Anyone who didn’t know better would think she was the mistress of the house.
Then, my gaze landed on the bottle of red wine.
I knew that bottle.
Hugo had bought it for our wedding. He once told me he’d save it for our golden anniversary.
Yet today, he had opened it early for another woman.
How ironic.
The home I had painstakingly built had become someone else’s prize, a reward for a love I was never a part of.
But I no longer cared.
I would be gone soon. There would be no golden anniversary, no future where I clung to something that was never truly mine.
Smirking, I tapped the like button on the post before turning my attention back to my purchase.
Seven dresses in total, each one chosen purely for myself.
I wasn’t buying them out of spite. No, this was something else.
A realization.
So what if it was wasteful? So what if I couldn’t take them with me?
For once, I would stop thinking about what was practical and simply enjoy the moment.
Once I returned to my original world, frugality would be a necessity again.
But for now, before I leave, why not indulge one last time?
With several shopping bags in hand, I made my way to a restaurant I had longed to visit.
The meal was exquisite, yet a strange restlessness lingered within me as if indulgence alone wasn’t enough.
On a whim, I stepped into a renowned salon nearby. By the time I walked out, my once jet-black hair had transformed into voluminous brown waves, soft and effortlessly elegant. From a distance, I looked like a completely different woman, modern, confident, unshackled.
I had always despised my straight black hair, yet I had kept it for years because that was how Hugo liked it.
Not anymore.
For the first time in forever, I felt like myself again.
As I passed a large glass window, I caught sight of my reflection and couldn’t resist taking a picture. With a quiet smirk, I uploaded it to social media.
Caption: “It’s never too late.”
Slipping my phone into my bag, I strolled home at an unhurried pace, savoring the crisp night air.
By now, I expected everyone to be asleep.
Yet the moment I stepped inside, three pairs of eyes locked onto me.
Hugo’s gaze dragged over me, his expression darkening with each passing second. The air grew heavy, thick with unspoken discontent. His voice, cold and edged with restraint, sent a cold chill through the room.
“Why didn’t you answer your phone?”
I pulled it out absentmindedly. Seventeen missed calls.