No Free Repairs for Love

I have always had a habit of salvaging what others cast aside. Wobbly, three-legged tables, grandfather clocks with frozen gears—if you have the patience and the craft, almost anything can be brought back to life. Seven years ago, when Ethan was disowned by the Perry family, shivering and drenched in the downpour on the steps of my studio, I took him in the exact same way. I nursed him through illness, settled his debts, and sold the antique restoration workshop my late foster mother left me, all so he could climb his way back and take the helm of Perry Holdings. Yet the moment he reclaimed his wealth and power, the scent of sawdust on my skin began to grate on him. The afternoon Serena returned from Paris, Ethan decided my restoration workshop would make the ideal private gallery for her debut exhibition. By the time I rushed over, years of my collected pieces were already being tossed into a municipal dump truck. My foster mother’s vintage cast-iron sewing machine had been dropped onto the asphalt, its body snapped clean in two. That machine was the only tangible piece of her I had left in this world. Ethan stepped smoothly between me and Serena, his brows knitting with familiar impatience. "They're just old junk, Iris. Serena’s paintings are worth millions. Don’t make a scene and embarrass her." I knelt among the debris, found my mother’s rusted brass thimble, and squeezed it until the serrated edge bit into my palm, drawing blood. When I looked up, I said only one word. "Okay." He assumed I was yielding, as I always had. That night, I laid the divorce papers on his desk. Ethan stared at the documents for a long time before asking how much money it would take to settle the matter. I slid my wedding band off and set it beside the shattered wood on the counter. "I’ve restored frozen clocks, broken chairs, and a penniless man who had nothing left," I told him quietly. "But a man who throws me away on purpose? You're the one thing I will never salvage again." … Ethan stared down at the crisp white pages, making no move to turn them. "Over a sewing machine?" "Yes." "Iris, you’re thirty years old, not thirteen." He leaned back into his leather armchair, wearing the exact look of exasperation I knew by heart. In the past, whenever that shadow crossed his face, I would swallow my words. He had a conglomerate to run; the pressure was immense. I told myself I shouldn't burden him with the trivialities of daily life. I had spent seven years manufacturing excuses for him. Tonight, the well had run dry. I slid the gold band to the corner of the polished mahogany desk. "Just sign." His expression hardened. "How long do you plan on keeping up this tantrum?" "It isn't a tantrum." "Then what is it you want?" He loosened his silk tie with a sharp yank, shifting into the posture of an executive dealing with a hostile vendor. "The townhouse on the south side? Or the commercial property adjacent to your old block?" I shook my head. "I only want what was loaded into that dump truck." A cold, incredulous laugh escaped him. "You’re turning down prime real estate worth tens of millions for a truckload of garbage?" "Yes." He held my gaze for several tight seconds, then pulled out his phone. "Intercept the municipal hauler. Have everything brought back." I picked up my coat and turned toward the door. His hand clamped around my wrist. "Iris. Her exhibition runs for one month. Once it closes, the entire floor is yours again." "Keep it." I twisted my wrist gently, slipping from his grip. "I already found a new space." His brow furrowed deeper. "When?" I didn't answer. The truth was, I had secured the lease six months ago—the first time he casually remarked that my jars of natural resin and antique joints made the Perry residence look like a scrap yard. At the time, I thought I was simply preparing a separate storage studio. I hadn't realized that what I was actually preparing to pack away was my entire marriage. His phone buzzed on the desk, shattering the quiet. Serena’s bright, melodic voice filtered through the speaker. "Ethan? The gallery lighting is completely off. The press preview is the day after tomorrow—you aren't going to let me look foolish, are you?" Ethan glanced up at me. "I'll be right there." I lifted his tailored jacket from the back of the chair and held it out to him. "Go ahead." He didn't take it. "Is that all you have to say?" "One more thing." I tapped the margin of the divorce agreement. "Sign this before you walk out that door." A muscle in his jaw ticked. A heartbeat later, he grabbed a pen, flipped straight to the final page, and slashed his signature across the line. "Don't regret this." As the ink set, my eyes lingered on his hands. When he was at his lowest, those same hands had patched the leaking roof of our tiny flat and cupped mine to warm them through freezing winter nights. Later, those hands signed multi-billion-dollar mergers. And now, they had finally cast me aside. I reached for my copy of the agreement, but Ethan’s palm came down hard over the paper. "We go to the courthouse first thing tomorrow morning." "Fine." "Iris," he called out, his tone dropping several degrees. "I don't have the bandwidth to play games with you back and forth." A faint, hollow smile touched my lips. "Don't worry," I said softly. "I only spend my time repairing things that are broken. When something is rotten to the core, I throw it out." ... That night, I moved into a drafty, red-brick warehouse on the west side of the city. At one in the morning, Ethan’s executive assistant arrived, holding out a brass ring of keys. "Mr. Perry bought this entire warehouse property under your name, ma'am. And he bought the garbage truck and its contents as well." I walked out to the loading bay and looked at the mountain of bruised, splintered relics heaped in the bed of the truck. Resting right at the summit was a brand-new, top-of-the-line industrial sewing machine imported from Switzerland, retailing for nearly ninety thousand dollars. Beside it lay a handwritten card in Ethan’s precise, angular script. "When the old breaks, replace it with something better." I tossed the card straight into the incinerator bin. Some men reach the end of their lives without ever understanding that grief is rarely about the lack of something new. The following morning, a message from the county clerk’s office notified us that their database system was undergoing emergency maintenance. All dissolution filings were pushed back three days. Ethan sent a brief text: "Good. Use the time to clear your head." I didn't reply. By nine, I had two hired hands helping me catalog the salvaged pieces. The Regency armchairs were salvageable. The grandfather clocks needed new escapements. The rosewood credenza had only suffered a chipped molding. Only my foster mother’s sewing machine was beyond mechanical help; the central cast-iron drive shaft was sheared clean through. One of the workers wiped his brow and looked at me. "Ms. Thorne, do we scrap this one?" "No. We keep it." "Even if it never runs again?" I brushed my fingers over the splintered oak casing. "She didn't leave it to me so I could sew." Before the worker could respond, the heavy steel warehouse doors rattled open. Serena stepped across the threshold, flanked by an entourage of gallery curators and interior designers. Wearing a silk face mask, she took one look at the sawdust and scrap wood on the floor and stepped back in visible disgust. "Ethan actually bought you this entire facility?" I didn't look up from my workbench. She lowered her designer sunglasses, surveying the high ceilings and exposed brick. "It's surprisingly spacious. The east wing has the best natural light—perfect for my large-scale installations." Behind her, an assistant immediately unclipped a laser measure. I set down my polishing cloth and looked at her. "This is a private restoration studio." "Don't be so provincial, Iris," Serena laughed softly. "Ethan told me you were occupying the building temporarily. He never said the whole property was exclusively yours." She gestured toward the far corner. "Have all this junk cleared out by noon. My installation crates arrive at two." Her crew moved directly toward my mother’s broken sewing machine. I stepped into their path, blocking the way. "Touch it and find out." The lightness drained from Serena’s face. "Iris, whatever marital spat you’re having with Ethan, don't take it out on my career." "Get out." "This property was purchased with Perry money." I took the duplicate deed from my toolbox and dropped it flat on the workbench. "The title is in my name alone." Serena glanced at the deed, her mouth tightening. But a second later, her eyes caught the rusted brass thimble sitting beside my water cup. "And this little scrap of metal? Another priceless treasure?" "Put it down." "And if I don't?" She slipped the thimble onto her index finger with a mocking smile. "No wonder Ethan grew tired of you. You had the chance to be the matriarch of Perry Holdings, and instead you spend your days guarding corpses' trash. Isn't it pathetic?" I lunged forward to snatch it back. With deliberate carelessness, she opened her hand. The thimble dropped straight into an open bucket of high-gloss polyurethane varnish. A high, ringing noise tore through my head. In the final days before my foster mother died, her joints were so swollen that the thimble no longer fit. She had pressed it into my hand from her hospice bed, telling me that once she was gone and no one was left to shield me, I had to learn how to stand firm and protect myself. I yanked up my sleeves and plunged my bare hand into the toxic, chemical-heavy varnish. Serena covered her nose, stepping back in revulsion. "Are you out of your mind? I'll have Ethan buy you a whole case of them." A hand clamped down hard on my forearm, dragging my arm out of the bucket. Ethan stood there, his tailored suit sharply out of place amid the sawdust, his face pale with fury. "Have you lost your senses?" The amber varnish dripped from my fingers onto the concrete, the chemicals immediately inflaming my pale skin into angry red blotches. I opened my sticky fist. The thimble rested safely against my palm. Serena immediately drifted to his side, looping her arm through his. "Ethan, I only asked to borrow a corner of the space, and she practically attacked me." Ethan’s eyes dropped to the deed on the table. "The warehouse belongs entirely to Iris." Serena’s expression froze. "Then what about my exhibition?" "Find another venue." "The press releases are already out!" Her eyes welled with practiced tears. "You swore to me that you'd never let me be humiliated again." Ethan fell silent. I knew that silence intimately. It was the precursor to him asking me to take the step back. To make the sacrifice. To be the bigger person. So I spoke before he could. "She can have the East Wing." Ethan snapped his head toward me. "You don't have to concede anything." "I'm not conceding." I wiped the chemical residue from the brass thimble with a dry cloth. "Consider it settling the debt for the warehouse purchase." Serena wasted no time signaling her crew to start unloading. As she brushed past me, she leaned in, her voice dropped to a razor-sharp whisper. "See that? Even with the title in your name, all it takes is one word from me, and you still have to give up your floor." Ethan stood close enough to have heard every syllable. Yet his phone buzzed at that exact second. Serena gasped, claiming the chemical fumes were making her faint, and he immediately led her out to his car to take her to the clinic. Before leaving, he instructed his driver to call a private physician for my burns. I kept my head down, scrubbing the stinging chemicals from my raw skin, and never looked up to watch him go. ... By three that afternoon, the senior legal counsel for Perry Holdings arrived at the warehouse. He presented two leather-bound portfolios. The first contained the unencumbered deed to the entire warehouse complex. The second was a formal transfer certificate granting me a fifteen percent equity stake in Perry Fine Arts & Antiquities Auction House. "Mr. Perry asked me to convey," the attorney explained respectfully, "that since you have a passion for historical pieces, you will never need to scavenge for them again." I took the folders in silence. Through the window, Serena’s team was hauling massive abstract sculptures into the East Wing. Finding an antique oak worktable in their path, her crew took a sledgehammer to the joinery, splintering the hand-carved legs so they could use the timber as leveling blocks under a steel armature. Looking at the shattered grain of that century-old wood, an undeniable clarity settled over me. Ethan still didn't understand. I never wanted him to buy me the treasures of the world. I only wanted him to stop destroying the quiet things I already held dear. ... When my mentor, Maeve, caught wind of the divorce, she arrived at the warehouse clutching two bottles of high-proof bourbon. As the foremost textile and lacquer conservator in the country, her rates were astronomical. Her temper was even more expensive. The moment she saw the angry, blistered rash covering my hands, she let out a blistering curse. "You don't have a salvage habit, Iris," she snapped, uncorking a bottle. "You have a martyr complex." I took a pull from the glass she handed me. "The state database was down. The papers aren't finalized yet." "What, you think three days of server maintenance gives you three more years of life with that hollow suit?" A dry laugh slipped past my lips. Maeve flipped through the corporate equity transfer documents twice. "Fifteen percent of Perry Fine Arts, clear title to this commercial lot, plus a twenty-million-dollar cash liquidity settlement. He certainly paid out like a gentleman." "Ethan was always generous with capital." "And was he ever generous with his heart?" I stared down at the amber liquid in my glass and said nothing. Maeve slammed her tumbler onto the timber bench. "Iris, conservation has three immutable rules: First, you assess if the piece is worth the labor. Second, you determine if structural restoration is even possible. Only then do you pick up the tools." She pointed a finger at me. "You met a damaged man, skipped the first two rules entirely, and spent seven years hammering away at a structural void." My throat tightened. "He wasn't always like this." "The phrase "'he used to be'" has ruined more women than war," she retorted, sliding my glass out of my hand. "Serena’s gala opens tonight. Are you going?" "No." "You have to." Maeve tossed a gold-embossed VIP invitation onto the table. "The twelve dynastic pieces on loan from the Perry foundation—every single one was conserved by your hands over the last three years. They’re hitting the private auction block tonight, and the catalog lists Serena as the lead conservator and restoration artist." My head snapped up. ... At seven sharp, I walked into the gallery pavilion. Massive high-definition screens by the grand entrance looped Serena’s promotional featurettes: "Visionary Contemporary Artist & Pioneer of the Heritage Renaissance Initiative." At the dead center of the grand rotunda stood the crown jewel of the collection: an eighteenth-century Imperial carved lacquer folding screen that had taken me eight grueling months to stabilize and restore. The gallery plaque beneath it read: "Conservation & Reconstruction: Serena Mills." Serena, radiant in a shimmering silver backless gown, glided over, champagne flute in hand. "I didn't expect you to show up, Iris." "I came to collect what belongs to me." She let out a delicate, musical laugh. "These assets were acquired by Perry Holdings." "The restoration licensing, provenance documentation, and conservator seals are registered under my private certification." "And what difference does that make?" She leaned close, her perfume suffocatingly sweet. "If Ethan decides my name goes on the plaque, then my name goes on the plaque." A few early VIP guests began glancing in our direction. Ethan descended the marble staircase from the private mezzanine, his sharp gaze locking onto me. "Iris?" Serena immediately hooked her fingers through his arm. "She's making a scene, Ethan. She's claiming the conservation rights to the entire collection and demanding we pull the lots from tonight's auction." Ethan walked up to the brass plaque. As his eyes tracked across the engraved letters, the tension in his shoulders coiled tight. "Who authorized this name change?" Serena’s smile faltered. "The marketing team felt associating the conservation directly with my visual brand would generate higher philanthropic yields—" "Change it back." "Ethan!" Serena’s voice rose, edged with panic. "The international press corps is already in the reception hall. If we alter the materials now, it completely discredits my portfolio!" "It was never your portfolio to claim." The surrounding gallery fell dead silent. Serena’s eyes flooded with crimson shock. "You're humiliating me in front of the entire circuit... for her?" I had no appetite to watch their theater. "Don't bother changing the brass," I told the lead auctioneer standing nearby. "All twelve conserved lots are withdrawn from tonight's slate. The auction is canceled." The head of acquisitions broke into a cold sweat. "Ms. Thorne, we have institutional buyers who flew in from London and Tokyo—" "Bill me for the contractual breach," I said flatly. Ethan’s fingers clamped over my wrist. "Iris, there is no need to take it to this extreme." I yanked my arm back with enough force to break his grip. "What I build, I control." Serena let out a bitter sneer. "Isn't it always about the payout with you? The Perry family handed you a massive warehouse, prime corporate equity, and millions in cash—and it’s still not enough? You play the saintly, devoted ex-wife, but your hands are just as dirty when the checks clear." Whispers rippled through the gathering crowd. I looked at her calmly and nodded. "You're entirely right." I turned toward Ethan. "I will sign the auction house equity back over to Perry Holdings tomorrow. And the purchase price of the warehouse will be wired to your corporate accounts in full." Ethan’s composure cracked completely. "Who told you to return anything?" "Your assets make Ms. Mills uncomfortable," I replied evenly. "What she feels has nothing to do with what is yours!" Ethan snapped. Serena stared at him in utter disbelief. "Ethan Perry... what did you just say?" Ethan didn't spare her a single glance. He reached out, took the microphone from the podium, and turned directly toward the assembling press corps and collectors. "Every single one of the twelve historical artifacts exhibited this evening was conserved solely and entirely by Master Restorer Iris Thorne," he projected, his voice ringing through the hall. "Furthermore, Perry Holdings is establishing an independent Heritage Preservation Endowment tonight with an initial grant of fifty million dollars. The fund will be under the sole executive direction of Iris Thorne." The color drained from Serena’s face until she looked like a ghost. Ethan stepped down from the dais and stopped inches in front of me. "The equity was never an alimony payout, Iris." "Then what was it?" A heavy silence hung between us before he spoke. "It was what you earned. What you always deserved." Seven years ago, when he was so broke we shared instant noodles in a freezing basement, he pushed the last half of the bowl toward me and said those exact words: "Iris, one day I'll give you everything you deserve." Now, he had laid the wealth of an empire at my feet. Too bad it was seven years too late. I handed the microphone back to the event coordinator. "Keep the endowment active for the craft," I told Ethan softly. "Keep your corporate shares." His fingers curled into tight fists. As I turned on my heel and walked out the glass doors, the sound of a champagne crystal shattering echoed behind me, followed by Serena’s shrill, frantic cry: "Ethan, look at her! She doesn't even want you anymore!" This time, Ethan didn't utter a word of defense. ... Following the gala, Serena dropped all pretense of civility. The next afternoon, while I was across town meeting with material suppliers, my warehouse foreman called my cell, his breath ragged. "Ms. Thorne, get back here right now! Ms. Mills brought an industrial cleanup crew into the yard. She claims the East Wing roof is leaking and the old timber is a mold hazard—they've piled everything into the courtyard and set it on fire!" By the time my cab screeched to a halt outside the warehouse gates, black smoke was billowing into the sky. Several unfinished mahogany chairs and hand-planed tabletops formed the base of a roaring bonfire, the flames licking hungrily up the antique grain. Serena sat under a canvas parasol twenty yards away, sipping an iced latte. When she saw me sprint through the gates, she gave a casual, mocking wave. "Back already?" I grabbed an industrial fire extinguisher from the exterior wall, but two burly security guards immediately stepped in front of me. "Move!" I shouted. "Don't be so dramatic, Iris," Serena called out lazily. "I'm doing you a favor, clearing out the biohazard. It's just scrap." "This is private property!" "A property Ethan bought for you," she countered with a cold smirk. "What he gives, he can take away." My eyes darted past the guards, and my breath caught in my throat. Sitting on the edge of the burning pyre was a battered, vintage galvanized steel lockbox. Inside were all of my foster mother’s handwritten restoration journals—recipes for natural varnishes, diagrams of lost joinery techniques, and every letter she had ever written to me before she died. "Give me the box," I whispered, my voice trembling. "Beg me." Serena swirled the straw in her cup, her eyes gleaming with venom. "You act so pure and untouchable, Iris. Get on your knees and beg for it, and maybe I'll tell them to pull it out." I stared at her through the haze. "Serena, stealing a man is your choice of sport. But desecrating the memory of the dead is pure rot." Her face twisted into a snarl. "Throw it in." The guard lifted the heavy steel box and hurled it directly into the heart of the roaring flames. In my mind, only one voice remained—my mother’s voice from her hospice bed: "Iris, don't ever be afraid of being left behind. Mama will always want you." I shoved past the guards with all the strength in my body and lunged straight toward the blaze. Hands grabbed at my jacket. I wrenched myself free, coughing violently as the thick, toxic smoke hit my lungs, and plunged my arms into the fire to wrap around the blisteringly hot metal box. The steel burned through my sleeves, searing the skin of my palms. Above me, a groaning crack echoed from the burning wooden framework overhead. "Iris!" A desperate roar sounded from the warehouse gates. The heavy, burning timber framework collapsed downward. I had no time to dodge. A body slammed into me, wrapping around my shoulders and shielding me completely beneath his weight. The heavy, flaming beam slammed across Ethan’s left shoulder, showering us in embers before crashing onto the concrete beside us. He rolled with me out of the perimeter of the fire, the back of his bespoke wool jacket charred and smoking. "Call an ambulance! Right now!" Ethan bellowed, his voice raw with a panic I had never heard in him before. I lay on the pavement, gasping for air, my chest heaving in agonizing spasms. He remembered. He remembered that my lungs couldn't handle smoke. Three years ago, while restoring an ancient lacquered screen, I had inhaled toxic resin dust and spent four days in an intensive care unit. Since then, Ethan had banned even a lit cigarette within a hundred yards of wherever I worked. Serena hurried over, her designer heels clicking frantically on the asphalt. "Ethan! She ran into the flames on her own! I only told them to clear out some trash, and she staged this whole suicidal performance just to manipulate you!" Ethan jerked his head up, his eyes bloodshot and terrifying. "You knew she couldn't breathe smoke." Serena recoiled slightly. "So what if I did? She publicly humiliated me at the gala and forced you to destroy my reputation! Everything in this yard was junk anyway—" "Everything in this yard belonged to her!" "And you're taking her side again?" Serena cried, pointing a trembling finger at me. "She's doing this on purpose! She's playing the victim so she can steal you back!" The steel lockbox in my arms was warped from the heat, its latch popped open to reveal the scorched, blackened edges of my mother’s handwritten journals. I reached out to touch the charred paper, but my blistered fingers shook so violently from the pain that I couldn't close them. Ethan reached down, covering my trembling hands with his. "Don't touch it, Iris. Leave it. I'll hire the best archival restoration team in the world to reconstruct every single page." Hearing that word come from his mouth—"restoration"—a breathless, broken laugh escaped me. "You can't fix this," I whispered. His hands went completely still. I pushed him away with the last ounce of my strength and struggled up onto the curb. "Go comfort her, Ethan." Ethan’s eyes were rimmed with red. "Look at the state of you! How can you tell me to go to her right now?" I held the scorched steel box tight against my chest, feeling the heat bleed into my ribs. "Ethan Perry, you’ve already thrown me away once," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "Don't stand here in front of her trying to salvage me. It's humiliating." He looked as though I had driven a spike straight through his chest. The wail of approaching sirens grew deafening. Slowly, deliberately, Ethan rose from the pavement and turned toward Serena.