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.