Chapter 12
Maxwell’s international art exhibition turned out to be a great success, and soon, we arrived at the Azura leg of the tour.
As he wheeled my suitcase through the airport, we were quickly surrounded by a swarm of reporters.
Some tried to dig up gossip about me and Henry, but Maxwell shielded me from every question with calm precision.
Just then, a haggard figure pushed through the crowd, clutching a painting.
It was Henry. He looked unshaven and worn out.
The painting was the “Valmont Sunset“-the one I had torn to shreds the day I left the studio.
Someone had painstakingly pieced it back together with adhesive.
Ignoring the cameras and the onlookers, Henry dropped to his knees.
“Rosalind, do you remember the promise we made? It was my fault. I broke it. So I dug through the trash and stayed up night
after night for a month to put it back together.
