The Wind That Knows My Heart

The hum of my phone broke the silence. It was a text from Harry.

“Honey, I’m sorry. The company has an emergency and I have to work overtime. I can’t accompany you today, but wait for me. I’ll come back soon.”

Lies. The words were as hollow as the promises that had once made me believe in forever.

Almost immediately, another message arrived—this one from Evelyn. Her words were sharp, dripping with malice.

“Big sister, stop flattering yourself. Do you really think he’ll come back for you? He doesn’t love you anymore.” She continued, “You’re thirty-five. Old. Fat. Barren. Why don’t you just pack up and leave? He’s mine now. All I have to do is crook my finger and he’s at my feet.”

Attached were photos—her and Harry on a shopping spree. They stood at the counter, his hand brushing hers as he purchased an evening gown. The same gown I had admired months ago but deemed too extravagant. For her, he threw down ten million without hesitation.

I stared at the images, numb, my heart a fortress of scar tissue. Ignoring her provocations, I turned away, bandaging my hands from the wounds I had inflicted on myself in my grief.

The days blurred together after that. Harry never came home. Occasionally, he sent brief, detached messages about business trips and work emergencies.

But I wasn’t naive. Evelyn’s social media painted a different picture. There he was, standing just out of frame as she smiled like a flower in photos of their dates. They visited luxury boutiques, food spots and maternity clinics.

Each post was a dagger, yet my heart felt cold, detached. This wasn’t new pain—it was a persistent ache, dulled by the weight of my resolve.

***

Night after night, I packed. I sorted through the remnants of my life with Harry—the gifts, the love letters, the photographs. Every item carried the weight of a memory, each one suffocating me like a noose tightening around my neck.

By dawn, I had collected everything into a pile in the backyard. Lighting a match, I watched the flames consume it all. The wedding photos crumbled into ash. The letters curled and blackened, their words vanishing into smoke.

Even my own belongings, clothes and personal treasures—anything that connected me to this house—were sold or given away. I left no trace of myself behind.

Tomorrow would mark seven years since our wedding day. But instead of celebrating, I would leave this chapter of my life behind. Forever.

I spent that final night at my desk, editing two videos.

The first was a montage of our love story, chronicling the moments that once felt sacred: our wedding, vacations, silly moments captured in the spontaneity of joy.

The second video was a stark contrast: the evidence Evelyn had sent me. Her and Harry, their naked bodies tangled in passionate betrayal. The images that once destroyed me now fueled my purpose.

By sunrise, the videos were complete. I sent them to the general manager of Carf Mansion—the city-center building that Harry had built as a testament to our love.

“Tomorrow,” I instructed him, “play these videos on the building’s big screens. The first, then the second, on a continuous loop. Let the whole city see.”

With a deep breath, I whispered to myself, “Harry, you wanted the world to know about our love. Now, they will.”

***

That evening, Harry’s assistant arrived to escort me to a grand banquet in honor of our wedding anniversary. I allowed myself to be dressed in the exquisite gown he had chosen for me, its elegance masking the storm within.

At the banquet, Harry’s eyes lit up when he saw me. He rushed forward, his voice tender. “Dear, I’ve missed you so much.”

His arms wrapped around me in front of the crowd, the picture of a devoted husband. The room erupted in applause and I played along, nodding politely as he guided me through the night.

To the onlookers, we were the perfect couple. But I knew better. Each step, each smile, felt like an act, a final bow before the curtain fell.

Hours into the evening, I slipped away, seeking solitude by the pool. The moonlight reflected off the water, serene and indifferent to the chaos in my heart.

Evelyn approached, her gown shimmering as she swayed confidently. She twirled the hem of her dress, her lips curving into a mocking smile.

“Doesn’t it look stunning?” she purred. “Your husband bought it for me, along with every high-fashion gown in the city.”

She leaned in, her voice a venomous whisper. “He told me himself—you’re nothing but an old, fat woman now. Someone like you could never be worthy of such luxury.”

Her words sliced through the air, but I stood firm, my expression unchanging.

The countdown had begun. Ten hours remained. And then, I would vanish. Forever.

Evelyn’s voice was a steady drip of venom, each word designed to wound.

“Hehehe, you don’t know yet, do you? The dress you’re wearing—it was actually left by my nanny. She didn’t want it, so now it's yours. A leftover, inferior remnant.”

Her words were sharp, mocking. But I wasn’t interested in the petty games she played. I turned away, my heart pounding with a growing sense of frustration.

But she wouldn’t stop. She grabbed my arm, her fingers digging into my skin.

“I know you despise me,” she sneered. “In your heart, you probably think I’m nothing but a broken shoe, don’t you? But guess what? In your husband’s heart, you’re not even worth as much as a broken shoe.”

She leaned in, her breath hot on my ear. “Do you really think he and I are just having a fling? That you’re the ‘true love’? Pfft. Let me tell you something. Your husband would rather pretend to be impotent than have a child with you.”

Her eyes glinted with malice.

“Because you’re psychotic.”

The words hit like a slap to the face. I recoiled, my body stiff with shock, but she wasn’t finished.

“Just like your mother. Your crazy murderer mother.”

I froze. The world around me seemed to fade.

“Didn’t you know?” she hissed, her voice dripping with satisfaction. “I heard Harry say that your mother—when she was pregnant with you—went insane and killed your father. Mental illness runs in the family, doesn’t it? Your mom was an old lunatic and you? You’re just a little lunatic.”

The words spun around me, crashing into my mind like waves in a storm. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think.

“Harry’s afraid. Afraid that if you get pregnant, you’ll snap just like your mother did—and kill someone... maybe even him.”

That final jab cut through me like a blade. My chest tightened. My breath became shallow, erratic. The world blurred.

All I could see was red. A rage so fierce, so consuming, flooded my veins. Without thinking, I lunged at her. My hands wrapped around her neck, desperate to silence the poison she was spewing.