I knew—Layla despised Nathaniel.
She thought he was a drifter, the kind of man who'd never make a reliable husband.
"He can't do a lick of honest work and doesn't know the first thing about making a living. What kind of future is he going to give you?"
Back then I'd been stubborn, convinced Nathaniel was simply an unrecognized genius. Once someone saw his talent, everyone else would have to see it too.
Turns out, Layla and I were both right. After we married, Nathaniel was hardly ever home. He spent his days drifting wherever inspiration took him, sketching from life, while every last thing in that household—big or small—fell on me.
Nathaniel's art would indeed appreciate in value over the years. But by then he'd donated every last painting and scroll to the school he credited as his "great patron." Not a single piece left for me—his most loyal follower.
The day I married Nathaniel, Layla was so angry she stayed home.
The night before, she'd still been pushing me to run from the wedding: