I stood in the dark corridor, fingers stiff around the glass of water.

Cold and aloof.

Workaholic.

So, in his eyes, my calm independence and tireless work for our future were flaws—easy to belittle, even to complain about to another woman.

When his business collapsed, when creditors surrounded his door, penniless, I stayed with him in that moldy basement for two years.

I spent my days on construction sites, inhaling dust, and my nights drawing and doing freelance work until three in the morning, giving him half to pay debts, half as start-up capital.

Back then, he said, "Lydia, you’re the strongest and most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. Without you, I would have collapsed long ago."

Now, strength has become cold.

Beauty has become a lack of gentleness.

Time is a cruel magician, turning pearls to fish eyes, red roses to mosquito blood.

I didn’t say a word. I turned and went back to my room.

This time, I didn’t sleep.

I opened my laptop and pulled up the property ownership contract for this house.

Joint purchase.

The down payment was split fifty-fifty, and the mortgage payments had been made together.

Every transfer record was in my online banking.

I sent Ryan an email:

【Draft a property transfer agreement, and also, help me find out if there are any buyers urgently selling large apartments. Cash is fine, the price can be lower.】

Ryan, a night owl, replied instantly: 【? This is sudden. Aren’t you getting married next month? What’s going on?】

I stared at the blinking cursor.

Typed three words:

【It’s not happening.】

After sending them, I closed the laptop.

The room was pitch black, moonlight faintly filtering through the window.

No tears, no hysteria.

Only a resolute sense of finality.

In the following days, Emily took root in this house.

Her intrusion was gradual, like a spreading fungus.

My gray slippers disappeared, probably kicked into a corner.

Her skincare products appeared on the bathroom sink—bottles and jars crowding my minimalist set to the edge.

Even the sparkling water in the fridge was replaced with her favorite fully-sweetened fruit juice.

Frederick ignored it all.

Or rather, he seemed pleased.

He started coming home early. Once claiming busy social engagements, now he was in the kitchen wearing an apron, making soup for Emily.

"Emily has a sensitive stomach; she can’t eat takeout. It’s too oily."

Coming home from work, I saw a sumptuous three-dish meal and soup on the table.

Yam and pork rib soup, steamed sea bass, and blanched bok choy.

All stomach-friendly dishes.

Only two sets of bowls and chopsticks.

Frederick came out of the kitchen carrying soup. Seeing me at the entryway, he said casually,

"Oh, I thought you were working late, so I didn’t make you anything. Make some noodles, or order takeout."

As if I were the one who didn’t belong at the table.

Emily sat there, spoon in hand, wearing my silk pajamas.

Champagne-colored, brand new, tags still on—the ones I had hesitated to wear.

"Lydia, why don’t you eat mine? I can’t finish it; Frederick took too much."

She blinked, looking innocent and generous, pushing the bowl toward me.

I looked at the pajamas.

The silk hung loosely on her, like a child in adult clothes, cheap and mismatched.

"No need," I said calmly. "Remember to dry clean these pajamas. If it’s not clean, just throw it away."

Emily’s face went pale, and the spoon in her hand clattered into the bowl.

Tears welled instantly, filling her eyes.

Frederick slammed the soup bowl on the table, spilling a few drops.

"Lydia, can you not be so sarcastic? It’s just a piece of clothing—does it have to be like this?" He frowned, impatience written all over his face.

"She didn’t bring any clothes. What’s wrong with borrowing one? You have so many in your closet—would it kill you to lose one?"

I looked at Frederick.

The veins on his neck stood out slightly, eyes full of accusation.

He truly believed I was being unreasonable, truly thought I was overreacting.

In his mind, generosity and tolerance were my duties; if I didn’t comply, something was wrong with me.

I nodded. "Fine, I’ll take her." I turned and went to the bedroom, pulling a large silver suitcase from the top shelf of the wardrobe.

I opened the wardrobe and began unpacking.

There wasn’t much to pack; I’ve always kept things simple.

A few sets of business attire, some design drawings, and my computer.

Frederick followed me in, standing in the doorway, arms crossed, sneering:

"Here we go again? Running away from home? Lydia, you’re thirty this year, not eighteen. Tricks like this get old fast."

Each word stabbed my heart.

He knew exactly how much I cared about age.

Frederick and I had a seven-year difference—once a sweet burden he praised as "older women are more caring," now a supposed proof of my unreasonable, immature behavior.

I ignored him, hands moving steadily.

Seeing I didn’t reply, Frederick stepped closer, tone softening, tinged with condescending helplessness:

"Alright, stop making a scene. Emily is just staying temporarily. If you keep forcing this, I’ll let her leave."

"You know how much I love you."

"I’m not making a scene, I’m just making space."

I reached for my suitcase.

I couldn’t move it.

He was holding on tightly.

"Make room for what?" Frederick frowned, puzzled.

"I already said Emily is only staying temporarily. Why do you have to be so aggressive? Weren’t you generous before? How come you’re worse with age?"

I gave up on the suitcase and looked at him.

"You said it yourself—I’m thirty.

A thirty-year-old doesn’t like squeezing in with others. Not in space, not in a relationship."

"What do you mean?! Who’s squeezing in with you? You know perfectly well you’re the only one in my heart!"

Frederick roared,

"You insist on this? Fine! I’ll make Emily leave! I’ll make you happy!"

He turned abruptly and stormed out.

Before he even reached the door, Emily burst in.

Her hair was a mess, eyes were swollen like walnuts.

"It’s all my fault! It’s all my fault!" Her voice was shrill, piercing, full of heartbreaking sobs.

"If I hadn’t been so desperate to wear this instead of a nice outfit, you wouldn’t have argued… It’s all my fault!"

She screamed, tugging frantically at her pajamas.

The silk was slippery, and with her rough pull, the shoulder strap snapped with a sharp "pop."

The pajamas slid off her shoulders, bunched at her waist, and she yanked them down forcefully, throwing the garment onto the floor.

Frederick froze, his hand outstretched, hanging mid-air.

"Emily! What are you doing!"