Fading Love, Fading Hate, A Forever Farewell

As soon as I parked the car in the driveway, a message from Marie popped up on my phone.

[Flora, you really are pathetic. I let you have a man and you still couldn’t hold on to him. Emeric has been by my side at the hospital all morning—no matter what I do, he won’t leave.]

Attached was a video.

In the clip, Emeric was rushing around, handling Marie’s medical forms, his brows furrowed with genuine worry. That kind of concern couldn’t be faked.

Suddenly, memories surfaced—those days when my illness took hold. Emeric had always used work as an excuse, leaving me in the hands of the doctors before walking away.

But now, Marie had simply taken a fall and he was treating it like a crisis.

The truth had been there all along—I had just been too blind to see it.

I knew he wouldn’t be coming home tonight. For once, that played to my advantage.

I reached out to a lawyer, had the divorce papers drafted and signed them without hesitation. I left them in Emeric’s study, along with an audio recording—one from the private suite, capturing him and his personal bodyguard.

Then, I packed up everything I owned in this house and shipped it all to San Mirren.

By the time I had finished, I picked up a call from Emeric.

"Flora, don’t be upset about this morning. My brother isn’t here and before he left, he made me promise to take good care of his wife. He’s the pillar of this family now—I have no choice but to do as he asked.

I stayed with Marie at the hospital today, but you just stay home and be good. Tomorrow, when I’m back, let’s take a short trip to Europe. A little getaway will do you good."

I couldn’t understand why a simple fall required an entire day at the hospital. But since I was leaving soon, there was no point in dwelling on it.

I gave a half-hearted response and ended the call.

By noon, another message from Marie arrived—this time, a video. It was filmed at the concert hall funded by Jacob Enterprises.

On stage, Emeric sat with his beloved cello, gazing at Marie with deep affection as he played Bach’s Air on the G String—a piece Bach had written for his wife, a symbol of eternal love.

As the final note faded, thunderous applause erupted from the audience.

And, of course, hushed whispers followed.

[Isn’t that the second son of the Jacobs? Why would he play a piece like that for his own sister-in-law…?"

"Well, his wife is just damaged goods after what happened to her. Guess he’s had enough.]

The video hadn’t even finished playing when Marie’s call came through.

Her voice slithered through the phone like a demon’s whisper.

"Flora, do you remember what happened six months ago? The men Emeric sent toyed with you for three whole days and nights. We watched every second of it, live. You screamed so pitifully...

And during those very nights, I conceived Emeric’s child. With your cries as the soundtrack, he was especially... passionate."

Marie’s laughter rang through the phone, sharp and cruel.

A violent tremor ran through me, followed by uncontrollable dry heaving.

"Flora, you’ll always be nothing but a loser to me."

With that, she hung up.

A few minutes later, my phone rang again.

This time, it was Emeric. His voice was light, almost cheerful.

"Flora, I finished up earlier than expected. Meet me at our usual restaurant. You’ve had a tough few days—let me take you out for a nice meal."

I glanced at my plane ticket, scheduled for departure in just a few hours.

A slow smile tugged at my lips.

"Sure. I have a gift for you."

After I hung up, though, Emeric couldn’t shake a nagging sense of unease.

Maybe that day, he had been too bold in showing his favoritism toward Marie.

Maybe he shouldn’t have played that particular piece in the concert hall…

Then Flora... her response on the phone just now had been too… willing. That wasn’t like her at all.

A sense of unease crept over Emeric.

Without wasting another second, Emeric stood up from his seat in the concert hall. He quickly instructed Pierre to head to the restaurant and keep an eye on Flora, then rushed there himself.

For some reason, everything seemed to go wrong on the way—unexpected delays, endless traffic.

By the time he finally pulled up in front of the restaurant, Pierre came bursting out of the entrance, his face pale with panic.

Emeric quickly rolled down the window.

Pierre, my most trusted bodyguard, was still gasping for breath as he thrust two sheets of paper and a voice recorder into the car.

"Boss—she’s gone. Your wife disappeared. And that night… she heard everything we said outside the private suite!"

Emeric’s gaze dropped to the papers in his hands.

The bold, black letters at the top burned into his vision—"DIVORCE AGREEMENT."