Never His Muse Again

1 To save him the cost of professional models, I spent eight years posing nude in the drafty chill of our walk-up studio. Eight years of holding my breath on splintered floorboards while Derrick Cross caught the light on my collarbones. The night his solo retrospective opened at the Whitney, I sat in the third row, blinking through tears of raw pride. But the moment the host introduced the artist’s “enduring inspiration” and a photographer knocked the silk scarf from my face, a ripple of muffled laughter washed over the gallery. “Wait—that’s the woman from the canvases?” a woman in pearls murmured behind me. “She looks nothing like them. Good God, the real thing is so... ordinary.” The velvet curtain on the center wall slid back, and the blood in my veins turned to ice water. There were twelve monumental oil paintings. In every single one, the female figure was bent into postures of abject, groveling desperation—tear-streaked, hollow-eyed, tangled in soiled sheets, looking up at the viewer as if begging for scraps. I had never posed like that for him. Not once. He had taken my quiet stillness and warped it into a spectacle of female degradation, serving up my vulnerability as edgy, high-art titillation for collectors to dissect over pinot noir. Serena Montgomery leaned into my space, smelling of tuberose and vintage champagne. Her manicured fingers reached out and pinched the flesh at my waist. “Has our muse been overindulging at the bakery lately, Nat?” she purred, her voice dripping with mock concern. “No wonder Derrick told me the camera doesn't love your silhouette the way it used to.” A roaring sound filled my ears. I lunged toward the nearest canvas, my fingernails hooked like claws, desperate to tear the grotesque lie to shreds, but two private security guards tackled me instantly, pinning my shoulders to the polished concrete floor. Derrick stepped through the murmuring circle of patrons. He didn't look angry; he looked faintly amused, like an indulgent parent dealing with a toddler’s tantrum. He knelt, casually smoothing down the lapels of my coat. “Natalie, stop making a scene,” he whispered, his tone level and soothing. “You should be celebrating. The Muse series just hammered down for four point two million at the private auction. We finally have the money to get married.” He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “Serena’s father just offered me the resident fellowship at the Montgomery Foundation. We never have to worry about rent again. I’m booking the estate in St. Barts for our honeymoon. A custom Cartier band. Whatever you want.” His eyes shone with a feverish, triumphant glow. He didn't even notice Serena standing a few feet behind him, watching me with a look of cold, victorious contempt. “Your body, my brush,” Derrick murmured, smiling. “We’re an iconic pairing, Nat. The art world will remember us.” My heart plummeted into an abyss. Then his gaze drifted down my figure, appraising, clinical. “Though... she’s right. You’ve softened up around the hips, and I have three private commissions lined up for the spring. I need you to drop fifteen pounds before the studio sessions start. Give me two weeks.” I looked at him—really looked at the handsome, chiseled face I had loved since I was nineteen—and pressed my hand against the faint, tender swell of my lower belly. “I don't need two weeks,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Half a day will do.” Derrick blinked, then chuckled under his breath, mistaking my words for bitter sarcasm. He reached out and squeezed the back of my neck with familiar, easy affection. “All right, sweetheart. Have your little tantrum. Half a day it is.” He thought I was sulking. He didn't realize that the woman who had worshipped him was already dead. At the after-party in the museum's glass atrium, crystal flutes clinked against a backdrop of smooth jazz and fawning congratulations. Tonight was Derrick’s coronation. After eight years of scraping by on cheap instant noodles and secondhand canvas, he had reached the summit. Dressed in a bespoke Tom Ford tuxedo, he moved through the room with the easy charisma of a man who believed the world belonged to him. I stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, my lower abdomen throbbing with a dull, persistent ache. Back in art school, Derrick had loathed these functions. He hated stiff collars, skipped social dance workshops, and called high-society schmoozing an insult to pure creativity. Now, he guided Serena across the dance floor in a waltz so effortless it looked rehearsed. His black wool against her ivory silk. The perfect portrait of pedigree. At Serena’s throat, a cluster of pigeon-blood rubies caught the track lighting, blazing like fresh blood. It was the centerpiece of the archival jewelry suite Derrick had bought at the pre-gala auction an hour earlier—paid for with the four million dollars made off my humiliation. I looked down at my left hand. My ring finger was bare. The fiancée of the Montgomery Foundation’s newest star was supposed to wear an heirloom stone. But my hands were permanently calloused, the cuticles rough, the skin mapped with faint red chilblains from years of scrubbing oil paint off his palettes in the freezing utility sink of our unheated loft. To Derrick, hands like mine didn't deserve delicate platinum and diamonds. The music faded. Derrick caught sight of my chalk-white face and frowned slightly. Ever since the scandal eight years ago—when the faculty accused me of plagiarism and the predatory press camped outside my dorm like vultures—crowded rooms triggered violent claustrophobia in me. My lungs always felt starved for air. I wanted to walk up to him, take his sleeve, and tell him that I was bleeding, that I felt sick, that I needed to go home. Before I could take a step, he was already at my side, his voice a low, exasperated reprimand. “Natalie, there’s a limit to how long you can pout,” he murmured, checking over his shoulder to see if anyone was watching. “You haven't smiled once since I stepped onto the floor with Serena.” “Derrick, I feel—” “Serena has exceptional technique and an unimpeachable pedigree,” he cut in smoothly. “Keeping her close is an investment in our future. Her father sits on the board of the Pratt Institute and the Whitney. Don't you want our future kids to have doors opened for them before they can even walk?” Kids. The word stuck like broken glass in my throat. A couple of mid-tier dealers drifted past us, their eyes raking over my frame with unmistakable, greasy familiarity. “Well, look at that,” one of them said, swirling his bourbon and nudging his companion. “That’s Cross’s private muse. I’d recognize that mole below her collarbone in pitch black.” Shame burned through my veins. Instinctively, I shrank half a step behind Derrick, reaching for the back of his jacket. Eight years ago, Derrick would have broken the man’s jaw. Back then, my senior thesis project, Winter’s Passage, had stunned the faculty and taken the national gold medal. Overnight, the tabloids branded me a prodigy. And overnight, the smears began. Someone circulated anonymous rumors claiming I had slept with the department chair to secure the prize; others claimed I had plagiarized the composition from an elementary schooler's contest entry. When the department chair called me into his private office, locked the door, and told me he could make the plagiarism charges disappear if I spent the weekend with him at his beach house, Derrick had burst through the frosted glass door and shattered the man’s cheekbone with a single punch. The department buried the sexual assault, and my academic record was salvaged, but the plagiarism stain was never cleared. And Derrick’s prestigious MFA fellowship to Paris—the golden ticket he had killed himself to earn—was rescinded on the spot for violent conduct. He had destroyed his own future to keep me safe. I had spent eight years believing he would always be that shield. Now, Derrick didn't even turn his head toward the two men. He merely patted the back of my hand with a dismissive sigh. “Relax, Nat. You're being paranoid. They’re patrons. They’re appreciating the work. Nobody has an agenda here; stop looking for insults where there are none.” My lip trembled. I bit down until I tasted iron. When he had nothing, he was willing to fight the entire world for my dignity. Now that he had everything, my dignity was just another line item he was willing to negotiate away. A sudden movement shattered the silence. Serena turned sharply, her elbow catching a passing caterer's tray. A flute of boiling-hot mulled cider and half a glass of champagne toppled over, drenching the front of my cream silk dress. It was the dress I had bought for our informal engagement party five years ago. Tonight was only the second time I had ever allowed myself to wear it. “Oh, God, Nat, I am so sorry!” Serena gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, though her eyes were sparkling with malice. “I’m such a klutz.” Derrick didn't look at my soaked dress. His hands went straight to Serena’s bare arms. “Are you all right? Did any of the hot cider hit your skin?” Serena tilted her head, biting her lip with rehearsed vulnerability. “I’m fine, Derrick. I’m not made of porcelain.” He let out a relieved breath, then glanced back at me, his brow furrowed with annoyance. “It’s fine, Nat. It’s just silk; we can take it to the French cleaners tomorrow. Serena didn't mean to do it.” She did. She had angled her elbow with precision. The scalding cider was soaking through my slip, blistering the skin of my inner thigh. I looked up at Derrick, spending the very last reserve of my strength. “Derrick,” I whispered. “I am bleeding. I need you to take me home right now.” His jaw tightened. “I can’t. I promised Arthur I would drive Serena back to their estate in Greenwich. It’s out of the way.” He lowered his voice, adopting the patient tone one uses with a difficult child. “Her father has old-school rules about curfews. If she’s late, it reflects poorly on me.” “Yeah, Nat,” Serena chimed in, adjusting her mink stole. “Daddy will have an absolute fit if I’m not through the gates by midnight.” Derrick gave the top of my head a cursory pat. “Call an Uber. Take a hot bath. I’ll see you at the apartment later.” He turned, his hand resting possessively on the small of Serena’s back, guiding her toward the valet line where a black town car was idling. The crimson taillights cut through the fog and vanished into the Manhattan night, leaving me standing alone on the curb. It was nearly one in the morning. Rain was starting to fall in icy needles, slicking the pavement. Because the gallery sat near the abandoned industrial docks, yellow cabs refused to stop, and every rideshare driver canceled the moment they saw the destination: an outer-borough neighborhood full of crumbling brick walk-ups and cracked sidewalks. The wind sliced through the wet fabric of my dress, sinking straight into my marrow. I should have been used to the cold. We had lived in it for nearly a decade. I remembered our first winter in that loft, splitting a stale bagel for dinner, huddling under three scratchy wool blankets because we couldn't afford the heating oil. I remembered standing naked on a wooden crate for three hours at a stretch, my muscles seizing, because Derrick couldn't afford a professional figure model. And I remembered how, when he finally put his brushes down, he would fall to his knees, wrap his warm wool coat around my frozen body, tuck my blue feet into his sweater, and weep against my shoulder. “Wait for me, Nat,” he had sobbed into my hair. “Just wait until I break through. I’m going to buy you an ocean of red roses. The biggest ruby in New York. A bespoke ring nobody else can touch. I’m going to take you everywhere you’ve ever dreamed of going...” I had loved red. I had loved the heat, the defiance, the life of it. So why did my chest feel like an open grave? I pulled my cracked phone from my clutch and dialed a number I hadn't called in years. Eight years ago, when the academic board moved to strip my awards, only one person had stood up for me—Beatrice Fontaine, our visiting professor from France. Her defense of me had cost her tenure review, forcing her back to Europe. Three months ago, she had been appointed dean of a prestigious contemporary arts institute in Paris. Last month, she had sent me a brief email: Your talent was never meant to be starved in another man's shadow, Natalie. I have an open fellowship for a studio assistant. Come. She had added a self-deprecating postscript: Though I hear Derrick Cross is about to conquer the American market. Perhaps my little studio is too modest for you now. Standing on the freezing street corner, the screen’s harsh blue glare reflecting off my wet cheeks, I hit send on a draft I had written two weeks ago. Professor Fontaine. I accept. At dawn, I pushed open the bedroom door and nearly walked straight into Serena. She was standing in our narrow foyer, clutching an armful of canvas rolls and thick portfolios, radiating the fresh scent of expensive citrus perfume. Derrick emerged from the study behind her, carrying two steaming mugs of pour-over coffee. “Serena needs notes on her portfolio for the fall salon. I was so tied up with the retrospective that I haven't had time to look at her drafts.” My eyes drifted past them to the living room wall. The painting was gone. It was Crimson in Winter—a study of deep scarlet roses against cracked slate, the very first painting Derrick had ever given me. He had stayed awake for seventy-two straight hours during our second year together, guiding my hand across the linen, teaching me his glazing technique. It was our talisman. Even when we couldn't pay the electric bill, I had refused to let pawn shops look at it. Serena followed my gaze and offered a sweet, apologetic smile. “Derrick said the gallery wall in my new Chelsea studio looked a little barren. He let me borrow it to anchor the room for my collectors.” The taste of bile rose in my throat. Before I could speak, Derrick crossed the floor and pulled me into his chest with an arm that felt like an iron band. He smelled of Tom Ford’s Oud Wood—a heavy, resinous scent that masked the clean, crisp smell of the unscented laundry detergent I used to buy him. His embrace, once my only sanctuary in the world, felt like a cage. “It’s just a study, Nat. Don't be petty,” he whispered into my hair, his voice smooth and practiced. “Once the Montgomery show opens, I’ll paint you something ten times better.” Without waiting for an answer, he turned and followed Serena back into the study. The heavy oak door clicked shut behind them. They stayed in that room all day. I knelt by the small vintage trunk at the foot of our bed. Methodically, without making a sound, I packed my passport, my birth certificate, my sketchbook journals, and my savings ledger into the hidden sleeve of my canvas rucksack. When Serena finally left at dusk, the marble coffee table was littered with takeout containers from an upscale French bistro in SoHo—black truffle agnolotti, seared foie gras with fig reduction, whipped mascarpone. Foods with names I had only read about in foreign magazines. Derrick glanced at the half-eaten delicacies, then shoved them aside. “We have the formal black-tie wedding in less than a month,” he said, looking at me critically. “A bride needs sharp lines. A tailored gown doesn't forgive soft edges.” He pushed a takeout container of steamed, unseasoned greens and three blister packs of clinical-grade appetite suppressants across the counter toward me. “I know the Montgomery gala is tomorrow night and you can't drop the weight by then, but you need to start being disciplined.” Tomorrow night was his formal induction as the Foundation’s Chief Fellow. My limbs felt heavy, like lead pipes. “I’m not feeling well, Derrick. I’m not going tomorrow.” He leaned down, pressing a dry, patronizing kiss to the crown of my head. “Just this once, sweetheart. Please? You’re my muse. You’re the centerpiece of the entire catalog. How would it look if my woman wasn't standing on the riser with me?” I closed my eyes. I had stopped wanting to be his muse a very long time ago. That night, around two in the morning, Serena texted him claiming that a layer of damar varnish had ruined one of her senior canvases. Derrick threw back the duvet, grabbed his noise-canceling headphones, and locked himself in the study. Through the thin drywall, I listened to him speak to her in that low, infinitely patient cadence he hadn't used with me in five years. He didn't return to our bed until the sky outside turned the color of bruised pewter. At eight in the morning, I sat on the vinyl bench of a women's clinic in Queens, my fingers trembling as I signed the intake consent forms. The doctor looked down at my chart, her expression tight with quiet pity. “Between the severe pelvic hypothermia from your medical history and the ongoing internal bleeding... the damage to the uterine lining is extensive. If we proceed with the evacuation today, the chances of carrying a pregnancy to term in the future are practically zero.” I stared at the black ink of my signature. “I know.” The procedure took less than three hours. When I stepped out of the clinic’s heavy glass doors, a torrential October rain had turned the avenue into an iron-gray river. I took out my phone and dialed Derrick’s number. It rang until it dropped to voicemail. Once. Twice. Four times. Numbly, I swiped open Instagram. Serena’s latest story flashed on the screen—a photograph of delicate, pale suede loafers resting on a polished dashboard, raindrops streaking the tinted window. The caption read: *Suede hates New York rain. Thank God for mentors who will drive forty blocks out of their way to play chauffeur ~* He had time. He had plenty of time, so long as the destination was her. The cramps in my pelvic floor hit like a serrated knife. I had no umbrella, and the nearest subway station was three long blocks away. I stepped off the curb into the downpour. The cold water instantly soaked through my canvas sneakers, sending sharp, electric jolts of agony up my spine. My knees buckled. I caught myself against a rusted lamppost, gasping for breath. A sleek black Mercedes pulled up to the curb, its hazard lights blinking. Derrick pushed open the driver’s door, an umbrella already deployed over his head, and caught my elbow. “Natalie? What the hell are you doing out here in this weather? Why are you drenched?” His voice sounded frantic, almost caring. But my gaze drifted past his shoulder to the back seat. Piled neatly on the leather were three pastel gift boxes from an artisanal patisserie on the Upper East Side—the exact lavender macarons Serena posted about every Sunday. He pulled out his phone, his thumbs flying across the screen. “I’m ordering you a black car right now. Go straight home, take a hot shower, and get under the blankets. Don't get sick.” I looked at the warm, dry interior of his car. “Can’t you just drive me? It’s fifteen minutes.” Derrick didn't look up from his screen. “The seats are semi-aniline leather, Nat. If they soak up dirty rainwater, the grain is ruined. It takes weeks to detail.” It wasn't about the leather. It was about keeping the cabin pristine for Serena when he picked her up ten minutes from now. The rideshare sedan pulled up behind him. Derrick opened the rear door for me, shoved an umbrella into my numb hands, and watched me slide onto the vinyl seat. He didn't wait to see the car merge into traffic; he was already back in his Mercedes, executing a sharp U-turn, speeding toward the highway. In the back of that stranger's car, surrounded by the smell of damp carpet and cheap pine air freshener, the last ember of love in my chest went completely cold. That evening, as the local anesthesia wore off, the pain tore through me with the force of an eviction. I lay curled on our bed, drenched in cold sweat, clutching a hot water bottle that had lost its heat hours ago. In the other room, Serena had called again, complaining that the lighting in her studio was flat. Derrick had taken his laptop into the study without a second glance in my direction. Gritting my teeth against the tearing sensation in my abdomen, I dragged myself out of bed. One by one, I gathered the sketchbooks from the shelf above the radiator—hundreds of graphite studies, charcoal gestures, and ink washes he had made of me over eight years. I carried them out to the rusted fire escape. The rain had stopped, leaving the night air raw and sharp. I struck a match. The dry paper caught instantly. Pages of my youth, my collarbones, my hands, my averted gaze—all of it curled into black, glowing lace, scattering like dead moths into the alley below. My tears had run out hours ago. I didn't attend his induction gala the next night. I watched the live broadcast from the local arts network on my laptop. Derrick looked radiant on stage, receiving the medal of fellowship. And standing at his side, holding the celebratory bouquet, was Serena Montgomery—glowing, poised, acting every bit the gracious hostess of his new life. When he came home at midnight, the scent of expensive bourbon preceded him. He was flush with adrenaline. He flipped open his iPad and shoved it under my nose. “Look at this. The floral schematics for the ceremony at St. Bartholomew’s.” I looked at the screen. Cascades of ivory and alabaster. “All white roses,” he said proudly. “Serena helped me finalize the vendor. She said white represents purity and absolute devotion. Classic elegance.” I stared at the sea of white blossoms. Devotion. What a sick, hollow joke. “Whatever you want,” I said quietly, turning my face toward the dark window. Derrick seemed thrilled by my compliance. For the next three days, our dingy apartment was overrun with bridal samples, ribbon swatches, and artisanal favor boxes. He spent his evenings on speakerphone with high-end caterers, pacing the floor, pointing at mood boards. “Nat, look at this trailing ribbon. Silver or cream?” “Cream is fine.” On Thursday, he dragged me to a bridal salon on Madison Avenue. Serena arrived five minutes after we did, carrying her slim leather portfolio, claiming she needed Derrick to review the curatorial notes for her upcoming solo debut while we waited. The bridal consultant zipped me into a heavy, structured gown of Chantilly lace. The corsetry dug violently into my healing ribs, cinching my hollow waist. In the floor-to-ceiling mirrors, I looked like an apparition. Derrick stepped up behind me, resting his chin on my bare shoulder. “Look at you,” he murmured, his hands resting on my hips. “In seventy-two hours, you’re officially the wife of the Montgomery Foundation’s chief fellow.” Once, this image would have made me weep with gratitude. Now, the boutique felt like a holding cell. “I’m going to try the midnight-blue tux in the private suite,” Derrick said, tapping my hip before turning away. That left Serena and me alone on the pedestal. Serena settled into a velvet armchair, crossing her long legs, idly swiping through high-resolution scans on her tablet. I stepped off the platform to reach for my coat. As I passed her chair, my eyes caught the screen. My lungs seized. It was a digital archive of the National Junior Fine Arts Competition from twelve years ago. The winning submission: a barren winter riverbank, gnarled willow branches clawing at an iron sky, the ink wash applied with a distinct, dry-brush dragging technique. It was Winter’s Passage. The exact composition that had won me the national collegiate prize eight years ago—and the exact image that had been used to destroy me when critics claimed I had stolen it from a ten-year-old child prodigy. My whole body began to shake. I pointed a trembling finger at the screen. “Where... where did you get that?” Serena looked up from the glass, her lips curving into a slow, venomous smile. “Why so pale, Nat?” she whispered, tilting her head with feigned innocence. “This was my winning piece from the junior salon. Derrick was my private tutor back then, you know. He gave me the entire layout. The palette, the negative space, the emotional weight—he sketched it out on my canvas himself.” The room spun. The walls seemed to tilt inward. “You...” My throat clamped shut. “He gave that to you?” “Of course he did,” Serena laughed softly, leaning forward. “I was ten years old. Do you honestly think I knew how to paint desolate emotional landscapes? Derrick built that painting for me. And when you submitted that exact same composition for your graduation project a few years later, well... you made it so easy for us. Who would the art world believe? A privileged little girl with a famous last name, or an insecure scholarship student desperate for validation?” She tapped the screen, her gaze turning cold and sharp. “Derrick told me you were brilliant, but unstable. He said you were obsessed with his aesthetic. He gave me the sketch because he wanted to see it properly executed by someone with the resources to elevate it. You were always just a draft, Nat.” Every piece of the puzzle fell into place with sickening clarity. It hadn't been an unfortunate coincidence. It hadn't been a misunderstanding. The man who had thrown a punch to save me from the department chair had been the very man who orchestrated the trap in the first place. He had manufactured my ruin so that I would have nowhere else to turn—so that I would spend eight years living in his shadow, scrubbing his brushes, offering my body to his canvas, forever indebted to his protection. The door to the fitting room swung open. Derrick stepped out, resplendent in his bespoke navy tuxedo, adjusting his silk bow tie. The roaring in my ears reached a deafening crescendo. I grabbed the heavy satin bouquet from the display pedestal and hurled it with all my strength straight at his face. The silk blossoms struck his chest, raining white petals across the carpet. “Why?!” I screamed, my voice cracking, tears finally burning down my cheeks. “Why did you do it to me?!” Derrick staggered back, stunned. “Natalie? What the hell is wrong with you—” Before he could reach me, Serena let out a sharp cry of pain. “Derrick! My hand!” She dropped her tablet. A sheet of heavy mounting board had caught her index finger, opening a thin, shallow scratch along the knuckle. A single bead of red welled against her pale skin. Derrick didn't hesitate. He bypassed me entirely, dropping to his knees beside Serena's chair, stripping off his tuxedo jacket to wrap it around her shoulders. “Let me see it,” he said, his voice taut with panic. “Is it deep? We need to go to urgent care. If you get an infection before the gallery installation—” He helped her up, his arm wrapped firmly around her waist, ushering her toward the glass doors without looking back once. As they stepped onto Madison Avenue, Serena glanced over his shoulder. Through the plate glass, she caught my eye and let her lips curl into a triumphant, mocking grin. I stood alone in the center of the boutique, surrounded by scattered white silk petals, and slowly reached for the zipper of the white dress. The night before the wedding, the loft looked like a funeral parlor. Derrick had ordered hundreds of long-stemmed white roses to be delivered early. They filled every mason jar, water bucket, and paint tin in the apartment, their cloying, sweet perfume thick enough to choke on. It was past eleven when my phone buzzed. Derrick was still at the venue, overseeing the lighting rig. “Nat,” he said, his voice breathless, sounding like an eager schoolboy. “I’m sorry about this afternoon. Serena’s finger needed three butterfly stitches, but everything’s fine now. Listen... tomorrow, I have a surprise for you. A wedding the whole city will talk about for a decade.” I held the phone to my ear, listening to the hollow echo of the venue behind him. “Okay.” “Why are you so quiet?” His voice softened, dropping into that familiar, velvet purr. “Are you nervous, sweetheart?” “No,” I said evenly. “Not nervous.” “Nat,” he murmured, his tone heavy with theatrical tenderness. “Once we say the vows tomorrow, everything changes. I’m going to make it all up to you. I swear to God, I will never let you feel small again.” I closed my eyes, listening to the promises that used to buy my silence. “Okay.” “Get some sleep. Don't stay up sketching. I’ll be at the door at eight sharp to pick you up, my bride.” “Okay.” I ended the call. In the corner of the bedroom, my single canvas duffel bag sat zipped and ready. At midnight, the city lights blurred beneath the wings of the Air France flight as it climbed into the cloud cover over the Atlantic. My phone buzzed one last time before switching to airplane mode. Derrick: I love you. In eight years, through all of it, you are the only woman I have ever loved. I pressed my forehead against the cold plexiglass of the window. My eyes burned, but not a single tear fell. He was back there, watching the clock, waiting for sunrise. Waiting for his captive muse. Waiting for an audience to applaud his benevolence. He would never understand that the girl who had starved for his affection was already gone, leaving nothing behind but the ashes of his own vanity.