BRUSHSTROKES OF REVENGE

The penthouse gradually fell into silence. The servants moved quietly through the living room, sweeping away the fragments of shattered porcelain that still glimmered faintly under the chandelier.

No one dared to speak. The sound of the broom brushing against the marble floor was the only thing that broke the stillness.

When the last piece was gone, they bowed slightly and excused themselves, their footsteps fading down the hallway until the apartment was completely still.

Only Layton and Mike remained. Neither of them spoke. The air inside the enormous penthouse felt strangely hollow, as though the walls themselves had absorbed the tension of the day and were now exhaling it back into the room.

Layton loosened his tie and walked toward the floor-to-ceiling window. The dazzling night view of Greendale stretched before him, a sea of glittering lights and distant motion.

Usually, standing there helped him clear his thoughts after a long day. Tonight, it only made his mind more restless.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, a small habit that surfaced whenever he was tired. But this exhaustion wasn’t physical. It was the kind that settled deep in the chest, heavy and unfamiliar.

The entire day had gone completely off script. Nothing had unfolded the way he expected. When he had handed Mindy the divorce papers yesterday morning, he hadn’t truly intended to end their marriage.

He had only wanted to frighten her, to make her stop arguing, to remind her of her place.

For the past year, every disagreement between them had followed the same pattern. Mindy would cry, apologize first, and then return to being the quiet, accommodating wife she had always been.

That was the Mindy he knew—stubborn in love, hopelessly devoted, unable to leave him no matter how cold he became.

She had always been predictable in her affection, steady in her devotion. But the woman who stood before him today had been someone else entirely.

She had looked him in the eyes without even a trace of emotion. There had been no pleading, no hesitation, no warmth.

She had called him ”President Knight.” Not Layton. Not even once. The sound of that title still echoed in his mind, sharp and distant.

It had felt like a wall being built between them, one brick at a time. And then there were the words that had followed—two simple words that refused to leave his thoughts. Get lost.

For reasons he couldn’t explain, those words irritated him far more than they should have.

They weren’t shouted.

They weren’t cruel.

But they carried a finality that unsettled him. It was as if she had already decided he no longer existed in her world.

Mike stood several steps behind him, silent as always. After seven years of working beside Layton, he had learned exactly when to speak and when to remain invisible. This was one of those moments.

The quiet stretched on until it became almost unbearable. Finally, Layton’s voice broke through it. ”Has she contacted anyone?”

Mike immediately understood who he meant. ”I asked someone to look into it,” he replied.

”Miss Mindy hasn’t contacted anyone from the Hawthorne family.

She also hasn’t contacted anyone from the Knight family.”

Layton frowned slightly. ”What about Ana?”

”She’s with Miss Ana Bose,” Mike said.

Layton wasn’t surprised. Ana had always been the only person who openly stood on Mindy’s side. Even before the marriage, even during family gatherings, she had never hidden her dislike for him.

He still remembered the day Ana had looked him straight in the eye and called him a handsome refrigerator. The memory almost made him smile. Almost.

Mike hesitated before speaking again. ”President, there’s something else.”

Layton turned slightly. ”What?”

”The reporters are still outside the building,” Mike said carefully. ”They’re waiting in case Miss Mindy returns.”

Layton’s expression darkened. ”They’ll leave eventually.”

”Yes, President.” Mike said.

Then Mike asked again, President, What about the article?

Layton said, Contact the PR team and asked them to contact Bose Media and remove that article.

”Yes, President.” Mike lowered his head again. The silence returned, heavier than before.

Layton’s gaze drifted across the living room. Everything looked exactly the same. The furniture was in its usual place, the paintings still hung neatly on the walls, and the fresh flowers had already been replaced by the staff earlier that afternoon.

Nothing had changed, yet something felt different. The air itself seemed colder, emptier. His eyes moved toward the dining table. It was spotless, the surface gleaming under the soft light.

Usually, around this hour, dinner would already be waiting. Even if he came home late, even if he never touched it, Mindy always prepared it.

He had long grown accustomed to the sight of warm food waiting for him, the faint aroma of soup or tea lingering in the air.

It had become part of the rhythm of his evenings, something he never thought about until now. Tonight, the table was bare.

He walked toward the kitchen. The lights were off. The refrigerator hummed quietly, filled with neatly organized ingredients, but nothing had been prepared.

The coffee machine sat silently on the counter. There was no handwritten note beside it, no reminder telling him not to skip breakfast, no message reminding him about tomorrow’s meeting.

The small details that had once filled the space were gone.

Layton stood there for several seconds, staring at the spotless counters. He didn’t know why, but the silence felt unusually uncomfortable.

It pressed against him, heavy and unfamiliar. He closed the refrigerator door and turned away.

Mike followed a few steps behind, his eyes scanning the apartment. Something caught his attention. ”President,” he said quietly.

Layton turned. ”What is it?”

Mike pointed toward the bookshelf. ”There seems to be less.”

Layton walked over, his eyes moving slowly across the shelves. For the first time, he realized they were almost empty.

Over the past two years, Mindy had gradually filled one entire section with art books, sketchbooks, novels, and small handmade decorations.

She had once told him that books made a home feel alive.

Now, that section was bare. Only his business manuals and financial reports remained. The shelf looked strangely lifeless.

He frowned unconsciously. ”When did she pack?”

Mike’s answer came quietly. ”She must have packed before coming here, President. The movers cleared her studio.”

Layton froze. ”Movers?”

”Yes. I confirmed it just now. They arrived this morning. Miss Mindy must have arranged everything last night.”

Layton said nothing. The realization settled slowly.

She had planned this. She hadn’t acted on impulse.

She had already packed her belongings before coming to the penthouse.

She had called movers to clear her studio while the family argued downstairs. She had come prepared.

He continued walking through the apartment. The guest room was empty. The small painting room beside the balcony was also empty.

He paused at the doorway, remembering the faint scent of paint that used to drift through the hall. He had complained once that the smell disturbed him while he worked.

The very next day, Mindy had quietly moved everything into the smaller room. She never argued. She simply adjusted.

He pushed the door open. The room echoed faintly. The easel was gone. The unfinished canvases were gone.

The shelves that had once been filled with brushes and paints were completely bare. Only faint stains of dried paint remained on the wooden floor, small traces of color that refused to fade.

They were proof that someone had once spent countless hours here, lost in her own world. Layton stood there quietly, his eyes tracing the faint marks on the floor.

Without realizing it, he had walked through every room in the penthouse except one. Their bedroom. He hesitated for a moment before pushing the door open.

The room looked exactly the same at first glance.

The bed was neatly made, the curtains drawn halfway, the faint scent of her perfume still lingering in the air. But as his eyes adjusted, he noticed the differences.

Half of the wardrobe was empty. The dressing table was bare. The perfume bottles that once lined the edge of the mirror had disappeared.

The small cactus she insisted brought ”good luck” was gone.

The colorful slippers she always wore around the house were missing. Everything that quietly proved she had lived here had vanished.

Layton stood in front of the wardrobe, staring at the empty space where her clothes used to hang. For the first time, the word divorce felt real.

Not because of the signed papers or the public announcement.

Not because of the scandal or the reporters waiting outside.

It felt real because she had truly left. She hadn’t packed in anger. She hadn’t smashed anything. She hadn’t taken revenge.

She had simply taken what belonged to her and walked away.

Mike stood silently outside the bedroom, unsure whether to speak.

Then he noticed something on the dresser—a small dish with a single set of keys resting inside. ”President,” he said softly.

Layton turned. Mike gestured toward the dish. ”She left her keys.”

Layton walked over and looked down.

The keys to the penthouse lay neatly in the center of the dish, the metal glinting faintly under the light.

Nothing else.

No note.

No message. Just the quiet finality of returned keys.

He stared at them for a long time.

The sight of them stirred something uneasy inside him.

He suddenly remembered what Mindy had said before leaving. What exactly has Layton ever given me? At least the maids were paid.

At the time, he had thought she was trying to provoke everyone, to humiliate him in front of his family.

But now, looking at the keys she had left behind, he realized it hadn’t been provocation. It had been the truth.

He had never given her anything.

Not a card.

Not money.

Not gifts.

Not even time.

She had lived beside him completely independently, and he had never noticed.

He thought back to their life together—the quiet dinners, the mornings when she left early, the nights when she waited for him to come home.

She had never asked him for anything. Not even attention. She had brought him coffee in the mornings, replaced his ties when they wore out, printed his schedule before he left for work.

He had taken it all for granted, assuming it was her duty, her way of showing devotion. He had never once wondered what she wanted in return.

She had simply wanted to exist beside him without being invisible. And he had failed to see her.

Mike remained silent, watching his employer’s expression shift from confusion to something heavier.

Layton turned toward the window.

The city lights flickered faintly through the glass, distant and cold. For the first time, the penthouse felt too large.

The silence pressed against him from every direction.

He could almost hear the echo of her footsteps, the faint rustle of her clothes as she moved through the rooms.

But when he turned, there was nothing.

He walked back into the living room, his steps slow and deliberate. The air felt different now, heavier somehow.

He looked around again, searching for something—anything—that still carried her presence. But there was nothing.

The flowers on the table were fresh, but they weren’t the ones she used to choose.

The cushions on the sofa were arranged perfectly, but the small embroidered one she had made was gone.

Even the faint scent of her perfume had begun to fade.

He sat down on the sofa, his hands resting loosely on his knees.

The city lights reflected faintly in his eyes. He didn’t know what to do.

He had built his life around control—control of his company, his image, his relationships. But now, sitting in the middle of the home he had shared with her, he realized he had never truly controlled anything.

Mike stood near the doorway, his posture straight but his expression uncertain.

He wanted to say something, but the words wouldn’t come.

There was nothing to say. Everything that needed to be said had already been spoken—or left unsaid for too long.

Layton’s gaze drifted toward the dish again. The keys lay there, small and silent, the only proof that she had once belonged here.

She had returned them without hesitation, without sentiment.

She had taken nothing from him. Not even the things that technically belonged to her. It was as if she had erased herself from his life completely, leaving behind only the faintest traces of her existence.

He thought about the way she had left—calm, composed, without a single glance backward. She hadn’t shouted.

She hadn’t begged.

She hadn’t even looked angry.

She had simply walked away.

That image replayed in his mind, over and over, until it became unbearable.

He leaned back against the sofa, closing his eyes for a moment. The silence pressed in again, thick and suffocating.

He could almost hear her voice, soft and steady, reminding him to eat, to rest, to take care of himself. He opened his eyes, but the room was empty.

For the first time, he understood what it meant for something to be missing—not an object, not a possession, but a presence.

The penthouse was exactly as it had always been. Nothing was out of place. Nothing was broken.

Nothing was missing.

Except her.

He exhaled slowly, the sound barely audible. ”No,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head.

”She’s only angry. When she calms down, she’ll come home.”

Mike lowered his eyes. For some reason, he wasn’t nearly as confident.

Because when Miss Mindy had left earlier, she hadn’t looked back. Not once.