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Julian Vance tossed a divorce agreement onto my table. His voice was as calm as if he were discussing a business acquisition. His phone screen was still lit, displaying a stranger's picture. I put down my carving knife and glanced out the window. New York was covered in heavy snow, just like the day he knelt before my kiln to propose. "Why?" I asked. He was silent for three seconds before uttering words I'd remember for the rest of my life: "You shine too brightly. I'm tired. I want a normal life with a normal woman." I looked down at my hands, covered in sawdust. These very hands had sold my family's legacy to fund his startup when he had nothing. Now that he was successful, he found me too bright. "Fine." I picked up the pen and signed the agreement. He froze, seemingly surprised by how readily I agreed. "You… won't try to keep me?" I smiled, tossing the pen back onto the table. "Julian Vance, trash belongs in the trash can. Why would I want to keep it?" Audrey Quinn POV The deep autumn wind howled against the glass windows of my artisan shop in New York, a mournful cry. I sat in a wicker chair, staring blankly at my phone screen. It was a live photo. The background was that notoriously hard-to-book French restaurant downtown. Julian, wearing the black coat I had personally embroidered, was bending down, tying a scarf around a woman. The woman's face would disappear instantly in a crowd. She wore an old-fashioned puffer coat, her shoulders hunched. But Julian's gaze, as he looked at her, held that soul-deep tenderness I once thought was exclusively mine. He even reached out to smooth her wind-tousled hair. Julian was cheating. This man, a titan in New York's business world, once knelt before my kiln in front of all the media, wiping the dust from my face and declaring me his life. Now, his life had changed hands. At ten that night, the lock on the villa door clicked. Julian walked in, bringing with him the biting cold. He still had that aloof, superior air, impeccably dressed in his suit, radiating power. I didn't turn on the lights. In the darkness, I tossed my phone onto the marble table. The screen lit up, displaying the scarf-tying photo. "Explain this," my voice was eerily calm, without a single tremor. Julian paused, his gaze sweeping over the screen. He didn't flinch, nor did he show any sign of being caught off guard. He slowly took off his coat, hung it on the rack, walked to the sofa, and sat down, crossing his legs. "Chloe," he uttered the woman's name, his tone as indifferent as if discussing an unimportant contract. "I'm in love with her." My heart constricted violently, as if an invisible hand had clamped down hard, making even breathing a painful struggle. "Love?" I forced a laugh, finding it utterly absurd. "Julian Vance, when you were twenty, you got lost in the remote mountains for three days and three nights, searching for a piece of wood I wanted. You came back covered in blood. You grabbed my hand and said you'd only love me for this lifetime. Now you're telling me you're in love with a woman whose face you can barely remember?" Julian leaned back against the sofa, pinching the bridge of his nose, a deep weariness etched on his brow. "Audrey, I'm tired." He looked up at me, his gaze full of cold, rational analysis, cruelly heartbreaking. "We've been together for seven years. For these seven years, I cherished you like a goddess. When you cut your hand doing wood carvings, I called every doctor in New York to our house. When you were upset because a kiln firing failed, I canceled multi-billion dollar mergers and sat with you in your studio for three days and nights. When you complained about the carving knives on the market, I spent half a year learning blacksmithing and personally forged a set for you." He enumerated the past, and what I thought were profound declarations of love now became his accusations against me. "You're an artist. You have your integrity, your pride, your moods. Every day, I had to carefully guess your thoughts, afraid a word might displease you, afraid an action might disrupt your inspiration. But Audrey, I'm also human. I can get exhausted." Julian's gaze drifted past me, into the empty space, and his voice held a hint of longing. "Chloe is different. She's just a regular librarian. She doesn't understand art, or wood carving, or complex business dealings. But she'll clumsily warm a glass of milk for me when my stomach acts up. She'll hand me a warm glass of water when I get home from work. With her, I don't need to pretend, I don't need to look up to anyone. I just need to be a regular man. Those have been the most relaxed days I've had in seven years." A glass of milk, a glass of warm water. I felt as if all the blood in my veins had frozen. My talent, which I was so proud of, all the deep affection I'd poured into him, in this man's eyes, had become a heavy chain. "So, my seven years of youth, all the painstaking effort I poured into my carvings for you, is worth less than a glass of warm water?" My voice trembled, my eyes burning with a painful ache. "You're excellent, Audrey." Julian stood up, looking down at me. "But things that shine too brightly can be blinding if you stare at them too long. I won't divorce you. The position of Mrs. Vance will always be yours. But I won't let Chloe go either." He dropped that bombshell, then turned and walked towards the guest room. I sat in the darkness, listening to the guest room door lock, and my tears finally splattered onto the back of my hand. The man who promised to shield me from every storm, had personally unleashed a blizzard on me.