CHAPTER THREE – AN OFFER FROM THE MASTER

"You bastard," she seethed, oblivious to the shocked tears now streaming down her face. "After everything...you'd just discard me like some inconvenient problem to be handled?" Ethan cradled the reddening imprint on his face, unable to meet the accusation blazing in her eyes. Lila immediately moved to his side, draping herself around him protectively as she glowered at Jasmine with smug disdain. "You need to leave," the younger woman stated coldly. "This is none of your business anymore." Despite the turmoil churning inside her, Jasmine couldn't help but let out a hollow, disbelieving laugh. She had been living this nightmare scenario on an endless loop in her mind, agonizing over how she might beg or bargain to save her fracturing marriage. But now that she stood face-to-face with the ugly reality, she found a strange sense of strength and self-respect rising within her. Ethan didn't deserve her pride. Neither of them did. Drawing herself up to her full height, Jasmine fixed them both with a look of pure, potent disgust. Then, without another word, she spun on her heel and stormed out of the office, letting the door slam shut behind her with a defiant bang. Her steps remained steady despite the tracks of angry tears streaking her cheeks. As the elevator doors slid closed, Jasmine felt the first faint blossoms of relief beginning to unfurl amid the roiling storm inside her. The worst had happened, she had seen their deceit with her own eyes, and she had refused to grovel or beg for the love that was no longer hers. Touching a trembling hand to the pendant that had once held so much meaning, she couldn't help but wonder - where did they go from here The walk back home seemed to stretch endlessly before Jasmine as she navigated the bustling Manhattan sidewalks in a daze. Her feet carried her automatically, retracing the familiar path from Ethan's office in the Financial District almost on autopilot. She was oblivious to the cacophony of honking taxi horns and shouted expletives from disgruntled drivers as she wandered unseeing into the crosswalk against the light. A startled shriek from a passing pedestrian finally jolted her back to awareness, prompting her to tearfully mouth an apology before scurrying to the safety of the curb. How she wished she could simply hail a cab and retreat into herself for that blessedly isolating ride back uptown. But Ethan had handled things like transportation without a second thought, always deferring to his ability to provide while she floated through life relatively unbothered by those mundane responsibilities. Now, without that safety net, the enormity of having to face the harsh city alone settled heavily on her like a suffocating veil. Pausing beneath the shadows of a towering office building, Jasmine drew in a shuddering breath and willed herself not to completely unravel into sobs here on the sidewalk. She needed to keep moving, get back to the comfort and familiarity of her home - their home. At least for now. The thought propelled her forward again, each measured step feeling like a monumental effort. How many times had she traversed these winding city blocks with a joyful lightness in her heart? She and Ethan had loved leisurely strolling through the neighborhoods, popping into trendy cafes and galleries, or slowly ambling their way across Central Park on beautiful days. There had always been an unspoken intimacy to wandering the city together like lovesick teenagers, despite being in their mid-thirties and well into the routine of marital life. But now as Jasmine turned onto the very avenue where they used to window-shop and admire the artful holiday displays, the streetlights seemed to blur into an inkblot of melancholic grays and blacks. A gauzy film of heartbreak clouded her vision, leaving everything looking cold and devoid of that vibrant spark that used to captivate her artistically inclined eye. By the time she finally stumbled through the doors of a quaint cafe tucked just off Madison Avenue, Jasmine felt as if the weight of the world bore down upon her trembling shoulders. Her cheeks were flushed and damp, her styled hair falling in limp strands around her face. She must have been a pitiful sight, prompting a few concerned glances from the other patrons. With a quiet sniffle, Jasmine slid listlessly into a secluded booth near the back, not even bothering to shed her coat. The dimly lit nook provided a cocoon of solitude that she desperately craved in that moment. Closing her reddened eyes, she let her head fall back against the soft cushion as she summoned every last ounce of composure. "Well, if it isn't the renowned Jasmine Delacroix..." The distinctly cultured, feminine voice sliced through the insular quiet Jasmine had cocooned herself in. Her eyes flew open to find the immaculately sophisticated figure of Madame Rousseau sweeping towards her table. Jasmine felt her cheeks instantly flame with embarrassment at being seen in such a wrecked state by one of the most esteemed art critics in the city - a critic whose opinion could make or demolish an artist's entire career. "M-Madame Rousseau," she stammered out weakly as the older woman slid uninvited into the booth across from her. "What an unexpected...pleasure..." In her mid-sixties but still every inch the quintessential Parisian beauty, Madame Rousseau's impeccably arched brow arched ever higher as she took in Jasmine's disheveled appearance with a sweep of her discerning emerald eyes. "Indeed," she remarked dryly. "Though I must say, you appear to be having a dreadful day, my dear." Jasmine self-consciously smoothed her hands over her hopelessly wrinkled skirt, unable to meet the critic's piercing gaze. She knew there was no use pretending - Madame Rousseau possessed an uncanny ability to cut through any facade to the raw truth beneath. It was what made her opinion so invaluable in the art world. "It...has been a very difficult day, yes," Jasmine admitted shakily. In truth, it had been the most soul-crushing day of her life, but she didn't have the strength or the coherence to fully explain. For a long moment, the chic Frenchwoman simply regarded her in contemplative silence. Just as Jasmine felt her cheeks beginning to heat with fresh humiliation, Madame Rousseau spoke again. "I attended your debut gallery showing at the Eldridge last month, Miss Delacroix." Whatever response Jasmine had been bracing herself for, it certainly wasn't that. She blinked owlishly, catching the faintest hint of displeasure flickering across the esteemed critic's features at not being acknowledged immediately. "You...did?" she finally managed, confusion and a flicker of hope warring within her. Madame Rousseau gave a curt nod. "Indeed. Though I will admit, your collection was not at all what I anticipated based on the rubbish that passes for modern art these days." Her ruby-painted lips curved into something resembling approval. "Your brushwork has a vibrant expressionism, an authenticity of emotion that elevated even your most simple still life pieces into profound explorations of life's bittersweet beauty." Warmth blossomed across Jasmine's cheeks, and she fought back the urge to duck her head again. Praise from Madame Rousseau was not something to take lightly – her opinion essentially minted an artist's reputation in this city. "Thank you..." she murmured, scarcely able to meet the other woman's piercing stare. "That is...incredibly generous of you to say." "I never deal in empty platitudes or gushing simplifications, Miss Delacroix," Madame Rousseau stated, almost chidingly. "I call it as I see it with a truthful, critical eye. And I saw great potential in your work that night." Shame crept up Jasmine's spine at that observation. If only this esteemed critic could see the pathetic emotional turmoil of her real life today.