After Seven Years of Suffering, I Finally Broke Free

Emily Jordan.

She wore a large white shirt—one of Frederick’s.

She huddled in his arms like a frightened kitten seeking shelter.

Hearing the door open, she flinched, stiffening, then burrowed even deeper into his embrace.

"Lydia, you’re back." Frederick looked up at me, a flicker of unease in his eyes.

It was the panic of being caught, quickly masked by practiced composure.

"Emily’s rented apartment was awful. There was a barbecue stall downstairs, the soundproofing was terrible, and drunks kept knocking. She just got back from abroad, and her mental state is fragile. The doctor said she shouldn’t be under stress, so I brought her here first."

His explanation flowed smoothly, as if rehearsed.

I changed my shoes and hung my bag on the coat hanger.

I kicked the pink slippers aside.

"The guest room hasn’t been cleaned," I said casually. "The sheets are still in the closet."

Frederick frowned, a flash of displeasure at my coldness.

"She’s afraid of the dark. Sleeping alone in the guest room will give her nightmares. Besides, it’s too quiet. I’ll stay with her in the living room tonight."

Emily finally lifted her head from his chest.

Her face was streaked with tears, eyes red and swollen, lips pale—pitiful.

She looked at me timidly, her voice barely a whisper:

"Miss Sinclair, I’m sorry… it’s all my fault… Frederick was just worried something might happen… I… I’ll leave tomorrow, I won’t bother you."

She reached out and clutched Frederick’s sleeve.

He immediately patted her back tenderly, voice gentle yet cutting: "What nonsense are you talking about? How could you walk in this state? What if something else happens? Stay here until you recover."

Then he turned to me, eyes sharp, tone commanding:

"Lydia Sinclair, you’re sensible. Emily is a patient now, and also our friend. Don’t hold it against her. You should have that much compassion, shouldn’t you?"

Friend?

Whose friend?

The one sleeping in her fiancé’s arms?

I looked at them.

Under the light, how harmonious, how well-matched they seemed—one broken, needing saving; the other strong, eager to save.

And I, the normal person standing straight, emotionally stable, capable of handling everything alone, felt like the most superfluous presence in the room.

I suddenly felt exhausted.

Not physically, but deep in my soul.

Like walking a long road, only to find the destination a swamp.

"Whatever." I didn’t look at them again and went to the master bedroom.

That night, I locked the door.

Lying in bed, I didn’t toss and turn as I’d imagined.

Perhaps because my heart was dead, my body had activated its self-protection.

At two a.m., I got up for water.

Opening the door, the living room light was off, leaving only a floor lamp spilling dim yellow light onto a corner of the sofa.

Low voices came from the other end.

"Frederick, am I a burden?"

"Don’t think like that. You never will be."

"In my heart, you’ll always be that little girl who needs protection."

"But Miss Sinclair…, she seems unhappy. Her face was so cold when she came back. Does she hate me?"

I heard Frederick rustle the blanket around her.

"That’s just her personality—cold and aloof, a workaholic. Always staring at blueprints and construction sites, long forgetting how to speak gently. Don’t worry; she’ll be fine in a couple of days. She’s reasonable—she won’t actually kick you out."