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.

I had thought that once the divorce took effect, our connection would

finally end.

But his voice came through the line, as commanding as ever:

“What are you doing out there? I don’t want to see your name appear at

any brand’s launch event.”

A soft laugh escaped my lips.

“Are you reminding me that I still belong to you?”

He paused for several seconds. When he spoke again, his tone had turned

cold.

“Don’t forget—every resource in this city is under my control.”

“Then give the whole city to Nova,” I replied evenly. “At least I’m

still willing to pretend I once loved you.”

A sharp exhale came through the receiver, followed by a breath heavy

with suppressed anger.

“You’ll have to live with your choices,” he said.

“I already am,” I murmured, and ended the call.

I didn’t expect that our conversation wasn’t over yet.

Five minutes later, a message arrived.

It was a photo.

In the picture, Lucas stood in a brightly lit banquet hall, holding a

bouquet of white roses, smiling as he slid a ring onto Nova’s finger.

Behind them, the musicians were playing A Thousand Years—

the same song that was supposed to play on my wedding day.

I stared at the screen, my fingers curling slowly into a fist.

A smile tugged at my lips, but it felt strange, unfamiliar—like it

belonged to someone else.

Another photo followed.

A preview of their wedding invitation.

Gold lettering across the cream paper read:

“Lucas & Nova — 11.11.”

That was the exact date I had arranged to leave for Paris with Solomon.

It struck me then—

as if the world had pressed “reset” at that very moment.

He was beginning a new marriage,

and I was about to begin a new life.

I didn’t look at the photos again.

I simply deleted the conversation and reopened Solomon’s email.

The cursor blinked over “Reply.”

I typed only a few words:

“Thank you for the invitation.

I accept. See you in Paris.”

The moment I hit “Send,” a gust of wind swept past the window.

It rattled the glass and lifted the sketches on my desk—

design drafts he had once dismissed as useless dreams.

The papers fluttered to the floor, scattering like soft feathers across

the room.

I bent down to pick one up.

On the back, in faint handwriting, were the words I had written five

years ago:

“A woman is not an accessory.

I am a creator.”

I stared at it for a few seconds, then smiled—

a real smile this time.

Maybe this was where my freedom truly began.

That night, I booked a flight.

Destination: Paris.

Departure date: November 11th.

At the very same moment Lucas would be celebrating his “new beginning,”

I would be flying toward mine.