My Scumbag Ex and His Dream Girl Conspired Against Me—I Gave Them Social Death

I smoothed down my black silk dress one last time and took a deep breath. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Meridian Gallery, I could see the warm glow of spotlights illuminating my paintings—three years of hard work finally getting the recognition they deserved.

My heart was racing, not just from nerves, but from anticipation.

Felix should have been waiting for me at the entrance. We'd planned this moment for weeks—walking in together, his hand gently on my waist, introducing me to the collectors and critics who could change everything. But here I was, hesitating at the glass doors, watching him through the crowd.

He was deep in conversation with a stunning blonde I'd never seen before. Her laugh carried over the clinking of champagne glasses, melodious and confident. She wore a designer red dress, her perfectly manicured fingers casually resting on Felix's arm.

I pushed through the door.

The gallery buzzed with the kind of energy that could make or break careers. I recognized faces from Artforum and Art in America, collectors whose names appeared on museum donor walls, and gallery owners who could make or destroy an artist with a single word.

"Excuse me, you must be Luna Moreno."

I turned to see Richard Blackstone, one of New York's most influential art investors, approaching with a crystal champagne flute in hand.

"Mr. Blackstone, yes. Thank you so much for coming tonight." I extended my hand.

"Felix has told me quite a bit about you," he said. "He says you're very... promising. Have a lot of potential."

"I hope you'll have a chance to see the new series of paintings, the light series took me nearly two years to complete." I maintained my smile.

"Oh, I'm sure Felix has everything well-curated." Blackstone glanced toward the center of the gallery, where Felix now stood with the blonde woman under the brightest spotlight. "He has such an eye for... charitable causes."

Before I could process the meaning behind those words, the gallery's attention shifted. Felix stepped onto the small platform we'd designated for speeches, his arm smoothly encircling the blonde woman's waist.

"Thank you all for joining us tonight," Felix began, his voice carrying that confident charm that had first attracted me three years ago. "I'd like to introduce someone very special—my artistic partner and collaborator, Scarlett Wilson."

Scattered applause rippled through the crowd. I'd never heard of Scarlett Wilson. More importantly, Felix had never mentioned having any artistic partner besides me.

"Scarlett brings a unique perspective to our curatorial vision," Felix continued. "Her photography background gives us insights into visual narratives that perfectly complement the work of the emerging artists featured tonight."

"Felix," called out Marcus Chen, a critic from Brooklyn Rail, "we've heard you have a personal relationship with one of the featured artists. How do you maintain professional objectivity?"

I watched Felix's face, waiting for him to smile, to gesture toward me, to proudly acknowledge our three-year relationship. Instead, his expression shifted to a mixture of embarrassment and distaste.

"I think there's been some confusion," Felix said, his voice carrying clearly across the now-quiet gallery. "Luna is simply someone who needed guidance. Exhibiting her work is purely a charitable decision on our part—an opportunity to help an artist who shows... potential."

"Honestly," Felix continued, looking directly at me for the first time that evening, "getting romantically involved with someone at her level would be professional suicide. It would compromise everything I've built here."

I felt every pair of eyes in the room turn toward me, measuring my worth against Felix's dismissal. My cheeks burned with such intense humiliation I thought I might faint.

Scarlett's perfectly manicured hand slid across his chest. "Felix is always so generous with emerging talent," she said. "He believes in providing opportunities for artists who might not otherwise have access to spaces like this."

The gallery erupted in whispers.

I felt suffocated. I thought I needed to leave before the humiliation became even more complete.

I pushed through the crowd toward the back exit, tears blurring my vision. Behind me, I could hear Felix seamlessly transitioning into praise for Scarlett's latest photography series, his voice warm with genuine admiration—a tone he'd never used when discussing my work.

I leaned against the brick wall and finally let the tears fall.

With trembling hands, I pulled out my phone. One text from Felix: Luna, we need to talk. But not now.

Not now. As if I were an appointment that needed rescheduling.

I opened Instagram, muscle memory guiding my fingers. Scarlett's latest post was already live: a perfectly filtered photo from the gallery opening, Felix's arm around her waist, both of them glowing under the gallery lights. The caption read: "Supporting emerging artists is so rewarding! Honored to be part of @MeridianGallery's commitment to charitable outreach. #artforthegood #mentorship #blessed"

I stared at the screen until the words blurred together. Charitable outreach. Emerging artists. Giving back. Each word carefully chosen to cement my status as Felix's charity case, not his equal partner, and certainly not his girlfriend.