I slid the divorce papers into the middle of the folder and turned to make myself breakfast.

I was halfway through a bowl of oatmeal when Wayne walked into the dining room. He cast a glance at my bowl and frowned in disgust.

"Who eats that for breakfast? I want pancakes," he said.

I finished the last bite, stood up, and handed him the folder.

Without so much as glancing at it, Wayne flipped it open and penned his signature while complaining I was overstepping by handling his assistant's work.

Taking the folder back, I grabbed my shoes and prepared to leave.

"Lydia, I said I want pancakes!" Wayne snapped impatiently from behind.

I turned to him, my voice even as I said, "I'm dropping this off, then I'm heading to the hospital."

Just as he was about to say something in retort, Naomi emerged from the bedroom.

"Mr. Miller, did I oversleep?" she asked.

As Wayne turned to her, I took the opportunity to leave. I didn't notice the look he gave me as I walked away.

Once I was out, I pulled the divorce papers from the folder and skimmed them. I would finally be free 30 days from now.

When I returned from the law firm, I went straight to the bedroom and began packing my things.

Wayne noticed, a look of surprise flickering across his face.

"I told you that you don't have to move out."

I paused momentarily before replying absentmindedly, "It's inconvenient for me now that Ms. Stewart is here."

My words caught him off guard. He noticed the change in me since returning from the hospital.

Before he could question further, Naomi called him to dinner. After Wayne left, I shut my eyes briefly, then went back to packing.

A bitter smile tugged at my lips as I looked at the tiny shelf where all my clothes had been tucked away. Six years of marriage, and everything I owned fit into a single shelf.

Next, I bagged up every gift I had ever given Wayne in a garbage bag. Everything I ever gave him, for birthdays and special occasions, lay forgotten in the corner, shrouded in dust. There was no reason to keep them now.

Wheeling my suitcase toward the guest room, I passed by the dining area, noticing Wayne painstakingly peeling shrimp for Naomi. I turned my gaze away and continued walking.

"Wait!" he called out suddenly.

I turned to look at him curiously.

"Join us," he said, his voice holding an unfamiliar hesitation.

I stared at him in disbelief, then rejected him outright.

Wayne clearly hadn't expected me to refuse. His expression darkened with frustration as he retorted, "Suit yourself."

…

After putting aside the suitcase, I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror.

A polite smile curved my mouth like a mask, while exhaustion clouded my eyes. I let out a dry laugh at the reflection that looked nothing like a woman in her 20s.

I was just about to drift off to sleep when Wayne suddenly burst through the door, his eyes wide with panic.

"Lydia, Naomi burned her hand. We have to go to the hospital!"

I frowned at his words, instinctively pulling back, but he had already grabbed my wrist and dragged me out.

Clutching her hand, Naomi whimpered. "Mr. Miller, let's not trouble Lydia. I'm fine… Ouch!"

I glanced at the back of her hand, where a few droplets of oil had splashed. Painful, perhaps, but it was barely a burn.

"Burns can be serious. It could leave a scar," Wayne said, his tone full of concern.

Looking at the scene unfold, my gaze dropped to the scar on the back of my left hand.

One evening, during dinner at home with Wayne's friends, Naomi had deliberately spilled a pot of boiling beef stew on me.

When I confronted her, Wayne shielded her and retorted, "She didn't mean to. You seemed fine, so stop making a scene."

I ended up taking painkillers and waited for the pain to dull before going to the hospital alone. The burn eventually scarred, permanently marring my skin.

But now, watching his frantic concern, I understood. He knew burns could scar. It just hadn't mattered when it was me.

On the way to the hospital, we hit rush-hour traffic. Wayne sat in the backseat, barking at me to drive faster, repeating it like a chant.

As the light turned green, a car came out of nowhere and barreled toward us. In the instant of impact, I felt a crushing pain shoot through the lower half of my body.

Wayne called out in a panic, "Lydia, are you okay? Hang in there. The ambulance is almost here!"

Hearing his flat tone—proving that he was unharmed—I suddenly recalled that the backseat was equipped with crash protection.

"Lydia—"

Before he could say more, Naomi's sharp cry of pain pulled his attention away.

"Naomi, where are you hurt?"

She made herself sound frail. "My hand still stings a little, but don't worry about me. Check on Lydia. She seems badly hurt."

Her selfless act only made Wayne more distressed. He whispered for her to hold on, assuring her that the ambulance was on its way.

Shortly after, an ambulance arrived.

"Over here! Someone's hurt. Please check on her!" Wayne waved down a paramedic who had been heading toward me.

His urgency made the paramedic assume it was critical, so a doctor followed along. But not long after, the doctor's exasperated voice rang out.

"This is ridiculous. She's fine. Don't waste our time!"

Wayne, who was usually very conscious of his image, shouted at the scene, threatening to report the doctor for medical negligence.

In the end, the doctor reluctantly gave Naomi a basic dressing for her burn.

As Wayne helped her toward the ambulance, he passed by the spot where I had just been pulled from the wreck.

The moment he caught sight of the gashes on my legs, he froze. Genuine panic flickered across his face for the first time.

"Lydia, does it hurt? I'll get you the best doctor!"

Naomi cut in tearfully, saying, "This is all my fault, Lydia. I shouldn't have asked Mr. Miller to take me to the hospital. If only I'd just endured the pain. None of this would've happened!"

Her soft, guilty tone made Wayne's heart ache all over again. Whatever concern he had for me vanished, and he turned to soothe her instead.

The paramedic nearby asked if I had any family present. I closed my eyes and answered faintly, "No. Let's go."

I was rushed into surgery upon reaching the hospital.

"You'll need to stay for observation," the doctor said.

I nodded and requested a caregiver.

To my surprise, Wayne visited on the third day with a lunchbox in hand.

He glanced at my bandages, a trace of reproach in his tone. "Why didn't you tell me it was this serious?"

I could only laugh.

The sound made him pause, discomfort flickering across his expression.

"I was distracted by Naomi's injury that day," he muttered.

I gave a quiet hum and responded flatly, "I'm fine. Go and take care of Ms. Stewart."

He froze, clearly taken aback by my indifference.

Wayne, who was used to being in control, was visibly irritated by my repeated rejection. But seeing my pale face, he kept his anger in check.

"I had Maria prepare some nutritious food for you. Eat a little."

Noticing the shrimp scampi in the lunchbox, I gently pushed it away.

"There's no need. I—"

Before I could even finish my sentence, he swept everything onto the floor.

"Lydia, you're unbelievable. Starve if you want!"

With that, he stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

I stared at the mess for a moment, then pressed the call button for the caregiver.

The caregiver looked at the spilled food in confusion.

"Didn't the doctor say you're only allowed liquids? Your family really doesn't pay attention," she muttered.

I flashed a faint smile but said nothing.

Wayne never returned after that. Instead, Naomi bombarded me with photos every day—of Wayne watching the sunrise with her, stargazing on a scenic mountain, and taking her to a racetrack.

The day before I was discharged, she sent me a photo of two plane tickets to Eloria.

"I just mentioned it once, and Mr. Miller made it happen."

I didn't reply.

I listened attentively while the doctor explained my discharge instructions.

Back home, I walked straight into the bedroom. I pulled out my suitcase and placed the signed divorce papers on the table. Then, without hesitation, I walked away from the home I had lived in for six years.

On the plane heading abroad, I looked out at the endless sea of clouds beyond the window.

I was finally on my way to living a life of my own.

Goodbye, Wayne Miller.