only knows how to scheme isn't worth discussing. She couldn't hope to measure up to you."

I froze, pressing my back against the wall around the corner, feeling neither the physical pain nor the hospital's chill—just a profound numbness.

I once mistook Alexander's control for a deep, restrained form of protection.

He built me the city's most prestigious art studio. Yet he kept one key, gave another to his assistant, and none to me. "To help you focus without distractions," he'd explained.

He purchased the gallery I'd dreamed of joining, becoming my de facto employer. "To give you the best opportunities," he'd claimed. Yet every canvas required his approval before seeing the light of day.

He even declined—without consulting me—a fellowship at the Florence Academy of Art.

"Studying abroad would be too challenging," he'd insisted. "I couldn't bear the separation." He claimed to love my "pure, untainted artistic spirit," not some commercially-driven professional.

He said he loved me.

His love was a cage crafted from platinum and diamonds—breathtaking to behold, yet utterly airless.

I struggled against the bars. I rebelled.

His response never varied: "Vivian, everything I do is for your benefit. Why can't you understand that?"

Until Claire Lawrence returned from abroad.

Only then did I realize the truth: it wasn't that he didn't understand—he simply didn't love me.

The person he loved was never Vivian Shaw, but his idealized version of a "wife"—compliant, malleable, a living doll he could position at will.

And Claire Lawrence fit this template perfectly.

I was merely the understudy during her absence.

Now that the star had returned, the stand-in was expected to disappear quietly offstage.

I drew a ragged breath and dragged my battered body back to what he called "home."

The space Alexander called "our home" featured the minimalist aesthetic he'd unilaterally selected—stark lines in monochrome, devoid of warmth or vitality.

Just like the man himself.

I entered the studio where my unfinished canvas still waited.

It was meant to be his birthday gift—a scene from our first meeting at the university gallery, where he'd stood before my painting, seemingly transfixed.

I'd believed it was the moment he fell in love with me.

Only later did I discover he wasn't seeing my work at all, but looking through it, remembering Claire Lawrence, then studying overseas.

Because my technique was seventy percent similar to Claire's.

I seized a palette knife and slashed the canvas to ribbons, one vicious stroke after another.

Then I retrieved the suitcase I'd hidden weeks ago and began packing my belongings.

I owned precious little—some clothes and my art supplies.

I carefully packed every sketch Alexander had dismissed as "too technical" or "soulless."

These were my true self.

Before walking out, I placed two documents on the glass coffee table.

The first: my signed divorce papers.

The second: my positive pregnancy test and the abortion procedure receipt.

Alexander Grant, consider this my parting gift.

From Controlled Wife to Unreachable Star — Chapter 8

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