Chapter 2
It was just so ridiculous, I couldn't help but laugh.
Three years ago, I went ahead and married Julian even though my family was against it. Everyone thought I'd lost my mind.
My Grandfather was so mad he smashed his cup, saying I'd fallen for a guy with nothing to his name and that I'd regret it sooner or later.
But I wouldn't budge.
I told them Julian wasn't that kind of guy.
He always kept his word, took responsibility, and knew how to handle things.
I was sure he'd never let me lose.
Now that I think about it, my Grandfather was right.
I really did lose, after all.
I lost, completely and utterly.
"Sylvia," Julian suddenly spoke, his voice low. "If you regret it now, you can still name your conditions."
I looked up and met his gaze.
I'd loved this face for three whole years.
Ever since that day when he was grinding away at his startup, eyes bloodshot from exhaustion, standing on the balcony of our rented apartment, telling me, "When I make it, I'll make sure you live well." That was the moment I chose him.
But it turned out — people did change.
Or maybe he never changed at all.
Maybe I just never saw him clearly.
I lowered my head and slowly signed my name, stroke by stroke.
As I finished the last stroke, I heard myself whisper, "Julian, as you wish."
Rachel finally looked relieved, even taking an extra sip of her coffee.
Julian stared at my signature, a flicker of something unreadable flashing in his eyes, but it was gone in an instant.
He quickly put the agreement away, his voice steady again.
"You can stay here tonight. Tomorrow, I'll have someone deliver your things to your new place," he said.
I stood up and put the pen back on the table.
"No, thanks," I said.
Julian frowned. "What do you mean?"
"I'll get my stuff myself," I replied.
With that, I turned and headed upstairs.
Behind me, it was dead silent.
He didn't try to stop me.
He didn't ask where I'd go once I walked out that door.
On the third floor, in the master bedroom, the white roses I'd arranged this morning were still there.
The vase sat by the window, its petals fresh and soft, just like the marriage I stubbornly held onto alone for three years.
I stood by the bed for a few seconds, then reached out and plucked each stem out, throwing them into the trash bin.
I opened the wardrobe. One side was lined with Julian's suits, the other with my own clothes—split right down the middle.
The division was sharp, just like the gulf between us in this marriage.
I dragged out my suitcase and began packing my things, piece by piece.
My clothes, important papers, laptop, and jewelry box.
Digging through the drawer, I pulled out a dark blue hardcover notebook.
It was the project notebook I made for Julian when he first started his business.
Every detail was crammed in there—funding deadlines, client quirks, drinking sessions, even which kinds of alcohol would mess up his stomach. I'd written it all out, clear as day.
My fingers paused. Suddenly, it all felt ridiculous.
For three years, I'd been his secretary, his nanny, his support.
But never his wife.
I closed the notebook and buried it deep at the bottom of my suitcase.
Just as I zipped up my suitcase, the door was pushed open.
Julian stood in the doorway, his suit jacket gone, wearing only a black shirt. The light cast a chill over his features, making his expression seem even colder.
He fixed his gaze on the suitcase at my feet, his voice deep. "In such a hurry to leave?"
I straightened up and looked at him indifferently. "Wasn't it you who wanted the divorce?"
He pressed his lips together, seeming momentarily at a loss for words.
After a pause, he finally said, "Sylvia, I know you're upset, but there's no need for this."
I let out a sudden laugh.
"Oh? What do you mean by that?" I shot back.
"Acting all calm, pretending as if none of this matters to me?" I stepped right up to him, looking up into his eyes. "Julian, do you really think I'll come back to you in tears tomorrow?"
His gaze faltered for a moment.
His silence told me everything.
Yes. That was exactly what he had been thinking.
Because for the past three years, every single time we fought, I was always the one who caved first.
When he had stomach pains, I'd go out in the middle of the night to buy him medicine.
When he worked late into the night, I'd wait up for him with the light on.
When he forgot our anniversary, I'd just smile and tell him, "It's fine."
Over time, he probably stopped noticing.
I hurt, too.
I took a step back, my voice flat and almost devoid of emotion.
"Don't worry. This time, I won't come back," I said.
Julian stared at me, his brows slowly drawing together.
He finally noticed that tonight, I wasn't the same woman he used to know.
But he still didn't believe it.
He said in a low, steady voice, "Think about it. If you leave, things might not get any better for you."
His words were so calm, but they cut into my heart like a dull knife, slowly grinding deeper and deeper.