His Muse Is Not Me

"Bzz—" The phone buzzed in the cold observation room.

On the screen, Alex's voice-to-text popped up: "Sienna just borrowed your old dress to make a casting mold. Do you have to go crazy like some shrew? Get back to the apartment within half an hour—the gallery's PR copy is still waiting for you to write."

Every word was absolute defense of his "innocent little sister."

I didn't type, didn't call back, didn't even let my breathing change. Even though under the gauze, spasmodic contractions were twisting through my lower abdomen like a rusted blade.

Forty minutes earlier, metal instruments had forced my body open. The six-week-old embryo that had quietly grown in my womb while the two of them crossed every line day after day in the name of "family" and "art" had already been shredded completely by the vacuum aspiration tube and sealed into a red medical waste bag.

The nurse handed me anti-inflammatory pills. I didn't reach for water. I swallowed them dry.

My gaze slid back to that "get back here right now."

A light tap of my thumb—I muted his number, muted every one of the gallery's work groups, exited them, and blocked them.

After tearing the sweat-stained ultrasound printout into scraps and throwing them into the trash at my feet, I picked up my folding bag and pushed open the clinic door.

————

Chapter 1

"Sienna got her clothes dirty helping me with a sculpture mold, so she borrowed one of your shirts. Can you not be so petty, running back overnight to catch people in the act?"

Alex stood in the entryway, frowning.

His tall frame blocked half the light from the living room. His eyes were fixed on the suitcase I had just set down, his tone full of preemptive impatience, as if I had already made some outrageous accusation.

But in fact, I had only just pushed the door open. I hadn't even had time to change my shoes.

I lifted my head. Sienna was sitting on the sofa, wrapped in Alex's oversized white shirt, the hem barely covering the tops of her thighs.

I had said before that even if Sienna was Alex's stepsister, she shouldn't dress so revealingly—but neither of them ever listened. They said my feelings about their family were filthy.

"I'm sorry, Elena." Sienna hugged a cushion, her voice soft and sticky-sweet, her expression like a startled deer. "I only came to help my brother pack. If it upsets you, I'll leave right away..."

Looking at her pitiful, half-exposed appearance, a scene from a year ago flashed through my mind.

Late that night, I had found a piece of Sienna's lace lingerie in Alex's studio, along with a cup of black coffee stamped with a lipstick mark.

Back then I was trembling all over, my voice shaking, my eyes red as I demanded to know where he had put my dignity.

And Alex's response was to hurl the metal scraper in his hand hard against the wall, shattering a half-finished plaster piece.

He jabbed a finger at me and shouted that I was "a crazy woman," that my mind was full of filth, that I was "desecrating family and his art."

That night, I sat alone on the apartment balcony thinking until dawn—was it really me who was too narrow, too crazy?

But afterward Sienna and Alex grew more and more intimate, from clinging embraces to feeding each other mouth-to-mouth. Alex even swore he only felt passion when sculpting Sienna's naked body. I understood: it wasn't my fault.

When disappointment accumulates to a critical point, those sharp pain nerves die completely.

I gradually understood: my heart-wrenching questions, my jealousy, my tears—none of it changed anything. It only handed him my bottom line, again and again, to trample at will.

So I made a decision: never again would I let the two of them affect my emotions.

I didn't want to hurt anymore, and I didn't want to love anymore.

"I'm not angry, and I'm not overthinking." I pulled my thoughts back, walked around Alex, and pushed the suitcase into the corner.

"The silica from casting molds really is hard to wash out. It's pouring outside—Sienna can take the guest room tonight, no need to drag it out. I'm going to take a shower."

The living room suddenly fell into a dead silence.

Alex's jaw tightened instantly.

He seemed used to me breaking down, to me interrogating him—he had probably even prepared his rebuttals.

But when I truly accepted it all so lightly, he was the one left stunned.

"Elena, what are you playing at?" He suddenly grabbed my wrist, gripping hard enough to bruise my bones.

His brows were knotted tight, his voice rising uncontrollably. "Do you think putting on this magnanimous, I-don't-care act makes me look like I'm in the wrong? You think giving me the cold shoulder like this isn't ridiculous?"

"I'm not putting on an act, and I'm not giving you the cold shoulder, Alex." I didn't struggle. I simply fixed him with an extremely calm gaze. "I'm tired. Like I said, I understand."

While he was frozen, I pulled my hand back, didn't look at him again, and walked straight to the bedroom, shutting the door behind me.

With all that noise shut outside, I didn't turn on the main light.

In the dimness I went to the walk-in closet and instinctively glanced up at the top shelf.

The white hardboard storage box sat quietly in place, holding a vintage dress—the keepsake my late mother had left me.

Confirming it was still there, my taut shoulders finally relaxed completely.

I didn't care about anything now. Whoever slept on the sofa, whoever wore the clothes—fine. As long as they didn't touch my mother's keepsake, as long as they didn't cross that last line of mine.

"Bzz—"

The phone in my coat pocket vibrated.

A local number I didn't recognize.

I pressed answer.

"Hello, are you Mr. Alex Vale's assistant?" A young, enthusiastic voice came through—the gallery's PR.

Alex didn't like dealing with trivial matters, so the administrative contact for the gallery, the sponsors, and the media had always been my number.

"Yes, speaking." My tone was flat.

"Wonderful. It's like this: we need to confirm the seating for this Friday's VIP private dinner. We saw Alex and his wife Sienna at the preview today—the two of them were so in sync in front of the media! So for Friday's dinner, we'd like to confirm whether Mrs. Sienna has any dietary restrictions. We'll be seating the couple at the sponsors' head table."

The PR's tone carried an easy assumption.

In this circle, Alex and Sienna were always inseparable and openly intimate, and with the "muse" gimmick on top of it, outsiders had long since unconsciously taken them for a couple.

And I, the real girlfriend who had been invisible for three years, was in others' eyes just an assistant who answered the phone at any hour.

Hearing the word "wife," my heart didn't even change its rhythm.

No grievance, and no urge to correct her.

I simply spoke into the phone, my heart like still water:

"She's allergic to seafood. Please switch the main course to lamb chops." I paused, my tone like a precisely running machine. "I'll pass along your arrangement. Thank you."

"Great! Thank you so much. See you Friday!"

I hung up and tossed the phone onto the bed.

Outside the door came the faint sound of Alex irritably kicking the canvas tool bag, accompanied by Sienna's soft soothing words.

And I simply took a clean set of pajamas from the closet and walked into the shower.