What the Light Forgets

Henry was true to his word. His studio no longer had anything to do with me.

I had never been his official agent, as I had always managed his career merely as his wife.

But soon, I wouldn't even be that.

The next day, I went to the office to pack my things.

Just as I arrived, I overheard the studio manager trying to persuade Henry.

"Mr. Shepherd, you were too impulsive yesterday. All these years, it’s been your wife handling everything behind the scenes.

“If she really gets upset and refuses to come back, the upcoming exhibition will fall into chaos."

Henry snorted through his nose.

"She merely basked in my glory. If the exhibitions succeeded, it was all because of my talent.

"If she doesn’t come, let Tamara take over her work. It’s just menial tasks—anyone can do them."

As if remembering something, Henry added, "Tamara isn’t like Rosalind. She’s naive and unwilling to flatter others. Don’t let her attend those banquets."

I had originally planned to go in and hand over my work to the manager, but now I saw there was no need.

Just then, a WhatsApp notification popped up.

The team in Valmont informed me that they had already arranged my visa—I could leave at any time.

I went straight home and began packing.

Halfway through, Henry unexpectedly returned with a serving of mushroom soup.

I stared at the broken seal and the almost empty container.

Without hesitation, I tossed the leftovers straight into the trash.

Henry looked ready to explode, but when his gaze fell on the pitiful amount of soup left, guilt swallowed his anger whole.

"It’s not leftovers," Henry said stiffly.

He had clearly forgotten that I was allergic to mushroom soup.

Years ago, when Henry had just come of age, reckless and brimming with pride, he provoked a rival.

The man had aimed to cripple his hand, but I had taken the blow for him.

To comfort me, he had bought me some mushroom soup.

Yet it was that very soup that nearly cost me my life.

Back then, for every second I fought for my life in the emergency room, Henry had knelt outside the door, vowing that he would never let me near mushrooms again.

But even the most searing memories were no match for time. Those same memories faded, leaving not even a scar behind.

Perhaps my unnerving silence made Henry uneasy.

He paced behind me for a while before finally, awkwardly, trying to back down.

"I lost my temper and embarrassed you in public," he admitted.

"But I’m still the head of the studio. I have to be fair and want to earn people’s respect.

"It’s not that I’m forbidding you from helping with the studio. If you’d just quietly apologize to Tamara—"

"Excuse me," I said, cutting him off without a glance.

I brushed past him into the bathroom to pack my cosmetics.

His words hung in the air, stuck in his throat, as a strange, helpless frustration surged through him.

Inside the bathroom drawer lay a package of sanitary pads that clearly didn’t belong to me.

Outside the door, I heard Tamara’s voice on the phone.

"Mr. Shepherd," she said sweetly, "I got my period at the hospital, but I can’t find the special brand for younger girls. There’s a pack left in your bathroom. Could you bring it to me?"

Henry stepped into the bathroom, only to catch me pulling open the drawer.

His gaze flickered with guilt before he quickly walked away.

"I couldn’t find it. I’ll go buy you a new pack from the store," he said into the receiver.

"Please hurry, Mr. Shepherd! If the hospital bed gets dirty, the nurses will be upset—and I’d be so embarrassed!"

Henry seemed to have a lot of patience for Tamara’s antics.

He even seemed to note every detail of what she needed: the brand, the length, the type.

By the time he hung up, I had finished packing my suitcase.

Then he turned back awkwardly and tried to explain, "Don't read too much into it. She only came over that day to change her clothes."

I shrugged.

"Make sense."

Henry grew irritated. "Why do you always put on that cold face? If it bothers you that much, then fine, I won’t go."

I smiled lightly, but did not respond.

Henry watched my expression, realizing I truly wasn’t angry, before finally stepping out the door.

When he reached the door, he hesitated, then turned back.

"Where are you going with all that luggage?" he asked.

"Valmont," I answered plainly.

A flash of realization crossed Henry’s face, and his whole body seemed to relax.

"Next week," he said, "I’ll clear my schedule and take you to Valmont for our honeymoon."

On the day I had decided to leave, Henry had finally remembered the promises we once made.

Unfortunately, it was already too late.

While waiting at the airport, I happened to see a post from Tamara that she had purposely tagged me in.

In the video, she lay on a hospital bed, her hair covered in soapy foam, while a pair of masculine hands washed her hair.

It captured Henry’s voice.

"Don’t move," he said affectionately.

Tamara had adorned her caption with several heart emojis:

[My hand’s injured and I can’t get it wet, so Mr. Shepherd insisted on washing my hair for me.

[It’s so oily, and I’m so embarrassed… but he doesn’t mind at all! He even said he’ll keep taking care of me like this from now on.]

Right on cue, Henry’s message arrived:

[Something’s come up next week. Cancel the ticket for now. I’ll find time to go with you next month.]

What he didn’t know was that I had never booked a ticket for him in the first place.

Just before takeoff, I had my lawyer send him the divorce papers—then I switched on airplane mode.