After Seven Years of Suffering, I Finally Broke Free

I stood in the dark corridor, fingers stiff around the glass of water.

Cold and aloof.

Workaholic.

So, in his eyes, my calm independence and tireless work for our future were flaws—easy to belittle, even to complain about to another woman.

When his business collapsed, when creditors surrounded his door, penniless, I stayed with him in that moldy basement for two years.

I spent my days on construction sites, inhaling dust, and my nights drawing and doing freelance work until three in the morning, giving him half to pay debts, half as start-up capital.

Back then, he said, "Lydia, you’re the strongest and most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. Without you, I would have collapsed long ago."

Now, strength has become cold.

Beauty has become a lack of gentleness.

Time is a cruel magician, turning pearls to fish eyes, red roses to mosquito blood.

I didn’t say a word. I turned and went back to my room.

This time, I didn’t sleep.

I opened my laptop and pulled up the property ownership contract for this house.

Joint purchase.

The down payment was split fifty-fifty, and the mortgage payments had been made together.

Every transfer record was in my online banking.

I sent Ryan an email:

【Draft a property transfer agreement, and also, help me find out if there are any buyers urgently selling large apartments. Cash is fine, the price can be lower.】

Ryan, a night owl, replied instantly: 【? This is sudden. Aren’t you getting married next month? What’s going on?】

I stared at the blinking cursor.

Typed three words:

【It’s not happening.】

After sending them, I closed the laptop.

The room was pitch black, moonlight faintly filtering through the window.

No tears, no hysteria.

Only a resolute sense of finality.

In the following days, Emily took root in this house.

Her intrusion was gradual, like a spreading fungus.

My gray slippers disappeared, probably kicked into a corner.

Her skincare products appeared on the bathroom sink—bottles and jars crowding my minimalist set to the edge.

Even the sparkling water in the fridge was replaced with her favorite fully-sweetened fruit juice.

Frederick ignored it all.

Or rather, he seemed pleased.

He started coming home early. Once claiming busy social engagements, now he was in the kitchen wearing an apron, making soup for Emily.

"Emily has a sensitive stomach; she can’t eat takeout. It’s too oily."

Coming home from work, I saw a sumptuous three-dish meal and soup on the table.

Yam and pork rib soup, steamed sea bass, and blanched bok choy.

All stomach-friendly dishes.

Only two sets of bowls and chopsticks.

Frederick came out of the kitchen carrying soup. Seeing me at the entryway, he said casually,

"Oh, I thought you were working late, so I didn’t make you anything. Make some noodles, or order takeout."

As if I were the one who didn’t belong at the table.

Emily sat there, spoon in hand, wearing my silk pajamas.

Champagne-colored, brand new, tags still on—the ones I had hesitated to wear.

"Lydia, why don’t you eat mine? I can’t finish it; Frederick took too much."

She blinked, looking innocent and generous, pushing the bowl toward me.

I looked at the pajamas.

The silk hung loosely on her, like a child in adult clothes, cheap and mismatched.