My Greedy Girlfriend Trashed My Handcrafted Masterpiece Until She Saw The Five-Figure Price Tag

I rushed to the gallery, my mind racing through every worst-case giao. Did the box break? Was the wood warping? Had the buyer backed out because of the drama?

When I arrived, Patricia was standing by the window. Beside her was a tall man in a charcoal suit. He didn't look like a collector. He looked like an apex predator.

"David, this is Mr. Sterling," Patricia said. "He’s the one I told you about."

The man turned to me. He didn't shake my hand. He just pointed at the box. "You made this?"

"I did," I said, standing tall.

"The joinery on the inner compartments... it’s 18th-century Japanese style. Very few people alive can do that without CNC machines. You did it by hand." It wasn't a question; it was a statement of fact.

"Yes, sir. Three months of work."

He nodded once. "I don't want to buy this box for $10,500."

My stomach dropped. Here it was. The rejection.

"I want to buy it for $15,000," he continued. "But only if you agree to a three-piece commission for my estate in the Hamptons. A desk, a sideboard, and a bed frame. I'll pay your gallery's rate, plus a premium for exclusivity."

I stood there, stunned. $15,000 for the box. And a commission that could easily be worth six figures. Patricia was beaming. I felt a surge of triumph so strong it made my head spin.

"I accept," I said.

We went into Patricia's office to sign the paperwork. As I was holding the pen, the gallery door chimed. I didn't even have to look. I knew that scent—expensive perfume and desperation.

Monica marched in, followed by a man in a cheap suit who I assumed was her lawyer. Or more likely, a paralegal she’d bullied into coming along.

"Stop!" she yelled. "That sale is unauthorized! I am the legal owner of that item!"

Mr. Sterling looked up from the paperwork, his expression one of mild annoyance, like he’d just spotted a fly. "Who is this?"

"I'm his girlfriend!" Monica snapped. "And that box was my Christmas gift. He stole it out of my home."

Patricia stepped forward. "Actually, Monica, I have David’s statement, and I have the security footage from the morning he brought it in. He told me exactly where he found it. In the trash. Covered in coffee grounds."

The man in the suit beside Monica cleared his throat. "Uh, Monica, you didn't mention the trash part."

"It doesn't matter!" she hissed. "It was a gift! He can't take it back!"

Mr. Sterling stood up. He was a head taller than everyone in the room. "Young lady, I am purchasing this piece through a licensed gallery. If you have a civil dispute, take it to court. But if you interfere with my transaction again, my legal team—which, I assure you, is significantly more expensive than yours—will file a tortious interference suit against you by five o'clock today."

Monica blanched. She looked at the man, then at the check on the desk, then at me. The greed in her eyes was practically vibrating.

"David," she said, her voice switching to that manipulative, tearful quiver. "Please. You’re doing this to hurt me. We can talk about this. I was wrong about the 'junk' comment, okay? I see it now. I see how talented you are. Let's just go home and figure out how to manage this money together."

"There is no 'home,' Monica," I said, signing the contract with a flourish. "And there is no 'together.' You didn't see the talent. You saw the $15,000. You’re not in love with an artist; you’re in love with an appraisal."

The man in the suit—her "lawyer"—actually stepped back. "Monica, we should go. This is a losing battle."

She turned on him. "I'm not leaving without my share! David, I will sue you for every penny you make on those commissions! I supported you! You owe me!"

"I owe you exactly what you gave me on Christmas morning," I said, looking her dead in the eye. "Nothing."

She was escorted out by security, screaming about how I was a "ungrateful loser" and how she’d make sure no one in the city ever bought a piece of wood from me again.

The sale went through. My cut was nearly $10,000. For the first time in my life, I had a cushion. I hired a lawyer of my own—a real one—to handle her "Notice of Intent." He laughed when he read it.

"She’s claiming 'investment' in your career? Did she pay for your tools? Did she pay your tuition? Did she sign a domestic partnership agreement?"

"No," I said.

"Then she’s blowing smoke. I’ll send a cease and desist. If she persists, we’ll counter-sue for harassment."

I felt a massive weight lift. But Monica wasn't done. If she couldn't have the money, she wanted to destroy the reputation. She started a campaign on social media, posting photos of us together, claiming I was an abusive partner who "stole back her heritage" to fund a "mid-life crisis." She tagged the galleries. She tagged the arts magazine that was about to feature me.

She was trying to burn the bridge I was standing on. But what she didn't realize was that I wasn't standing on a bridge. I was standing on a foundation of solid oak.

And the next person to walk into my life was about to show me exactly how pathetic Monica’s fire really was.