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

The air froze. Lucas’s face turned pale, his fists tightening at his sides, yet he said nothing. I turned away and went into the kitchen to turn off the faucet. Only then did I realize the water had overflowed, running down the white tiles and pooling at my feet. Suddenly, a hand reached from behind me and twisted the valve shut. Lucas’s voice brushed against my ear, low and tight with restraint. “Are you really going to leave?” I didn’t look back. “Yes,” I said softly. “I already gave you my heart. What else is there for me to stay for?” He was silent for a few seconds. When he finally spoke, his tone was a bitter blend of laughter and sigh. “You’re too naive, love. Without me, you’re nothing.” I turned to face him. “Then after I’m gone,” I said, meeting his gaze, “let’s see whose heart stops first.” I picked up my bag and walked to the door. The moment it closed behind me, a gust of wind swept in, brushing against my face. And right then, I understood— I had once saved his heart, but now, I was finally learning to save my own. Nova’s laughter still lingered in the air, sharp and thin, pricking at my eardrums like needles. I stood there, barely breathing. That dress. That color. That fragment of a past he had once buried— now draped across another woman’s body. It hit me then: this house had never belonged to me. I had lived here for five years— washing his shirts, cooking his meals, sorting through his files— a machine disguised as a wife, programmed to serve. And even that title, wife, turned out to be nothing more than a convenient lie. Nova leaned against his chest, her face upturned, smiling. Her lips brushed his jaw in a featherlight kiss. “You once told me,” she murmured, “that after your surgery, you never wanted to remember those dark days again.” “Yes,” Lucas answered quietly, his gaze soft, almost tender—so tender I barely recognized him. “I just want to live again.” For a moment, I nearly laughed. Live again? The only reason his heart still beat today was because I had spent those endless nights begging, pleading, searching for a way to keep him alive. I remembered that snowy night at the hospital— the hallway lights going out one by one, my knees pressed against the freezing tiles as I signed the authorization form. “Are you willing to donate part of your own tissue? The match rate is low, but it might save him.” I hadn’t hesitated. Back then, I believed love meant giving away pieces of your heart— even if it had to be cut out by hand. But now, that same heart gave me no warmth at all. “Me?” Nova’s voice pulled me back from the memory. She tilted her head, lips curling in that sugar-sweet, taunting smile. “Do you think this dress is pretty? Lucas said this color reminds him of spring—fresh, young, alive.” Alive. I almost laughed again. So that’s what I was now— an empty shell of the woman who once saved him. “It’s pretty,” I said at last. Then I lifted my head, meeting her gaze, my tone calm—almost gentle. “But that color’s too bright. It’s not really suitable for being around a heart patient. It might... excite his heartbeat.” The air went still. Nova’s smile froze on her lips. Lucas’s brows drew together, a faint twitch betraying the discomfort he didn’t want to show. I looked at him and added, almost casually, “Didn’t the doctor say your heart still can’t handle too much stimulation?” His expression shifted—subtle, but unmistakable. That was the past he never wanted mentioned again— the night of the failed heartbeat, the surgery that nearly ended him, the same fear I had lived with for five long years. He never thought I’d bring it up. Not in front of her.

I stepped forward and gently picked up the coffee cup on the table. “The temperature’s just right,” I said, handing it to him with a faint smile. “Don’t let it get cold.” In that moment, I looked exactly like the woman I had been five years ago— obedient, quiet, considerate. Only this time, my heart was empty. “I…” He started, his tone laced with something complicated. “Maybe you should get some rest.” I nodded. “All right.” I set down the cup and walked toward the door. My shadow stretched long in the morning light spilling through the window. “Lucas,” I said softly, stopping in my tracks. My voice was so light it almost dissolved into the air. “Five years ago, I saved your life.” He froze. “But now,” I continued, “it’s time I saved my own.” The door closed behind me, and I heard him take a long, heavy breath. Nova leaned toward him, her voice a whisper, tinged with amusement. “Don’t mind me. I’m just jealous.” I didn’t look back. Sunlight poured through the glass window, falling across the back of my hand. The scar there still burned faintly— a mark left from the day I signed the surgery consent form five years ago. A seal that would never heal. Kendall— her smile faltered, cracking at the corners. My words had stolen whatever composure she had left. Lucas stood beside her, brow furrowed, his expression outwardly calm, yet betraying a trace of unease. The air hung silent for several seconds. The kettle in the kitchen kept boiling softly. While they said nothing, I untied my apron, turned around, and left. My footsteps were light, yet carried a weight of finality I hadn’t felt in years. Back in the bedroom, I leaned against the door and took a deep breath. The divorce would take effect in a week. Seven days— after that, I would no longer be Mrs. Lucas. I picked up my phone and scrolled through rental listings, one after another. Old apartments on the edge of town, single rooms, shared flats… Each title looked like an escape route, a map leading out of this life. Just then, Lucas’s voice came from outside the door—low, cold. “I’m going to the office this afternoon. Kendall will stay here. My body hasn’t fully recovered—you’ll take care of me.” I looked up, my tone so even it barely carried emotion. “Take care of you? Are you sure I’m your maid… or your nurse?” He hadn’t expected me to answer that way. His face changed slightly. “Have you forgotten,” he said after a pause, voice heavy with warning, “who allows you to still live here?” That familiar note of threat—low, deliberate— sank between us like the echo of a locked door. I gave a small, tired smile. “I haven’t forgotten. But I also remember the doctor saying that day— I nearly went into cardiac failure saving you.” He froze, a flicker of stiffness flashing through his features. It was the one memory he could never bear to face. “Don’t bring that up again,” he said coldly. “You saved me, and I gave you five years of life.” I lifted my head. For the first time, there was no fear in my eyes. “Five years?” I said quietly. “That wasn’t life. It was imprisonment.” For a moment, he couldn’t speak. His expression twisted—part anger, part guilt— but the flicker of remorse vanished almost instantly. “When I’m gone,” he muttered, his voice sinking into a low, restrained growl, “don’t cause trouble. If anything happens to Kendall…” He paused. “You know the consequences.” Then he bent down and kissed Kendall on the forehead. That scene— one I had imagined in countless dreams— was never meant to belong to anyone else. The door closed. He was gone.

The living room fell silent. Kendall slumped onto the sofa, her posture lazy, a mocking smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “How touching,” she said, her tone dripping with false sympathy. “Five years of marriage, and he still can’t stand to waste a single glance on you.” I didn’t answer. I simply sat there, scrolling through the listings on my phone. My calm seemed to infuriate her. She suddenly stood up, laughter spilling from her lips as she swayed the coffee cup in her hand. “Did you know?” she said sweetly, “Last night he told me his heartbeat was even faster than it was after his surgery—because I was in his arms.” The cup tilted in my hand— I dodged, but the scalding coffee still splashed across my clothes. A few drops landed on my wrist. The pain was sharp, and I gasped, falling to the floor in a half-cry that sounded almost theatrical. “Lucas!” I screamed. Footsteps thundered from the hallway. He burst in, eyes flaring when he saw my reddened wrist. “What the hell are you doing now?!” Before I could speak, his palm came down hard. The slap rang in my ears, and for a second, the world went white. He gathered Kendall into his arms and rushed out, leaving me kneeling among shattered porcelain and spilled coffee. The heat soaked through my thin nightgown, burning my skin. But the pain in my chest was worse— a hollow, carved-out ache where something once lived. I braced myself against the table and forced myself to stand, gasping for air. My gaze landed on the old medicine box by the window. Inside were the leftover heart pills from his surgery— carefully sorted, one by one, by my own hands. Now they sat there quietly, as if mocking me. So this is what I saved, they seemed to whisper. Not a man. Just a heart without a soul. I closed my eyes, my throat tightening. It was time to leave. For good. I didn’t go back to the bedroom. I just picked up the old suitcase beside the bed. The zipper was rusted, and when I pulled it open, it screeched— an ugly sound, yet strangely beautiful, like a reminder that the escape route hadn’t been sealed completely. Night wind slipped through the cracks of the window, lifting the curtain’s corner. Moonlight spread across the table where the divorce papers lay— black ink on white paper, cold as a gravestone. I reached for it, my fingertips icy. Five years of marriage— nothing but a few pages of paper. And yet I had built those years with blood and bone. I signed my name and smiled faintly. There was no hatred left in that smile, no resentment— only emptiness. The next morning, I went to the hospital. The burn on my leg had begun to fester. The doctor frowned as he cleaned the wound, his tone half reproach, half pity. “How did you get burned like this? Where’s your family?” “I don’t have family,” I said softly. He didn’t ask again—only sighed. Laughter drifted from the next examination room. “That girl only burned her wrist a little,” a nurse said between giggles, “and her boyfriend rushed here in the middle of the night—dragged the hospital director out of bed, demanding compensation.” “Tch. Rich people,” the doctor muttered, shaking his head. “But that girl’s lucky,” the nurse replied. “At least someone cares.” I lowered my eyes, the corners of my lips barely moving. Yes. Being cared for is a kind of luck. Mine, though, had run out five years ago— the night of that operation. After the bandages were done, I sat alone on the bench. Raindrops streaked down the glass, blurring the world outside. Then, from the end of the hallway, I heard a voice— low, familiar, and unmistakable. “Me?”

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.

I had thought that once the divorce took effect, our connection would finally end. But his voice came through the line, as commanding as ever: “What are you doing out there? I don’t want to see your name appear at any brand’s launch event.” A soft laugh escaped my lips. “Are you reminding me that I still belong to you?” He paused for several seconds. When he spoke again, his tone had turned cold. “Don’t forget—every resource in this city is under my control.” “Then give the whole city to Nova,” I replied evenly. “At least I’m still willing to pretend I once loved you.” A sharp exhale came through the receiver, followed by a breath heavy with suppressed anger. “You’ll have to live with your choices,” he said. “I already am,” I murmured, and ended the call. I didn’t expect that our conversation wasn’t over yet. Five minutes later, a message arrived. It was a photo. In the picture, Lucas stood in a brightly lit banquet hall, holding a bouquet of white roses, smiling as he slid a ring onto Nova’s finger. Behind them, the musicians were playing A Thousand Years— the same song that was supposed to play on my wedding day. I stared at the screen, my fingers curling slowly into a fist. A smile tugged at my lips, but it felt strange, unfamiliar—like it belonged to someone else. Another photo followed. A preview of their wedding invitation. Gold lettering across the cream paper read: “Lucas & Nova — 11.11.” That was the exact date I had arranged to leave for Paris with Solomon. It struck me then— as if the world had pressed “reset” at that very moment. He was beginning a new marriage, and I was about to begin a new life. I didn’t look at the photos again. I simply deleted the conversation and reopened Solomon’s email. The cursor blinked over “Reply.” I typed only a few words: “Thank you for the invitation. I accept. See you in Paris.” The moment I hit “Send,” a gust of wind swept past the window. It rattled the glass and lifted the sketches on my desk— design drafts he had once dismissed as useless dreams. The papers fluttered to the floor, scattering like soft feathers across the room. I bent down to pick one up. On the back, in faint handwriting, were the words I had written five years ago: “A woman is not an accessory. I am a creator.” I stared at it for a few seconds, then smiled— a real smile this time. Maybe this was where my freedom truly began. That night, I booked a flight. Destination: Paris. Departure date: November 11th. At the very same moment Lucas would be celebrating his “new beginning,” I would be flying toward mine.