Faded love, I don't want it anymore

Una bit her lip. “If he ever finds out the truth… he’ll lose his mind.”

“That’s good.”
My voice was calm. “Madness is closer to being human than reason ever was.”

The private runway was slick with rain, the storm lashing sideways like knives across our faces.
Crew members hurried through the downpour, checking the instruments one last time.

Una handed me my passport and a slim folder. Her voice trembled.
“Everything’s ready. The flight departs at 1:30 a.m. sharp.
The crash signal will transmit forty minutes later.”

“The radar will log a false reading.
The coordinates are locked on the East Sea.
The wreckage will be handled by the technical team.
And I’ve arranged an ‘exclusive witness’ for the press.”

I listened quietly, my expression as still and cold as ice.
“Once the report is released, everyone will believe you’re dead,” she said, choking back tears.
“So will he.”

“That’s enough.”

At 1:30 a.m., the plane tore through the storm and vanished into the sky.
Rain hammered against the windows; wind howled like a wounded thing.
I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes.

For the last time, I thought of him—
the calm, handsome, impeccably gentle man
who had once signed my termination of pregnancy with a perfect stroke of his pen,
cutting clean through every bond that had tied us together.

“Goodbye, Rory,” I whispered.

Lightning split the heavens.
The plane disappeared into the clouds.

Meanwhile, on the top floor of Z Corporation headquarters,
the conference room lights had burned all night.

Rory was on a video call with the board.
Outside, rain lashed the glass.

His assistant burst in, pale and shaking.
“Mr. Zhou—the private jet’s signal… it’s gone.”

The pen slipped from his hand. Ink bled across the paper.
“What?”

“The jet Mrs. Gu boarded—
it lost radar contact twenty minutes after takeoff.
No communication from the crew since.”

He froze, his pupils contracting sharply.
Even his breathing stopped.

“Coordinates.”

“Over the East Sea. In the storm zone.”

He grabbed his coat and bolted from the room.

“Sir! The weather’s too dangerous—please!”
The assistant’s voice chased him down the hall.

“I’m afraid of the cold,” Rory said without looking back.

Two hours later, the rescue team reached the sea.
The wind roared; waves towered two meters high.
Debris bobbed beneath the floodlights.

“Wing fragment found!”
“There’s luggage on the surface!”

A mangled piece of metal was pulled from the water.
Three letters were etched into it—W.

Rory stood motionless, rain streaming down his face.
He stepped forward and touched the fragment.
It was ice cold.

“Keep searching!” His voice broke.
“She’s not dead!”

The sea wind shredded his words to pieces.
He shoved rescuers aside and waded deeper into the surf.
The water climbed past his knees, his waist.

“She’s not dead…” he muttered,
half delirious.

His assistant tried to grab him, but Rory threw him off.
“Go! Keep searching! She’s afraid of water, afraid of the dark—
she’s waiting for me!”

No one dared stop him again.

He stood there all night,
through the storm, through the rising tide, until dawn.

By morning, the rain had stopped.
His coat was soaked through.
The first light of day touched his face as he sank to his knees on the shore.

“Wendy…”
His voice was hoarse, broken.
“Come back.”

At that same moment, along a fog-covered border road,
a black SUV moved quietly through the gray dawn.

Una sat in the passenger seat, glancing back.
In the rear seat, a woman wore dark sunglasses, her hair cropped short, her face calm.

“Wendy,” Una said softly, “the news is out.”

I handed her my phone.
On the screen, the headline scrolled across in bold letters:

“Z Corporation CEO’s Wife Presumed Dead in Private Jet Crash — Wreckage Found in East Sea.”