On our seventh wedding anniversary, Emerson's friend introduced a college student to the club for him. Emerson, usually so detached, actually smiled as he pulled the young woman close, murmuring in her ear, "Just like her, even the scent."

This student bore a striking resemblance to his elusive first love. Watching him lose himself in an ardent kiss with her, my heart turned to ice. This marriage is over. I can't keep on like this.

"I knew you were still fixated on Saoirse, so I found you a lookalike," laughed Emerson's friend loudly. Emerson had Isabelle comfortably on his lap, whispering by her ear.

Rooted to the spot, a deep chill seeped through my body. Ever since Isabelle arrived, not a single person, especially Emerson, seemed to care about my feelings. He chuckled, "It's true, I can't forget her, but aren't you worried about how my wife might react, bringing someone like this right in front of her?"

His friend laughed as if it was the best joke he'd heard. "Come on, everyone knows Alice is head over heels for you. She wouldn't care how many women are around. Right, Alice?"

All eyes suddenly turned to me. Isabelle, cheeks blushed like ripe apples, smiled sweetly. Her dimples, so much like Saoirse's.

"Sis, you're not upset, are you?" Isabelle's wide, innocent eyes locked onto me, pretending to get up from Emerson's lap.

He pulled her back snugly. "You haven't done anything wrong, darling, no need to feel bad." With that, he cupped her face and kissed her with a noisy smack.

My fingernails dug deep into my palms, my entire body trembling. Today marked seven years since Emerson and I tied the knot. Until now, he had always been good to me. I knew he couldn't forget Saoirse, but I thought after seven years, he would move past it and love me. I was so wrong.

With a loud crash, I shattered a bottle of wine on the floor. As Emerson let go of Isabelle, all eyes were on me. "Do I look like a fool?" I asked, my voice steady.

"I love Emerson," I continued. "But that doesn’t mean you can walk all over me."

The room went silent for a moment before Emerson’s friend chuckled, "Are you actually mad, Alice? Don't be so petty. I just wanted to cheer him up a bit. Isabelle's sweet and young—what's wrong with Emerson enjoying himself a little?"

Emerson’s gaze was icy as he said, “There’s a time and place for your outbursts. Who I spend my time with isn't your business. Just do your duty as Mrs. Gordon.”

Tears slipped from my eyes, each one burning a hole in my chest. “Emerson, today was supposed to be a celebration for us. We made it through seven years.”

“I thought you’d keep your promise, but instead, you've shocked me beyond belief.”

When we married, he promised we’d officially register after seven years. I asked why at the time, but he never explained. For seven long years, I waited, held on. And today, he embraces another, kisses her, and looks at me like I’m nothing.

"I don't even remember what promise that was," Emerson said casually while playing with Isabelle's hair, his other hand giving her waist a playful pinch, causing her to yelp in surprise. His demeanor was so nonchalant, his actions so frivolous.

Once, he was the guiding light in my life, the one who rescued me from my dysfunctional family, supported my education, and married me. I thought we were destined for happiness together. But seven years later, our journey has reached its end.

Tears streamed down my face like scattered pearls from a broken necklace. I turned and walked away.

As I left, someone asked Emerson, "Aren't you going after her, Emerson?"

He sneered, "She's just throwing a fit. She'll come around."

Over the years, we’d had minor disagreements, and every time, I would inevitably go back. But this time, it wasn't just a fit. Deep down, I knew there was no point in continuing with this marriage.

As I walked through the streets of London, the winter air bit into my skin, cold and unrelenting. Emerson’s driver followed closely in the car behind me.

"Ma'am, please don't be upset. Get in the car; it's freezing," he urged.

"And do you think this is just a fit?" I asked, my voice catching with emotion.

"I’ve always believed that if I haven't done anything wrong, it's not just a fit. Today, I did nothing wrong. Emerson did. This isn't a fit!"

The driver grew impatient. "Ma'am, if I were you, I'd stick with Mr. Gordon. Living in luxury should be enough."

I no longer wanted to engage with him. People in their world all think the same. To them, women are just toys.

I deliberately walked away, making sure the driver didn't tail me. After hailing a cab to head home, I happened to come across Emerson's newest Instagram post. Normally, he's too wrapped up in work to share much online. If I'm remembering right, this is his first update in about two years. It's a picture of him with Isabelle.

They're both smiling at the camera—she with a fresh, sweet charm, and he looking handsome. They seem to complement each other perfectly. The caption read: "Forever love, Saoirse." My fingers froze around the phone, and a knot tightened in my chest.

Once, in Emerson's study, I found a photo tucked away in a drawer. It was of him with another girl. They looked so young, dressed in school uniforms, grinning at the camera. Saoirse had a baby face with tiny dimples, utterly adorable. Just like in the current photo of Isabelle. The resemblance between them was striking.

A friend of Emerson's once mentioned that he was with me because my voice reminded him of Saoirse's. Back then, I refused to believe it, but harsh reality has given me a rude awakening. Now that he's found someone who bears an even closer resemblance to Saoirse, he no longer has any need for me.

When I returned home to pack my things, Emerson and Isabelle came in together. She twirled around in a Victorian-style dress in front of him. "Do I look good, Emerson?"

His eyes were fixed on her. "Call me Em."

Her cheeks went pink, and she lowered her gaze. "Okay," she replied softly.

At that moment, she saw me. "Oh, you're back, sis. It's pretty chilly outside, come on in."

Every word and action made it seem as if she were the lady of the house. I glanced at Emerson. He was lounging on the sofa, sipping coffee, looking calm amidst the spirals of steam. I used to think he was indifferent to others. Now, I was that other.

Without a word, I moved to my room to pack. As I walked by, he chuckled lightly at Isabelle. "Leave a mark for me."

"Sure, Em," she giggled.

My heart shattered completely. I couldn't believe the man who once treated me so tenderly would hurt me over and over again. Clenching the hem of my shirt, I turned and went into the room. Throughout our seven years together, he pampered and indulged me. He always used to say, "I love you." I genuinely believed he meant it.

As I packed, tears streamed down my face. Honestly, accepting that he no longer loves me is something I can't do just yet. Even now, my heart aches for him.

Suddenly, Isabelle barged in, her big, bright eyes blinking at me. "Sis, Em asked you to take me to the room upstairs."

I paused. I knew Emerson too well; he knew I disliked Isabelle and used her to provoke me. Even without seeing him, I could guess what was going through his mind: if I didn't relent, this girl would replace me. He's used this tactic repeatedly over the years. In the past, I would give in, but this time, I wouldn't.

"Can't you walk yourself?" I snapped coldly, closing my suitcase to leave. But she grabbed my hand, her once gleaming eyes turning dark.

"You really think you're the lady of the house, don't you? I'll make sure that's no longer the case."

With a loud "smack," she slapped herself, revealing those dimples with a triumphant grin. "Guess who Emerson will believe?"

Before I could react, she burst into tears. "Please, sis, don't hit me, I'll leave right away…"

It hit me then what she was trying to do. How ridiculous, to use such a transparent trick. Emerson isn't easily fooled; he's not going to fall for her act.