The Pregnancy Portrait

The makeup artist's puff just touched my cheek when my phone screen suddenly lit up. A screenshot from my bestie popped up on the screen, followed by three bright red exclamation marks. My fingers trembled as I tapped open the picture, my heart clenched like an invisible hand squeezing it tight. It was a live stream, Mike Collins holding his phone as he walked into the art studio, the camera sweeping over several oil paintings on the wall. "Grace looks so beautiful in this dress today." His voice came through the screen, so tender it could drip water, a tone I'd never heard before. In the frame, Grace White sat in front of the easel, holding a paintbrush, with a few spots of oil paint on the pale yellow hem of her dress. She tilted her head, smiling, the curve at the corner of her eyes like a crescent moon: "Didn't you say yesterday I looked cooler in overalls?" As she spoke, her fingertips lightly traced over Mike Collins' hand, the gesture so intimate it almost burned my eyes. My fingers clenched the phone tight, the cold metal case biting into my palm painfully, almost cutting into my skin. Today was supposed to be our maternity photo shoot day, but when Mike left this morning, he said he was going to the gallery to check out the exhibit. "What are they doing?" I heard my own voice shaking, like leaves fluttering in the autumn wind. The makeup artist stopped what she was doing, looking at my swollen belly with concern: "Ma'am, are you okay? Want to take a break for a bit?" I didn't even want to answer, my eyes glued to the screen. The bullet comments in the live room had completely blown up, thick streams of text scrolling nonstop. Someone asked what they were to each other, and Grace White winked at the camera, a teasing smile playing on her lips: "That's a secret." Mike Collins didn't say a word, just reached out and tucked the stray hairs from her forehead behind her ear. That move—he used to do that to me every single morning, back when sunlight poured through the curtains, making his hand feel insanely warm. "Speaking of which, last time I had you pose as my nude model," Grace White suddenly raised her voice, the paintbrush slashing hard across the canvas, leaving a harsh splash of color. "Didn't your girlfriend get mad?" My breath caught instantly, like someone grabbed my throat, even the rise and fall of my chest became a struggle. Mike Collins cleared his throat lightly, the camera shaking a bit, like he was trying to adjust the angle. "Don't say stupid stuff." "I'm saying stupid stuff?" Grace White put down the paintbrush, walked over to him, and snatched the phone, the camera now facing her. "The fans all know how perfectly we sync when we work together, right?" She flipped the camera to a half-finished portrait hanging on the wall. The woman's profile in the painting had soft lines, and her expression between brows and eyes looked about seventy percent like mine—only her slightly rounded belly was bigger than mine at this stage. "This piece, 'Pregnancy,' is almost done," Grace White said, her voice dripping with pride. "Mike said he wanted to capture the most beautiful curves on the canvas." Bullet comments started flooding in with my name: "Isn't that Ruby Carter?""Mike Collins is painting his own wife?""But their vibe just now was way too intimate..." I stared at Mike Collins' reluctant expression on the screen, my stomach churning and acid rising up my throat. I abruptly pushed open the makeup room door and stumbled out, running blindly. "Ms.! You haven't changed your dress yet!" the clerk called out anxiously from behind. My phone buzzed in my pocket, the screen lighting up with Mike Collins' name. I hit answer and heard his impatient voice through the receiver: "Where are you? Why's the photo shoot taking so long? Stop dragging your feet." "Mike," I gripped the hallway railing, my nails digging into the wood, leaving crescent-shaped marks, "where are you?" "Didn't I say I was going to the gallery?" His tone snapped sudden alert, like a cat with its tail stepped on, "Why are you asking that?" "I'm watching a live stream." There was a two-second silence, then his low, controlled anger came through, like he was scared someone might overhear: "Ruby Carter, what kinda crazy talk is this?" "Crazy talk?" Tears welled up, blurring my vision, "Grace White said you were her nude model. Is that true?" "It's just art!" he yelled, his voice sharp and harsh, "Ruby Carter, can you stop being so trashy? Your mind's full of all kinds of messed up stuff!" "Trashy?" I laughed out loud, but tears kept streaming down, hitting the railing and smearing a wet patch. "Then tell me, why did she paint the pregnant woman's portrait with my face?" The phone was slammed down suddenly, leaving only the busy signal "beep beep" in the receiver. I stood in the bridal shop corridor, staring at my pale face with swollen, red-rimmed eyes reflected in the glass, looking like a puppet abandoned by the whole world. A sudden, sharp pain hit my lower belly, like a hand twisting harshly inside. I leaned against the wall and slowly sank down, my forehead pressed against the cold surface, trembling from the pain. My phone screen was still lit, live streaming showing Grace White leaning against Mike Collins, making a heart with their hands at the camera, their smiles blindingly bright.