I stepped forward and gently picked up the coffee cup on the table.

“The temperature’s just right,” I said, handing it to him with a faint

smile. “Don’t let it get cold.”

In that moment, I looked exactly like the woman I had been five years

ago—

obedient, quiet, considerate.

Only this time, my heart was empty.

“I…” He started, his tone laced with something complicated. “Maybe you

should get some rest.”

I nodded.

“All right.”

I set down the cup and walked toward the door.

My shadow stretched long in the morning light spilling through the

window.

“Lucas,” I said softly, stopping in my tracks. My voice was so light it

almost dissolved into the air.

“Five years ago, I saved your life.”

He froze.

“But now,” I continued, “it’s time I saved my own.”

The door closed behind me, and I heard him take a long, heavy breath.

Nova leaned toward him, her voice a whisper, tinged with amusement.

“Don’t mind me. I’m just jealous.”

I didn’t look back.

Sunlight poured through the glass window, falling across the back of my

hand.

The scar there still burned faintly—

a mark left from the day I signed the surgery consent form five years

ago.

A seal that would never heal.

Kendall—

her smile faltered, cracking at the corners. My words had stolen

whatever composure she had left.

Lucas stood beside her, brow furrowed, his expression outwardly calm,

yet betraying a trace of unease.

The air hung silent for several seconds.

The kettle in the kitchen kept boiling softly.

While they said nothing, I untied my apron, turned around, and left.

My footsteps were light, yet carried a weight of finality I hadn’t felt

in years.

Back in the bedroom, I leaned against the door and took a deep breath.

The divorce would take effect in a week.

Seven days—

after that, I would no longer be Mrs. Lucas.

I picked up my phone and scrolled through rental listings, one after

another.

Old apartments on the edge of town, single rooms, shared flats…

Each title looked like an escape route, a map leading out of this life.

Just then, Lucas’s voice came from outside the door—low, cold.

“I’m going to the office this afternoon. Kendall will stay here. My body

hasn’t fully recovered—you’ll take care of me.”

I looked up, my tone so even it barely carried emotion.

“Take care of you? Are you sure I’m your maid… or your nurse?”

He hadn’t expected me to answer that way. His face changed slightly.

“Have you forgotten,” he said after a pause, voice heavy with warning,

“who allows you to still live here?”

That familiar note of threat—low, deliberate—

sank between us like the echo of a locked door.

I gave a small, tired smile. “I haven’t forgotten. But I also remember

the doctor saying that day—

I nearly went into cardiac failure saving you.”

He froze, a flicker of stiffness flashing through his features.

It was the one memory he could never bear to face.

“Don’t bring that up again,” he said coldly. “You saved me, and I gave

you five years of life.”

I lifted my head. For the first time, there was no fear in my eyes.

“Five years?” I said quietly. “That wasn’t life. It was imprisonment.”

For a moment, he couldn’t speak.

His expression twisted—part anger, part guilt—

but the flicker of remorse vanished almost instantly.

“When I’m gone,” he muttered, his voice sinking into a low, restrained

growl,

“don’t cause trouble. If anything happens to Kendall…”

He paused.

“You know the consequences.”

Then he bent down and kissed Kendall on the forehead.

That scene—

one I had imagined in countless dreams—

was never meant to belong to anyone else.

The door closed.

He was gone.

The living room fell silent.

Kendall slumped onto the sofa, her posture lazy, a mocking smile tugging

at the corners of her lips.

“How touching,” she said, her tone dripping with false sympathy. “Five

years of marriage, and he still can’t stand to waste a single glance on

you.”

I didn’t answer.

I simply sat there, scrolling through the listings on my phone.

My calm seemed to infuriate her. She suddenly stood up, laughter

spilling from her lips as she swayed the coffee cup in her hand.

“Did you know?” she said sweetly, “Last night he told me his heartbeat

was even faster than it was after his surgery—because I was in his

arms.”

The cup tilted in my hand—

I dodged, but the scalding coffee still splashed across my clothes.

A few drops landed on my wrist. The pain was sharp, and I gasped,

falling to the floor in a half-cry that sounded almost theatrical.

“Lucas!” I screamed.

Footsteps thundered from the hallway.

He burst in, eyes flaring when he saw my reddened wrist.

“What the hell are you doing now?!”

Before I could speak, his palm came down hard.

The slap rang in my ears, and for a second, the world went white.

He gathered Kendall into his arms and rushed out, leaving me kneeling

among shattered porcelain and spilled coffee.

The heat soaked through my thin nightgown, burning my skin.

But the pain in my chest was worse—

a hollow, carved-out ache where something once lived.

I braced myself against the table and forced myself to stand, gasping

for air.

My gaze landed on the old medicine box by the window.

Inside were the leftover heart pills from his surgery—

carefully sorted, one by one, by my own hands.

Now they sat there quietly, as if mocking me.

So this is what I saved, they seemed to whisper.

Not a man. Just a heart without a soul.

I closed my eyes, my throat tightening.

It was time to leave.

For good.

I didn’t go back to the bedroom.

I just picked up the old suitcase beside the bed.

The zipper was rusted, and when I pulled it open, it screeched—

an ugly sound, yet strangely beautiful,

like a reminder that the escape route hadn’t been sealed completely.

Night wind slipped through the cracks of the window, lifting the

curtain’s corner.

Moonlight spread across the table where the divorce papers lay—

black ink on white paper, cold as a gravestone.

I reached for it, my fingertips icy.

Five years of marriage—

nothing but a few pages of paper.

And yet I had built those years with blood and bone.

I signed my name and smiled faintly.

There was no hatred left in that smile, no resentment—

only emptiness.

The next morning, I went to the hospital.

The burn on my leg had begun to fester.

The doctor frowned as he cleaned the wound, his tone half reproach, half

pity.

“How did you get burned like this? Where’s your family?”

“I don’t have family,” I said softly.

He didn’t ask again—only sighed.

Laughter drifted from the next examination room.

“That girl only burned her wrist a little,” a nurse said between

giggles,

“and her boyfriend rushed here in the middle of the night—dragged the

hospital director out of bed, demanding compensation.”

“Tch. Rich people,” the doctor muttered, shaking his head.

“But that girl’s lucky,” the nurse replied. “At least someone cares.”

I lowered my eyes, the corners of my lips barely moving.

Yes. Being cared for is a kind of luck.

Mine, though, had run out five years ago—

the night of that operation.

After the bandages were done, I sat alone on the bench.

Raindrops streaked down the glass, blurring the world outside.

Then, from the end of the hallway, I heard a voice—

low, familiar, and unmistakable.

“Me?”

I looked up.

Lucas was standing there, Kendall’s hand in his.

She was wearing a pale pink coat, her eyes bright—like the whole world

belonged to her.

His gaze dropped to the bandage on my leg, his brow creasing slightly.

“You’re hurt too? Why didn’t you say anything earlier?”

I smiled faintly. “Weren’t you busy taking care of me? I didn’t want to

interrupt.”

His expression darkened.

“When will you learn to stop making decisions on your own?”

I didn’t argue. I simply lifted my head, my voice steady.

“Lucas, I already have. I’ve learned when to make my own decisions—and

when not to listen to you anymore.”

Kendall spoke softly, her voice dripping like syrup.

“Don’t be angry, I didn’t mean to.”

She squeezed his hand, her eyes wide and delicate.

“I was just so scared. That cup of water yesterday—it really was my

fault.”

He bent down to soothe her, his voice so gentle I could hardly believe

it came from the same man.

“It’s all right,” he murmured. “From now on, I’ll take care of you.”

I stood there, watching in silence, my nails pressing deep into my palm.

So he could be gentle—

that gentleness had simply never been meant for me.

When they left, neither of them looked back.

I lowered my head and smiled.

The smile felt like a thin needle, slowly reopening an old scar from the

inside out.

By evening, I returned to the villa.

The house was hollow and still.

The medicine box sat on the table, the silver foil of the tablets

glinting under the light.

I remembered what the doctor had said:

“One pill a day, on time. Otherwise, the strain on his heart will be too

much.”

I reached out and gave the box a slight push.

It slid off the edge and fell into the trash bin.

“Lucas,” I said quietly, as if he were still there,

“You don’t have to worry. I won’t take care of your heart anymore.”

That night, I left the house for good.

I took nothing with me—no gifts, no goodbyes.

Three days later, the divorce became official.

When the lawyer’s confirmation email arrived, I was sitting on a bench

by the sea.

The wind tangled my hair and tasted faintly of salt.

For the first time, I felt what it meant to breathe freely.

I thought the story was finally over.

Until two weeks later, a call came from an unfamiliar number.

“Mrs. Wilson?”

“This is she.”

“I’m the assistant to designer Solomon Jennings. He saw your portfolio

at Paris Fashion Week and would like to invite you to collaborate.”

On the other end, faint background music played—

the sound of waves breaking against a distant shore.

I was silent for a few seconds before a small smile curved my lips.

Maybe this time, fate was finally giving me the pen to rewrite my own

story.

That morning, the sky was gray, like it had been dusted over with ash.

I leaned against the window, staring at the streetlamp outside—

the one that had never gone out.

Its cold light fell across the table, illuminating an unread email.

The sender: Solomon.

He had written only two lines:

“We’re missing a creative director for the new Paris exhibition.

If you’re ready, we’re ready for you.”

Five years.

I had almost forgotten that someone, somewhere, was still waiting for my

reply.

Back then, I refused because Lucas had said,

“A married woman shouldn’t be parading herself in public.”

Now, that sentence sounded nothing but ironic.

I was just about to type my reply when my phone rang.

The screen lit up with a name I hadn’t deleted—

Lucas.