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,