Those who don't love me, I don't want them anymore

I looked up.

Lucas was standing there, Kendall’s hand in his.

She was wearing a pale pink coat, her eyes bright—like the whole world

belonged to her.

His gaze dropped to the bandage on my leg, his brow creasing slightly.

“You’re hurt too? Why didn’t you say anything earlier?”

I smiled faintly. “Weren’t you busy taking care of me? I didn’t want to

interrupt.”

His expression darkened.

“When will you learn to stop making decisions on your own?”

I didn’t argue. I simply lifted my head, my voice steady.

“Lucas, I already have. I’ve learned when to make my own decisions—and

when not to listen to you anymore.”

Kendall spoke softly, her voice dripping like syrup.

“Don’t be angry, I didn’t mean to.”

She squeezed his hand, her eyes wide and delicate.

“I was just so scared. That cup of water yesterday—it really was my

fault.”

He bent down to soothe her, his voice so gentle I could hardly believe

it came from the same man.

“It’s all right,” he murmured. “From now on, I’ll take care of you.”

I stood there, watching in silence, my nails pressing deep into my palm.

So he could be gentle—

that gentleness had simply never been meant for me.

When they left, neither of them looked back.

I lowered my head and smiled.

The smile felt like a thin needle, slowly reopening an old scar from the

inside out.

By evening, I returned to the villa.

The house was hollow and still.

The medicine box sat on the table, the silver foil of the tablets

glinting under the light.

I remembered what the doctor had said:

“One pill a day, on time. Otherwise, the strain on his heart will be too

much.”

I reached out and gave the box a slight push.

It slid off the edge and fell into the trash bin.

“Lucas,” I said quietly, as if he were still there,

“You don’t have to worry. I won’t take care of your heart anymore.”

That night, I left the house for good.

I took nothing with me—no gifts, no goodbyes.

Three days later, the divorce became official.

When the lawyer’s confirmation email arrived, I was sitting on a bench

by the sea.

The wind tangled my hair and tasted faintly of salt.

For the first time, I felt what it meant to breathe freely.

I thought the story was finally over.

Until two weeks later, a call came from an unfamiliar number.

“Mrs. Wilson?”

“This is she.”

“I’m the assistant to designer Solomon Jennings. He saw your portfolio

at Paris Fashion Week and would like to invite you to collaborate.”

On the other end, faint background music played—

the sound of waves breaking against a distant shore.

I was silent for a few seconds before a small smile curved my lips.

Maybe this time, fate was finally giving me the pen to rewrite my own

story.

That morning, the sky was gray, like it had been dusted over with ash.

I leaned against the window, staring at the streetlamp outside—

the one that had never gone out.

Its cold light fell across the table, illuminating an unread email.

The sender: Solomon.

He had written only two lines:

“We’re missing a creative director for the new Paris exhibition.

If you’re ready, we’re ready for you.”

Five years.

I had almost forgotten that someone, somewhere, was still waiting for my

reply.

Back then, I refused because Lucas had said,

“A married woman shouldn’t be parading herself in public.”

Now, that sentence sounded nothing but ironic.

I was just about to type my reply when my phone rang.

The screen lit up with a name I hadn’t deleted—

Lucas.