Chapter 1

Andrew Sullivan told me to move out of the master bedroom while I was organizing his closet.

He stood in the doorway, his tone flat. "Vivian just got back. She's a light sleeper, and the guest room is too small for her."

I still had his shirt in my hand.

The cuff had been torn, and I'd stayed up all night mending it, stitch by stitch.

I'd been married to him for three years and had never asked for anything in this house.

But now he wanted me to give up the bedroom for the woman he had cherished in his heart for years.

I asked, "Where am I supposed to sleep?"

Andrew paused for a moment. "The storage room downstairs can be fixed up for you."

He wanted me to sleep in the storage room.

So, in this marriage, I didn't even deserve a guest room.

I nodded and hung the shirt back up.

"Forget it," I said.

He frowned. "What now?"

I pulled open the drawer and took out the divorce papers I had already prepared.

"She can have the whole house," I said.

Andrew's expression finally changed. He stared at the papers in my hand, like he was seeing me for the first time.

"Grace, are you done making a scene?" he said.

I smiled. "I'm not making a scene."

I placed the papers in front of him. "I don't want the assets, the house, or the car. Sign it. We'll meet at the courthouse at nine tomorrow morning."

He stared at me, impatience flickering in his eyes, with a chill that made it clear he felt insulted. "Do you even realize what you're saying?"

"I do."

"All this over a bedroom?"

I looked up at him. "No. It's because I finally realized that in your heart, I'm not even worth a bedroom."

Suddenly, a soft voice drifted in from the hallway. "Andrew."

Vivian Shaw stood in the corridor, dressed in a white gown, her hair cascading over her shoulders. Her eyes were red.

She caught sight of the divorce papers on the table and instinctively stepped back. "Did I come back at the wrong time?"

Her words sounded aggrieved, but there wasn't a hint of nervousness in her eyes.

Andrew immediately walked toward her.

"This has nothing to do with you," he said.

He stepped in front of her, shielding her, then turned to look at me. "Grace, that's enough."

Seeing the way he stood up for her, I suddenly felt that everything I did was meaningless.

For three years, I'd stayed up late for him, taken the drinks for him at parties, and handled all his difficult relatives.

When he had stomach troubles, I'd get up at three in the morning to make soup for him.

When his mother took jabs at me, I smiled and choked down every mean word.

On his birthday, I made a feast for him, and all he said was, "Vivian used to do that too."

Back then, I had been hurt by those words.

But not anymore.

I picked up my phone and called the moving company.

"Hello, can you come tonight? I don't have much stuff. It should only take an hour," I said.

Andrew's brows furrowed.

"Are you serious?" he asked.

I looked at him. "Andrew, I'm twenty-eight, not eighteen. No one threatens divorce unless she really wants out."

Vivian suddenly spoke up softly, "Ms. Miller, please don't get the wrong idea. Andrew and I are friends. I just got back and don't have anywhere to stay yet, so Andrew let me crash here for a few days."

I nodded. "Alright."

She froze.

"Hope you two have a great time together," I added.

My words hit a nerve. Andrew marched over and slammed his hand down on the divorce papers.

"Grace, don't regret this," he warned.

I handed him the pen. "Actually, that's what you should be telling yourself."

He didn't sign the papers, and I didn't wait for him.

At nine that night, the movers showed up.

I only packed two suitcases. One was for clothes, the other had my documents and a couple of books.

Andrew sat on the living room sofa, his gaze icy as he watched me.

Vivian was right next to him, cradling a cup of hot coffee in her hands.

She had my cashmere blanket draped over her shoulders. That was the one I always used when I sat by the bay window reading during winter days.

Vivian traced the edge of the blanket, her voice soft and sweet, like she already belonged here. "Ms. Miller, are you really not staying? It's so late, and it's not safe for a woman to be out by herself."

I zipped up my suitcase.

"I'm not scared," I said, looking at her. "I've already spent three years living in the most dangerous place in the world."

Vivian's face went pale for a moment.

Andrew jumped to his feet.

"Grace!" he shouted.

I didn't look back.

As the door closed behind me, I heard him slam his cup down on the coffee table. It was loud.

If it had been before, I would've stopped in my tracks.

I would've been scared he'd get angry, scared I'd make things worse between us, scared I wasn't good enough for him.

But this time, as I dragged my suitcase into the elevator, my breath came easy.

The wind outside was biting.

I was only wearing a light jacket, standing at the entrance to the apartment complex, waiting for my ride.

My phone buzzed.

It was a message from Andrew: [Come back now, and I'll act like tonight never happened.]

I read the message and laughed.

He never changed. Even now, he still had to make his olive branch feel like charity.

I replied: [Don't bother. What happened tonight was exactly what I wanted.]

After sending it, I blocked him.

Headlights cut through the rain and fog.

The driver helped me get my suitcases into the trunk and asked, "Where to?"

I gave him an address.

Down by the river, in an old alley paved with cobblestones, there was an embroidery shop right at the mouth of the lane, its weathered wooden sign swaying above the door.

Three words were carved into the sign: Willow Embroidery Studio.

The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror. "Miss, you're heading there this late?"

I leaned against the car window. "I'm going home," I said.

He was stunned for a moment, and I froze for a second too.

It had been three years, and I finally got to say it again. "I'm going home."