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.