On my birthday, I personally prepare 16 dishes. After setting up the candlelight, I open a bottle of red wine.

I take a photo and send it to my husband, Eric Sinclair.

"I'm working late tonight. Don't wait for me," he replies.

I choose to believe him.

But after midnight, I notice an Instagram story posted by Shirley Huxley, his secretary.

Eric was there with her, dressed in the trench coat I once gave him. They sat side by side in the VIP seat of football stadium where my favorite Super Bowl take place.

Entwined in a passionate embrace, they kissed beneath a sea of shimmering lights and the roar of thousands of fans.

That game is the one I have always longed to experience with him.

I look down at the cold food on the table.

Eric's words keep ringing in my head.

"I hate kissing."

"Marriage is a partnership, not about love and kisses."

Though we've been married for ten years, we've never shared a single kiss. Meanwhile, he's out there, kissing Shirley openly and passionately.

Despite it all, not a single tear falls from my eyes.

The next day, Eric settles into his chair, completely unfazed. "Return the gallery to Shelly," he commands.

I nod quietly, saying nothing.

Suddenly, Layla Sinclair, my daughter, comes running down the stairs and throws herself into Shirley's arms.

"Aunt Shirley, you're my favorite. I don't like Mom!"

In that instant, it hits me—the home I devoted my heart and soul to means nothing anymore.

It doesn't matter that I've been married to Eric for a decade.

Now, all I want is to find myself again.

I decide to accept an invitation from the Parisoir School of Fashion Design.

From this moment on, I won't wait for them to come home, and I won't look back.

"Are you honestly ready to leave your husband and daughter behind?" the HR manager from the design academy teased.

I stared at my phone screen, my thoughts a storm of confusion.

Suddenly, Layla Sinclair's voice pierced the silence. "I want to call Shirley 'Mama,'" she said.

She looked up at me, not a flicker of doubt in her eyes.

"She feels more like a mom than you do. She even buys me ice cream."

I tried to speak, but no words came out.

Layla wanted to call Shirley "Mama", as if to wipe away my place in her life completely.

A sharp, burning pain suddenly seized my heart.

A decade of careful nurturing seemed to mean less than a single pint of ice cream.

Because of Layla's sensitive stomach, I'd always kept her away from cold treats. But somehow, she had forgotten.

That night, I was the one carrying her to the emergency room as anxiety gripped me with every step.

Meanwhile, Eric Sinclair and Shirley Huxley—the very ones to blame—were out partying at a nightclub.

Once Layla got better, the only things she remembered were the sweetness of the ice cream and Shirley's kindness. She forgot the sight of my tear-filled, bloodshot eyes in that cold hospital room.

The stabbing ache in my chest wiped away any will I had to defend myself.

With her hand over Layla's mouth, Shirley shot a cautious look my way.

Eric's eyes met hers, guilt etched deeply into his face.

"It's my fault. I owe you a child. From now on, you are Layla's mom," he said.

Ten years ago, Greta McCormick, my mother-in-law, covered the expenses for Shirley to study abroad.

It was only then that I was able to have the man I'd secretly longed for all those years.

But to Eric, I was always just an intruder. Everything I had now—Layla included—should've rightfully belonged to Shirley.

Shirley leaned on Eric with a playful smile.

"Darling, get me some fresh mango juice."

Eric frowned but remained silent, and in that moment, my heart skipped a beat.

He knew about my mango allergy and how it could send me into shock.

Yet, to my surprise, he ordered, "Go get it. And hurry."

His voice was calm, almost indifferent, as if commenting on the weather.

"You made it through the last allergy attack, didn't you? Shirley hardly ever wants mango juice anyway," he said dismissively.

I looked down at my trembling fingers, feeling the restless itch crawling beneath my skin.

Angry, I turned and walked away, only to hear Eric's sharp voice behind me. "Anna, you're being very rude. Shirley is my partner and a guest here."

With tears threatening to fall, I turned to confront him.

"You're wrong. She won't be just a guest for long. She's going to be the lady of this house. She's your life partner, after all!"

Eric refused to meet my tear-streaked eyes as he spoke sharply. "If you hadn't tried so hard to please my mother back then, Shirley and I wouldn't have broken up, and she wouldn't have lost the baby to depression.

"For years, you've been living on the love that should have been Shirley's. You should be ashamed of yourself."

I never tried to please Greta, nor did I set a trap for Shirley.

I'd said it a thousand times before. But now, the truth was something I couldn't bear to speak aloud.

Shirley suddenly acted upset and tried to walk away.

Layla held onto her tightly with tears rolling down her face.

"Mama Shirley, please don't leave. She's the one who should go."

It was clear Layla had grown tired of me a long time ago.

Not only did my husband resent me, but now my daughter was fed up too.

There was nothing left in this home that was worth holding onto.

I called out to Shirley, "There's something I need to give back to you."

It was the gallery I had dedicated ten years of my life to.

Every painting and every wall stood as a silent witness to my devotion.

Through countless sleepless nights, I labored alone, meticulously curating every piece.

Yet despite everything, Eric merely shrugged and said, "Return it to Shirley. It was hers from the start."

In that instant, his words crumbled a decade of my devotion into dust.

The top floor of the gallery was adorned with photos I had taken—capturing everything from Layla's first steps to Eric's rare, fleeting smiles.

Out of thousands of photos, none showed the three of us together as a family.

Yet there, in the most prominent spot, hung a portrait of him with Shirley and Layla—their perfect family of three.

Eric loomed behind me, his voice cutting through the silence. "Straighten it up. The lighting's better here."

I rose onto my tiptoes, my fingers trembling as I adjusted the frame.

This wasn't the first time Eric had pushed to return the gallery to Shirley. He was the one who'd drafted the transfer agreement.

As Shirley signed the papers, Eric's smile finally appeared.

"Anna, you're quite obedient today… and incredibly beautiful," he said.

It was the first time he'd ever called me beautiful.

But instead of happiness, I felt empty.

A decade had slipped through my fingers after I became Mrs. Sinclair.

Now, all I longed for was to find myself again.

I finally booked my plane ticket. In ten days, I would leave for Parisoir.

The Parisoir School of Fashion Design was where I once chose to put love before all else.

My father had been the driver for Eric's father. He gave his life, taking a bullet meant for Eric.

During that time, my mother sank into depression and made the heartbreaking decision to end her life.

All of this happened when I was only 15.

One day, while I was curled up in the corner of an unfamiliar villa, Eric suddenly extended his hand to me.

He became my closest companion, driving away my darkest fears and standing up to the kids who tormented me.

At my father's gravesite, he promised to look after me forever, and I believed him.

Then one day, Shirley arrived.

From that moment, he began to pull away, shutting me out.

He even asked me to be Shirley's bridesmaid. He was going to marry her.

At the time, Greta believed Eric wasn't keeping his promises to me, and they ended up in a heated argument.

After Shirley was sent away, Eric spent his days drinking and weeping.

Greta said he needed a wife—someone to hold the family together.

So I gave up my career without protest, quietly locking myself away in the villa.

One day, I found out Shirley had come back to the country. Eric had met her at the airport, carrying 999 red roses.

I hesitantly confessed my jealousy to him. "I want red roses too."

"Red roses are for those who deserve them," he said with a sneer.

Then, glancing at my flour-dusted hands, he added, "You? Don't be ridiculous."

I stared at my roughened knuckles, marked by ten years of tireless labor in the kitchen.

The elegance I once displayed while holding a paintbrush had all but vanished. These worn, calloused hands had prepared his lunch without fail for a decade.

What started as a meal for one quietly became a meal for two.

Even when I was sick and in the hospital, Eric said, "Shirley loves the healthy, delicious lunches you make. We can't live without you."

But at last, I was free to cast off this heavy apron, its fabric still steeped in the fading scent of the kitchen.

I reached for my paintbrush, ready to trace the outlines of the freedom and dreams I had once imagined.

Without warning, a phone call cut through my thoughts.

Eric rattled off, "Shirley wants lobster rolls, sandwiches—"

"I'm not your maid!" I snapped, my patience worn thin.

From now on, I would no longer be the one making their lunches.

Furious, Eric snapped, "If you're not cooking, then what are you even good for?"

I said nothing.

Perhaps realizing his words had landed too harshly, he softened his tone. "Anna, I'll get you something nice to make it up to you. Just stop with the childish tantrums, okay?"

Soon, he tossed me a bright pink dress.

It was the birthday gift he'd given Shirley last year.

Back then, he'd asked me to pick it out, but it had been lost among countless other presents.

Shirley absolutely despised it. She ended up crushing it beneath her heel and wiping her shoes on the fabric.

The faint imprint of her shoe still stained the hem, lingering like a silent, cruel reminder.

Even the gifts Eric gave me were leftovers Shirley no longer wanted.

Back then, I envied Shirley for having Eric's favor, which was exactly why I had chosen that bright pink dress.

But in the end, the one who felt the most disgust was I.

As waves of nausea crashed over me, Eric's eyes burned with fury. "You're not going to the charity gala tonight. Shirley's coming with me."

Attending charity galas with one's spouse was the accepted custom. Yet, to my disbelief, Eric insisted on bringing Shirley instead.

It felt like a cruel slap right across my face.

Though I was leaving, the hurt lingered deeply.

After all, I had loved him for 15 years. While some of that love remained, I was utterly drained.

Layla wanted Shirley to shine at the charity gala. She brazenly pulled her through my walk-in closet.

"Mama Shirley, these are all yours. Wear whatever you like."

I didn't try to stop them.

I wouldn't take back a single thing that carried Eric's presence, not the designer gowns nor the jewelry.

In the end, Shirley chose the couple's outfit I had lovingly designed and hand-sewn.

It was meant for Eric and me to wear on our tenth wedding anniversary, just ten days away.

Sadly, it could no longer serve its original purpose.

As they tried on the outfits in front of the mirror, Layla smiled brightly and said, "It looks perfect. If only I were your real daughter, maybe I wouldn't feel so ugly."

My breath caught in my throat.

Layla's scorn struck me like a thousand piercing arrows, and the pain was overwhelming.

With trembling hands, I took off my wedding ring and placed it on Shirley's finger.

Eric's gaze clouded with a mix of shock and confusion.

"Do you even understand what you're doing?" he demanded.

Overwhelmed, I shouted, "Your passionate kisses for Shirley say it all. She's the one you love. You never truly loved me. I'm done. I want a divorce!"

Eric's irritation flared. "Stop making a scene. If you want to kiss me, just say so."

I stood frozen, tears slipping silently down my cheeks.

With a heavy sigh, I whispered, "No, I don't want your lips. I want my freedom. I want to be happy."

At the charity gala, Eric proudly flaunted a 15-carat diamond ring—a bold symbol of his devotion.

"Ms. Shirley Huxley is my one true love," he announced.

The media swarmed the story, and Shirley quickly became the center of attention.

Layla sat holding a tablet, watching the interview videos on repeat.

"Mom, how many carats is your wedding ring?" she asked.

I looked down at my bare fingers, a bitter smile tugging at my lips.

"Half a carat," I said.

She snorted. "How pathetic."

That ring was the very one Eric had carefully slipped onto my finger on our wedding day.

Though I knew it was initially a birthday gift meant for Shirley, I still cried tears of joy when he placed it on me.

After we got married, I felt a sense of contentment and happiness. Even though Eric never kissed me, we appeared like any other married couple.

He remembered my birthday and looked after me when I was ill.

Because I feared the pain, he accepted my decision not to have a second child.

In those days, he seemed to have let go of Shirley, and for the first time, happiness felt close enough to touch.

But unexpectedly, Shirley returned to the country. She accused me of telling Greta to evict her while she was pregnant—an ordeal that drove her into depression and resulted in the loss of her baby.

After that, everything shifted.

But in the end, none of it mattered anymore.

At this point, the only thing I looked forward to was the day I'd finally set foot in Parisoir.

Early the next morning, Eric walked into my room after a night out.

"Anna, you're so cruel," he suddenly said.

I was bewildered.

It turned out their public display had sparked a wave of online gossip.

Rumors began swirling that Shirley wasn't really Eric's wife. Then, using their striking outfits as a clue, someone had even tracked down my old social media profile.

Back then, I had proudly posted about finishing those matching outfits.

Overnight, Shirley was dragged through the mud as the other woman.

Eric's immediate response was to accuse me of revenge. "Anna, I already told you I'm fine with you asking for a kiss. So why are you still going after Shirley?"

I was too worn out to respond.

Just then, Layla burst in, holding a water gun.

"I hate you!" she yelled, pulling the trigger without hesitation. "You're a bad woman! Mama Shirley said we'd be happy without you!"

Cold water splashed across my face, blending seamlessly with the tears I couldn't hold back.

Nonetheless, the chill was nothing compared to the sting of Layla's words.

Even so, I chose to forgive her. I was leaving, after all.

From now on, she could stay with the "mother" she truly wanted.

Suddenly, my social media was flooded with new followers.

Most of them encouraged me to expose Shirley. Some even wanted to hire me as their personal fashion designer.

Meanwhile, Shirley's accounts were bombarded with hateful comments and insults.

Eric, feeling sorry for her, made a cruel suggestion. "Anna, maybe it's time you admit you're the homewrecker who tore me and Shirley apart. Remember, you were the one who drove her away and caused her miscarriage."

Tears streamed down my cheeks.

Despite ten years of marriage, I meant nothing to Eric.

Not only did I have a husband who betrayed me, but also a daughter who couldn't distinguish right from wrong.

In that instant, I knew I had made the right choice in walking away.

Despair wasn't sparked by impulse. It was forged from years of mounting disappointments.

"Fine. Take this as my wedding gift to both of you!" I declared.

Eric's fury ignited immediately. "What wedding gift are you talking about? Anna, I already said you can kiss me. What else do you want? Quit talking about divorce, okay?"

Humiliation, bitterness, and anger twisted within me.

A smile broke through my tears.

I couldn't wait any longer. I needed to draft the divorce papers right then and there.

All I wanted was to leave as soon as possible.

While interviewing me, the entertainment reporter's eyes were filled with sympathy. "Did you know the home you shared with Eric has already been handed over to Shirley?"

As I looked into the camera, tears streamed uncontrollably down my face. "Yes, I know. The down payment for that house came from my father's compensation."

The room fell into silence.

I could hardly believe that the place I once called home had quietly slipped through my fingers.

It was time to go.

I set the divorce papers on the dining table and took one last look around. What I had thought was my sanctuary had become nothing more than rubble.

When I closed the door behind me, I didn't glance back.