The Seven-Day Agreement

On our seventh wedding anniversary, my wife handed me a divorce agreement that was valid for seven days. She had fallen for a male intern at her company who was seven years younger than her. She wanted to experience what she called a proper romance with him, one that would last exactly seven days. On the first day, they booked an entire private cinema and made love to each other from the entrance to their seats. On the second day, they went to the seaside to set off fireworks, and the light spread across half the skyline of Veyron. On the fifth day, the intern burst into an art exhibition I hosted and cried in front of the entire press. He accused me of coming between them. That same evening, the story of a rising painter becoming a homewrecker for love reached the top of the trending searches, and the hate comments poured in. On the sixth day, my wife apologized to me on the intern’s behalf, and his punishment was a three‑day ban from shopping. On the seventh day, my wife finally sensed something was wrong. She called me ninety‑nine times and reminded me that we were supposed to reconcile the next day. I replied with a single “okay” and quietly told my assistant to arrange for my luggage to be shipped out. What she did not know was that seven days earlier, I had already made plans to go abroad to continue my studies. This time, I was done playing her game. Chapter 1 Vera Lloyd held the divorce agreement when she found me. I hid in my home studio and worked on the final details of a surprise I had prepared for our seventh anniversary. It was a 220 by 140 oil painting that had taken me an entire month to complete. I was two brushstrokes away from finishing it. “I left the divorce agreement on the table. If everything looks fine, go ahead and sign it. Austin is waiting for me outside.” My hand froze around the paintbrush. I was sure I had misheard her. “What?” Vera frowned. “I want a divorce. Do not worry, it is only for seven days. After that, you will still be my one and only husband.” The absurdity of it hit me all at once. I opened my mouth to speak, and Vera cut me off. “You promised me on our wedding day that you would give me one chance to make a mistake. You are not going back on that now, are you?” I had said that. I had also made it clear that it did not include affairs or falling for someone else. The pain felt almost unbearable, and I forced myself to stay steady. “Does it have to be today?” Rain poured outside, and it was our wedding anniversary. Eight years earlier, on a day just like this one, Vera had walked into my life under a deep navy umbrella. I still remembered the smell of rain on the pavement, and I remembered her umbrella too, how the sixth rib had a faint patch of rust along the middle. Vera clicked her tongue and shut the window with an irritated snap. “Sean, was I not clear enough? I am not actually trying to divorce you. I am doing this to keep a young guy happy. Once his birthday passes next week, I will remarry you right away.” A knock sounded at the door, and a young man in a white shirt peeked inside. “Vera, are you almost ready? Our movie is about to start.” He pouted, and even that looked boyishly charming on him. “Alright, alright, give me a second, you little prince.” Vera ruffled his hair with easy affection, then turned back to me. The warmth left her face at once. “You see this, Sean? I have somewhere to be. Sign the papers.” I dipped my brush into the paint and spoke quietly. “Does it have to be today?” Vera paused, then let out a short laugh. “Obviously. Since when do you need a special day for a divorce?” I did not argue this time. I picked up a pen and signed. The moment Vera walked out the door, I placed the final brushstroke on the canvas. “Vera,” I called after her. “Do you know what today is? It is our seventh wedding anniversary.” Vera stopped, and her voice sounded flat and calm. “I know. Austin kept pushing, and I did not want to make him sad.” The door shut behind her with a sharp click, and their voices drifted back through the wall. One of them said, “Stupid rainy day. It got my sneakers all dirty.” Chapter 2 The other one said, “Yeah, stupid rainy day.” My knuckles turned white around the paintbrush. I reached to dip the brush out of habit, then realized I had nothing left to paint. If Vera had walked only two steps farther into the room, she would have seen what I had spent a month creating. It was the day we first met. I stood in silence for a moment. Then I reached for the black paint in the corner and poured the entire can over the canvas. I grabbed another, then another, until every trace of the image disappeared beneath the dark surface. When nothing remained, I pressed the divorce agreement flat against the wet paint and wrote in small white letters along the bottom. “Vera, I will not be remarrying you.” … That night, Vera did not come home. She sent me a single message. “I’ll be staying at Austin’s for the next seven days. Get some rest. Seven days from now, nine in the morning, we’ll meet at the city hall.” I had not replied yet when Austin Bennett posted on his social media. It was a close-up photo of their hands interlocked, fingers threaded together. “Officially divorced. My seven-day exclusive.” In the photo, the ring finger on Vera’s left hand was bare. The only sign that anything had ever been there was a faint pale line where the ring used to sit. There was nothing left to show that she and I had ever loved each other. It was only then that it sank in that I was actually divorced. I raised my own hand and tried to take off my ring, only to find that the band that had slipped on so easily five years earlier now refused to move past the knuckle. No matter what I tried, it did not budge. Maybe I should leave it, I thought. It was only a ring. It did not have to mean anything. Then Austin sent me a photo. Vera’s missing wedding ring hung from his dog’s collar, a small tan thing that looked barely bigger than a stuffed animal. In case I had not seen it clearly, Austin had taken thirteen more photos from different angles, each one with a smiling emoji underneath. He ended it with a message. “Hey Sean, Vera says if you’re going to do something, do it properly. So for the next seven days, I’m afraid you and my dog are a matching set. “Sending love.” The color drained from my face. I called the jeweler who had made our wedding bands and told them I needed the ring off by tomorrow, whatever it took. The next morning, a staff member from the jewelry store came to the house to help. My assistant, Sophie Carr, who was usually full of chatter and energy, kept stopping herself mid-breath like she was trying not to say something. “What is it?” I asked. She pressed her lips together and chose her words with care. “Sir, I received a billing notification from the Litton Hotel. It was a luxury couples suite with a full truckload of roses included. The name on the booking was Austin’s.” I said nothing, not because it hurt, but because I suddenly remembered that Vera had once sent me roses too. Nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine of them, so many that two arms could barely hold them. She had said, “If every rose is one measure of love, then I want to give you nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine of them, so you never have to envy anyone else.” It was strange how women tended to recycle the same gestures. The front door opened. Vera walked in quickly, a cluster of marks along her neck that she made no effort to hide. She glanced around the living room and asked without much thought, “Why are there so many people here?” I did not look up. “The jeweler. They are here to get the ring off.” Vera stared at me. “We have six days until we remarry. Why would you take it off?” “You took yours off too.” That caught her off guard. A flicker of guilt crossed her face before she huffed and muttered, “So dramatic.” She turned and stormed upstairs, calling for the housekeeper to pack her things. Sophie told me quietly that Vera had been wandering around up there, drifting in and out of rooms, and that every so often she stopped and looked down toward where I sat. I smiled a little and did not think much of it. Ten minutes later, the jeweler’s staff member came downstairs looking apologetic. “Sir, the ring is too tight. I am afraid there is no way to remove it as it is. The only option would be to cut it, but since you work with your hands, I would strongly advise against taking that risk.” Chapter 3 I paused for a moment. “Then cut it off.” “No!” Vera’s voice rang out before anyone else could speak. She came running down the stairs so fast that she almost tripped on the last step. “Sean, I am not letting you cut it.” The outburst caught everyone off guard, Sophie most of all. In all the time she had worked for me, she had never seen Vera lose her composure like that. “Ms. Lloyd?” Vera seemed to catch herself. She cleared her throat. “I do not want you hurting your hand. The last thing I need is you coming to me crying about not being able to paint anymore. It would drive me crazy.” She paused, then raised an eyebrow as if she remembered something. “Where is the painting you made for me? I have time to look at it now.” “I burned it.” I kept my eyes down and my voice flat. Vera stared at me. “What? How could you burn it?” She stepped toward me, ready to argue, when her phone went off. It was her group chat with her friends. “Vera, we heard you got divorced? Something this big happened and you did not tell us? Are we even still friends?” “Seriously Vera, news this exciting and you did not let us celebrate with you?” “We saw your new guy, and he is young, I will give you that. Not like Sean. Did you not used to complain he had all the passion of a wet blanket? Bet you are happy now.” Laughter spilled out of the phone’s speaker and filled the room. Vera fumbled to silence it, then turned to me, flustered. “Sean, it is not what you think. They do not know this is a temporary divorce. They are just talking.” I made a quiet sound of acknowledgment, then walked her and her luggage to the door and saw her out. It was the first time I had ever seen Vera look truly lost for words. The door closed. The room grew very quiet, and it stayed that way for a long time. Sophie stood off to the side, and I noticed her eyes were redder than mine. “Sir… I mean, Sean…” I gave her a small, steady smile. “Go ahead and cut the ring off.” For the next several days, Vera did not come home. What she did do, strangely enough, was send gifts, one every day without fail. She sent a foreign painting I had once liked online, a set of mineral pigments I had mentioned wanting in passing, and even a standalone mountain villa on the outskirts of the city that I had put off buying for years. Each gift arrived with a small note stuck to the back. “Five more days until we remarry.” “Four more days until we remarry.” “Three more days until we remarry.” The second to last gift was a diamond watch that had appeared in one of Austin’s posts, engraved with the words “Love of My Life.” The moment I saw it, I had a feeling it had been meant for someone else. I was right. At the last exhibition I held before leaving the country, Austin pushed through the crowd and stormed onto the stage in front of all the press. “Sean, can you give the watch back to me? “Vera gave it to me as a token of her love. She said I was the only one she would ever love. “I can let go of anything else. Just not that. “Please. Do not take away what my girlfriend gave me.” He made a scene, tears and all, but the grip he had on my arm was surprisingly tight. When I pulled free, he stumbled backward and fell, making enough noise to ensure everyone in the room watched. I had barely processed what was happening when Vera burst into the hall. She took one look at Austin, red-eyed and crumpled on the ground, and her anger lit up at once. “Austin, are you okay?” She turned on me. “Sean, if you have a problem with me, take it up with me. Why would you go after someone like him? “No wonder my mother always said you were rough around the edges. She was right.” Vera shoved me hard. My lower back struck the edge of the podium, and the pain bent me nearly in half. Chapter 4 Vera was not finished. She grabbed the microphone and hurled it at the painting on display behind me. It was the last piece my mother had ever painted, the only thing she left me before she died. The room erupted. I did not stop to think. I pushed forward, trying to reach the painting, but before I took two steps the press closed in around me from every direction. They shoved microphones toward my face and made it impossible to move. “Mr. Spencer, can you explain what happened here? Did you really take something that belonged to someone else?” “Mr. Spencer, you have always presented yourself as an independent artist. Why would you bully an innocent person?” “Mr. Spencer, are you not ashamed of what you have done?” “Mr. Spencer…” The questions came one after another until I could barely breathe. I tried to steady myself and stand, but the reporters pressed in closer, climbing over each other as if they wanted to swallow me whole. With no other choice, I called out to Vera and told her it was the last painting my mother ever made. Vera hesitated, and her raised hand dropped slightly. In the next moment, Austin pushed himself to his feet and leaned against the easel, playing up how shaken he was. The painting crashed to the floor, and he stepped on it in the chaos, crushing it again and again. “Vera, I did not mean to. I did not know the stand was unstable. “Sean is going to lose it on me. I am scared.” Vera pulled him into her arms without a second thought. She rubbed his back and told him it was fine. “It was something that belonged to a dead person. It was morbid to keep it around anyway.” I stood trapped in the crowd, staring at the ruined painting on the floor, unable to move or speak. That evening, the story of a rising painter playing the third wheel for love reached the top of the trending searches, and the hate comments poured in. “No wonder he gets to hold exhibitions in the city. Turns out he slept his way there.” “Do not jump to conclusions. Could be other things he did on his knees.” “I always said it. There are no real artists anymore, only people who know the right people.” “Wonder what a night with this one costs. My boss turns sixty-eight this year and wants something premium.” “Why bother paying? Just buy a few of his paintings. Call it supporting the arts.” “Artists were never clean to begin with. Boycott every young painter going forward and be done with it.” I sat alone in my studio and scrolled through every comment. Each one settled deeper than it should have. The noise downstairs broke the silence, and then Vera rushed up and pulled me into her arms before I could speak. “Sean, I am sorry. I had no idea it would blow up like this. “I already had the trending posts taken down, and our legal team sent warnings to everyone who posted those comments. As for Austin, I know what happened now. He went too far, and I will make him apologize to you.” I looked up at her. “My mother’s painting is gone. And all he has to do is apologize?” Vera stiffened. Her gaze shifted away. “There is also… I will make sure he is banned from going out or spending money for three days.” I pulled back from her arms with a short, humorless smile. “That is it?” Vera’s expression tightened, and an edge entered her voice. “Sean, Austin is still so young. He is a kid who does not know better. Would it kill you to cut him some slack? “And another thing. I never liked you painting. Do you know how much it bothers me every time I see paint on your hands or smell it on your clothes? “And your mother was not a famous artist. It was only a painting. I will have someone make a better copy if it means that much to you. Can you stop turning this into something bigger than it is?” Chapter 5 I stood there looking at her and laughed until tears came. “Vera, you were not always like this.” There had been a time when she sat and watched me paint for hours, losing herself in it and telling me I was the greatest artist in the world. When I forgot to wipe the paint from my hands and felt embarrassed, she was the one who pushed back and said that was exactly how an artist was supposed to look. And that rainy day I carried with me for so many years, the reason I never forgot it, was because of her. She had been passing by with her umbrella when she stopped, turned to me, and smiled. “Hey, do you know Sylvia Stone? I am a huge fan of her work. I love her paintings.” All this time, I believed that day meant something to both of us. It turned out I was the only one who never walked away from it. Something in my chest finally let go. I pulled back from her hands and turned to go to my room. The moment I reached for the door, Vera shot her hand out and held it open. “There is one day left before we remarry, Sean. You will be there, right?” I stayed quiet for a moment, then smiled. “Sure.” … The next morning, Sophie arrived with a few extra hands to help pack my things. Since I was going abroad, many items needed to be checked and shipped, so everything was packed with extra care. “Sean, should I take these paintings too?” Sophie asked, nodding toward the portraits lining the walls of my studio. Every one of them was of Vera. On our wedding night, she told me she wanted to give me a surprise. Our apartment at the time was barely five hundred fifty square feet, but she had sectioned off more than two hundred of them just for my studio. In return, she asked me to paint one portrait of her every year. She said she wanted to always have a place in my world. I agreed. From that point on, I painted her at work, painted her mid-run, painted her hunched over a book. Every portrait received everything I had. She loved them, and every time I finished one, a gift waited for me. In our first year of marriage, it was a wool felt piece she spent two weeks learning to make by hand. In our second, it was a set of rare pigments she tracked down across the entire city. In our third, it was tickets to an art exhibition she lined up for three days to get. By our fifth year, it was a Cartier bracelet her assistant ordered in passing. In our sixth, it was a pair of limited edition sneakers, the same ones Austin had been seen wearing. The night they arrived, he even posted something online to make it clear he thought I was copying him. In our seventh year, the gift was the divorce agreement. Seven years, and looking back, the distance between us had grown the entire time without me noticing. Two notifications came through on my phone. One was from Vera that read, “Sean, nine tomorrow morning. Do not forget.” The other was from Austin. “Last night of our seven-day romance. Vera says she wants to make it a night to remember.” My eyes stayed on the paintings for one last moment before I switched off the screen. “Leave them.” By the time we finished packing, it was already evening. I slept in a room that felt noticeably emptier than before, and I slept well. At seven the next morning, I got in the car to the airport. Vera called to ask when I was leaving. I gave her a vague answer, then opened her contact and blocked her number. By eight, I cleared security. Vera posted a photo outside the city hall. “After everything, it is still you.” I opened her contact on my phone and deleted it. By nine, I was on the plane, working through the last of her photos and messages, clearing everything out. Then my phone rang. It was Sophie. I picked up. The voice on the other end was Vera’s, equal parts tearful and furious. “Sean, today is supposed to be our remarriage. Where are you?” Chapter 6 “Why did you block me? “We agreed we were getting remarried today. I have been waiting outside city hall for an hour. “Where are you right now? I will come and get you.” The cabin announcement came over the speakers at that exact moment. The line went silent. Through the phone, I heard Vera breathing hard. “Sean, are you leaving? Where are you going?” I waited two seconds, then switched off my phone. Once a decision was made, there was no going back. She had made hers, and I had made mine. Vera stood outside city hall staring at the dead call. Something flared in her chest. She tried again, and the automated voice answered instead. “We are sorry. The number you have dialed is currently switched off.” She stood there listening to it, and for the first time, it became real to her. I was not coming. I had no intention of remarrying her, and no intention of taking her back. It was only when Sophie quietly took the phone from her hand that Vera seemed to return to herself. She grabbed Sophie’s wrist, lost. “Where did Sean go?” Sophie glanced at her with open contempt and pulled free. “You just finished sending your boyfriend off, and now you are out here chasing after your husband. Hard to tell if that makes you loyal or just indecisive. “You never gave Sean half this much attention when you were busy splashing your little romance all over the news. A bit late to start now, do you not think?” Vera kept her voice level, but her patience thinned. “Do not push me. I heard you have a batch of paintings you are trying to move through an upcoming show. It would be a shame if something went wrong with it.” Sophie’s expression flickered. She steadied herself and let the threat settle before she spoke. She had planned to leave on the same flight as me, but the last domestic exhibition was still three days from closing, and she had loose ends to tie up before she could go. She had not expected Vera to corner her like this. “As long as nothing like last time happens, there should not be any issues.” She paused. “And there will not be a last time. The last original piece by Sylvia Stone is already gone, thanks to you and your boyfriend.” The words landed like a slap. Vera’s face went red, and her lips moved without finding anything to say. She thought about what she had done that day and stepped back just to steady herself. “Is he… still angry with me?” She said it mostly to herself. “He should be. Of course he should be.” Sophie ignored her and picked up the box at her feet, ready to load it into the car. Vera reached out and stopped her again. “These paintings…” She looked down at her own portraits packed in the box and went quiet for a moment. Sophie’s mouth curved, her expression making no effort to hide what she thought. “Sean did not want them. I figured they were still worth something, so I planned to put them up at the show with a starting bid.” Vera pulled the box away and held it close, her voice firm. “These belong to me. You do not have the right to do anything with them.” Sophie looked her over with one last dismissive glance. “He is already gone, and now you want to hold onto a pile of old paintings.” Something in those words shook something loose in Vera. She gathered the box in her arms and left without another word. Six days later, Vera returned to the house for the first time since the divorce. The warm light inside did nothing to make it feel welcoming. In the middle of the empty living room, a black canvas stood alone on its easel. She crossed the room and looked closer. The divorce agreement she had made me sign was still fixed to the surface, with the words written underneath. “Vera, I will not be remarrying you.” She tore the agreement from the canvas and ripped it apart, then sank to her knees on the floor. The box beside her tipped and fell, and a small pink wool felt rabbit rolled out onto the ground. She picked it up and turned it over in her hands, then looked up at the wall of boxes stacked beside her.