Seeing that Rockwell was finally starting to believe him, the French guy snapped, “Now you believe me, huh? And you still beat me up like this? How are you going to make it up to me?”
Suddenly, Chesca burst in from outside, seemingly having heard what happened.
She froze at the sight of her ex-husband—and the unmistakable disappointment in Rockwell’s eyes. In an instant, she understood.
Tears spilled down her face as she threw herself into Rockwell’s arms.
“Rockwell, please, believe me! He’s lying. He forced me to do those things—to satisfy his sick fantasies. He made me sleep with those men, made me say those things to please them!”
Rockwell stood stiffly, letting her hold him without saying a word.
The footage had shaken him. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t bring himself to instantly trust her again.
Seeing that he still wasn’t convinced, Chesca panicked. Her crying became even more pitiful.
“Rockwell, please… Don’t you remember the bruises you saw on me? Those were from him! That bastard used to beat me!”
Looking at the fragile woman in his arms, Rockwell’s heart softened.
“Alright,” he finally said. “I believe you.”
Then he pushed her gently aside, grabbed a nearby painting he had just purchased, and smashed it over the French guy’s head.
“If I ever hear you slandering Chesca again, I won’t let you off so easily.”
With that, Rockwell swept the sobbing Chesca into his arms and carried her out.
Watching this unfold, Solenne found it laughable.
‘If this isn’t true love, what is?’
Rockwell loved Chesca so blindly, he forgave her even after knowing she had cheated on him.
When the spectacle was over, the crowd began to disperse.
Solenne was about to leave when a staff member from the gallery called out loudly, “Ma’am! The painting Mr. Stettheimers just bought for you… He didn’t sign for it. You need to take it with you!”
Upon hearing this, Chesca’s ex-husband—who was still lying on the floor from the blow—suddenly gathered all his strength and stood up. He grabbed the same painting that had just been used to hit him.
The frame was made of solid wood—heavy, painful if used as a weapon.
From the staff’s words, the French guy inferred that Solenne had some connection to Rockwell. Enraged, he charged at her and swung the painting.
“He smashed me. Now? I’ll smash this bitch who’s close to him!”
Solenne didn’t have time to dodge. She could only raise her hands to shield her head.