No More Pleading for You

I finally booked my plane ticket. In ten days, I would leave for Parisoir.

The Parisoir School of Fashion Design was where I once chose to put love before all else.

My father had been the driver for Eric's father. He gave his life, taking a bullet meant for Eric.

During that time, my mother sank into depression and made the heartbreaking decision to end her life.

All of this happened when I was only 15.

One day, while I was curled up in the corner of an unfamiliar villa, Eric suddenly extended his hand to me.

He became my closest companion, driving away my darkest fears and standing up to the kids who tormented me.

At my father's gravesite, he promised to look after me forever, and I believed him.

Then one day, Shirley arrived.

From that moment, he began to pull away, shutting me out.

He even asked me to be Shirley's bridesmaid. He was going to marry her.

At the time, Greta believed Eric wasn't keeping his promises to me, and they ended up in a heated argument.

After Shirley was sent away, Eric spent his days drinking and weeping.

Greta said he needed a wife—someone to hold the family together.

So I gave up my career without protest, quietly locking myself away in the villa.

One day, I found out Shirley had come back to the country. Eric had met her at the airport, carrying 999 red roses.

I hesitantly confessed my jealousy to him. "I want red roses too."

"Red roses are for those who deserve them," he said with a sneer.

Then, glancing at my flour-dusted hands, he added, "You? Don't be ridiculous."

I stared at my roughened knuckles, marked by ten years of tireless labor in the kitchen.

The elegance I once displayed while holding a paintbrush had all but vanished. These worn, calloused hands had prepared his lunch without fail for a decade.

What started as a meal for one quietly became a meal for two.

Even when I was sick and in the hospital, Eric said, "Shirley loves the healthy, delicious lunches you make. We can't live without you."

But at last, I was free to cast off this heavy apron, its fabric still steeped in the fading scent of the kitchen.

I reached for my paintbrush, ready to trace the outlines of the freedom and dreams I had once imagined.

Without warning, a phone call cut through my thoughts.

Eric rattled off, "Shirley wants lobster rolls, sandwiches—"

"I'm not your maid!" I snapped, my patience worn thin.

From now on, I would no longer be the one making their lunches.

Furious, Eric snapped, "If you're not cooking, then what are you even good for?"

I said nothing.

Perhaps realizing his words had landed too harshly, he softened his tone. "Anna, I'll get you something nice to make it up to you. Just stop with the childish tantrums, okay?"

Soon, he tossed me a bright pink dress.

It was the birthday gift he'd given Shirley last year.

Back then, he'd asked me to pick it out, but it had been lost among countless other presents.

Shirley absolutely despised it. She ended up crushing it beneath her heel and wiping her shoes on the fabric.

The faint imprint of her shoe still stained the hem, lingering like a silent, cruel reminder.

Even the gifts Eric gave me were leftovers Shirley no longer wanted.

Back then, I envied Shirley for having Eric's favor, which was exactly why I had chosen that bright pink dress.

But in the end, the one who felt the most disgust was I.

As waves of nausea crashed over me, Eric's eyes burned with fury. "You're not going to the charity gala tonight. Shirley's coming with me."

Attending charity galas with one's spouse was the accepted custom. Yet, to my disbelief, Eric insisted on bringing Shirley instead.

It felt like a cruel slap right across my face.

Though I was leaving, the hurt lingered deeply.

After all, I had loved him for 15 years. While some of that love remained, I was utterly drained.

Layla wanted Shirley to shine at the charity gala. She brazenly pulled her through my walk-in closet.

"Mama Shirley, these are all yours. Wear whatever you like."

I didn't try to stop them.

I wouldn't take back a single thing that carried Eric's presence, not the designer gowns nor the jewelry.

In the end, Shirley chose the couple's outfit I had lovingly designed and hand-sewn.

It was meant for Eric and me to wear on our tenth wedding anniversary, just ten days away.

Sadly, it could no longer serve its original purpose.

As they tried on the outfits in front of the mirror, Layla smiled brightly and said, "It looks perfect. If only I were your real daughter, maybe I wouldn't feel so ugly."

My breath caught in my throat.

Layla's scorn struck me like a thousand piercing arrows, and the pain was overwhelming.

With trembling hands, I took off my wedding ring and placed it on Shirley's finger.

Eric's gaze clouded with a mix of shock and confusion.

"Do you even understand what you're doing?" he demanded.

Overwhelmed, I shouted, "Your passionate kisses for Shirley say it all. She's the one you love. You never truly loved me. I'm done. I want a divorce!"

Eric's irritation flared. "Stop making a scene. If you want to kiss me, just say so."

I stood frozen, tears slipping silently down my cheeks.

With a heavy sigh, I whispered, "No, I don't want your lips. I want my freedom. I want to be happy."