When I walked into the house, I first noticed the warm laughter from the kitchen. It wasn't the usual hum of dinner prep but something lively, something… intimate. I hesitated, my hand still on the door, before stepping inside.

Sabrina was busy sorting vegetables, her laughter light and musical, while Michael, ever the perfectionist, meticulously sliced steak on the counter. Their conversation flowed so easily, back and forth, a duet I wasn't a part of.

They jumped from topic to topic—fashion design, art, Paris, Milan, the high-flying world of haute couture. They seemed to glow in the exchange, lost in their shared interests. I couldn't help but feel like an outsider, even in my own home.

Then, the topic shifted. Audrey Hepburn.

Sabrina's voice softened, almost reverent. "I don't think Hepburn leaving her husband and child was wrong. Honestly, I admire the courage it took to sacrifice for her ideals at a time when women weren't supposed to. She was so exceptional that even the United Nations chose her."

Michael nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. "You're right. That kind of excellence isn't easy to come by."

Her eyes flicked up to him, her gaze lingering on his face like it was an art she couldn't stop appreciating. "I've been Noah's Music teacher for two years now. How much longer do you plan to keep me in that role?"

The sound of his knife stopped abruptly. His hand froze, but he said nothing.

Sabrina's expression faltered, her voice trembling slightly as she pressed on. "Eliza isn't the one for you. You know that. You two married because it made sense for your families, but there was no real connection. She was already an accomplished doctor before meeting you—she didn't need your help or your name."

Michael set down the knife, exhaling heavily as he rubbed his temples. "Enough, Sabrina. That's enough."

But she wasn't done. Sabrina continued, "I'm not like her. I could give up everything for you. I'd change my entire life to match yours. I understand you better than anyone else, or even she does."

His jaw tightened, his voice low but firm. "Sabrina, please don't."

But Sabrina wasn't backing down. She dropped the vegetables she held and stepped closer, wrapping her arms around him from behind.

Her voice broke, brimming with desperation. "For you, I said no to Paris Fashion Week. I closed my Milan studio. I stayed here, humbling myself as Noah's tutor, pretending it didn't matter. But it does! Two years, Yuanshan. I've been here, right in front of you. I know you feel it too—what we had and could still have. We used to love each other so fiercely. How can you pretend that wasn't real?"

The room felt suffocating. Sabrina's words and emotions were sharp and raw. I looked down at the floor, trying to tune it out, trying not to let it get to me.

But it did.

Even after all this time, my heart ached at the sight of him—Michael, a man I had loved with everything I had for so many years.

I wondered, briefly, if Sabrina knew the truth about our marriage. She thought it was a cold, calculated arrangement born from mutual benefit. She didn't know the sacrifices I had made just to be the woman he would notice.

He loved haute couture, so I immersed myself in fashion styling.

He loved Italian food, so I spent three years in Rome learning to perfect every dish.

He loved wine, so I trained myself to recognize every note and hint, even when the acidity burned my stomach and left me doubled over in pain at night.

For ten years, I studied him. His tastes. His preferences.

His every like and dislike. From the bright, sterile halls of medical school to the sharp, tailored suits of the business world, I constructed myself into someone he couldn't ignore.

And eventually, it worked. Michael's family began pushing him to marry, and he looked at me—really looked at me. One night, he approached me with an offer I had dreamed of for years.

"Eliza," he said, calm but confident, "our lives align in many ways. Our interests, our philosophies—they match perfectly. If you're willing, I'd like to marry you."

I remember standing there, feeling like my entire world had stopped spinning. I didn't dare accept too quickly—I couldn't seem desperate—but I also knew this was my moment. He wanted a poised, intellectual woman. Someone graceful yet grounded. And I had spent years perfecting that version of myself.

That night, I didn't sleep a wink. But the next day, I gave him my answer.

Three simple words.

"I do!"

The words had come out naturally back then, full of hope and excitement. But looking back now, no matter how much I had molded myself to be everything Michael could ever want, I could never hold a candle to the fiery, untamed love he shared with his first love. No amount of effort could compete with that.

Sabrina arrived at our home after I adopted Noah. At first, I had no clue who she really was to him. I saw her as Noah's music tutor—a woman with a flamboyant, almost over-the-top personality, one I thought Michael would never be drawn to.

But, God, how wrong I was.

I had underestimated his feelings for her. Michael's love had no rhyme or reason, no logic. It didn't matter who she was or how different she seemed from what I thought he'd want—he loved her.

Completely.

I learned the truth from a diary she carelessly left in Noah's room. It was filled with their memories, their stories from Paris—their wild, untamed romance. There was a vivid entry about how Michael, a man known for his impeccable work ethic, had skipped an important board meeting just to spend an all-nighter clubbing with her in the city's heart.

And then there was me. My time abroad as a student seemed plain and dull compared to their blazing, cinematic love story. It was dazzling in a way that burned. It felt like my heart was being scalded whenever I thought about it.

I cried quietly in the dark for nights, hating how much I felt like a placeholder. A shadow standing in the spot where she truly belonged.

Back in the kitchen, the scent of sizzling steak filled the room, the loud hum of the range hood masking the sounds of muffled sobs.

Tears were streaming down Sabrina's face as she clung to Michael, her hands gripping his shirt as though letting go would shatter her completely.

His posture softened. He took Sabrina's hands in his, his expression unbearably tender, the longing in his eyes as plain as day.

"Mom, you're back!" Noah's voice cut through the moment, startling them both.

Sabrina quickly let go of him, stepping back and hastily wiping her tears.

Michael turned to the stove, focusing intently on the steak as though it were the most important task in the world. "Eliza, please don't misunderstand. I was just…"

"It's fine," I cut her off, my voice even.

She froze, her lips parting, a flicker of panic flashing in her eyes.

I smiled gently, keeping my tone calm. "I'm sorry for not announcing myself sooner. I didn't mean to interrupt."

She blinked, her composure cracking for just a moment.

"N-no, it's okay," she stammered.

But Michael didn't turn around. I could feel the tension radiating off him, even with his back to me. He was upset, not because of her, but because I had interrupted them.

It stung.

But I told myself: 'Hold on. Just a little longer. It's the last day. Soon, Michael, you'll be free.'

I turned to Noah, my little boy who had been the one bright spot in this otherwise dark, suffocating world. I bent down, arms open, wanting to scoop him up and hold him close.

But he stepped back.

He looked up at me, his face serious. "Aunt Sabby says I'm a big boy now. Big boys don't need hugs anymore."

The words hit me harder than I expected. I swallowed the lump in my throat, refusing to let it show, and instead smiled softly.

“Look what I got for you," I said, placing a brand-new African drum in front of him. "It's the one you've been asking for."

He glanced at it briefly, then returned to the sheet music in his hands. "I already told you—I'm a big boy now. That's just a primitive instrument. It’s outdated. I'm practicing Mozart, Mom. Aunt Sabby says if I keep working hard, I can become a world-famous musician like her."

The ache in my chest deepened.

"Don't you want to take a break from practicing?" I asked gently, my voice almost pleading. "Spend a little time with Mom?"

Noah didn't even glance at me. His attention stayed fixed on the piano. “No. Aunt Sabby says if I don't practice every day, I won't make it into Juilliard. Persistence is everything."

I felt the sting of his words. "You're only six, sweetheart. Do you really need to worry about Juilliard already?"

His tone turned sharp, frustrated. "Classical music has to be nurtured from a young age. I'm almost seven! If I don't practice, I'll fall behind all the other geniuses. You just don't understand, Mom."

My breath caught.

How could he say that? How could he think I didn't understand?

Hadn't I spent my entire life pushing myself in the same relentless way? Studying until my eyes blurred and my hands trembled from exhaustion. Hadn't I sacrificed everything for perfection, for the chance to become someone worthy?

Sabrina had taught Noah well.

For someone so young, he already carried himself with an ambition that felt far beyond his years. It was hard not to notice how much he resembled Michael—not just in his features, but in how he carried himself.

The aloofness. The quiet arrogance. That unshakable confidence.

And honestly, I didn't hate it.

At least with that personality, he wouldn't cry for his mom when I left.

Just then, Michael's phone rang. He answered, spoke briefly in his usual clipped tone, and then turned toward me.

His expression was distant, his words colder still. "It's my mom. She wants to talk to you."

I glanced up at him, trying not to let my emotions show. It didn't matter how icy he was to me. Seeing his face still made my heart beat. That obsessive love I'd harbored for him back in university was a nightmare I could never quite shake, no matter how much I told myself I'd moved on.

I took the phone from him without a word, and he turned back toward the kitchen, leaving me alone with the call.

On the balcony, I pressed the phone to my ear and was greeted by his mother's familiar, cold voice, which sounded eerily similar to his.

"Don't think for a second that transferring a million dollars will change my opinion of you. Tell me, what's your scheme this time?"

Her words hit like a slap, but they didn't surprise me. I'd heard this tone before, over and over again. Michael's parents had never accepted me because I wasn't born into wealth. After all, I came from an ordinary family and had made my way as a self-made doctor.

I'd spent years trying to win their approval, jumping through hoops that never seemed to end. But no matter what I did, it was never enough. Their dislike had hardened into outright contempt.

Even the million dollars I'd sent for Noah—an amount meant for his future—was seen as some kind of manipulative ploy.

I kept my voice steady and patient. "Mom, I understand you and Dad have never been fond of me. You've always wanted someone like Sabrina for your son. And you know what? You were right. Sabrina is incredible. I see that now, more clearly than ever."

There was a pause on the other end of the line.

When she finally spoke again, her tone was sharp. "Eliza, what nonsense are you talking about? You're the one who's always too busy with your hospital work. We've never tried to break up your marriage. Have you told Noah about this?"

"No," I replied evenly. "Don't worry. I know what's appropriate to say and what isn't. The money isn't part of some scheme—it's for Noah. He'll need it for his studies and to live comfortably in the future. If Michael remarries, he might have his own children, and Noah might not get the same attention. I adopted Noah, so it's my responsibility to plan for him. I'm sure you and Dad, as his grandparents, understand that."

Her voice grew tense. “Are you… divorcing?”

"Yes," I admitted, my tone calm. "Probably in the next few days. Don't worry—I won't take anything from him. Not the house, not the shares, nothing. Everything will stay with Michael. All I ask is that you and Dad continue to look after Noah."

"This… this is ridiculous!" she snapped. “What on earth are you thinking? Noah has been practically raised by us. We'd never mistreat him. But what's your plan here? Do you have someone else lined up? Someone more powerful or influential? Is that why you're doing this?”

I didn't bother correcting her. "It doesn't matter what I do now. After all, things are finally moving in the direction everyone wanted, right?"

The line went quiet. I said a polite thank you and ended the call. There wasn't anything left to say.

Sabrina was at the piano with Noah when I stepped back inside, guiding him through a new song.

My gaze lingered on them a little too long, and Noah noticed. He squirmed uncomfortably and frowned at me.

"Aunt Sabby says this is about balancing work and play," he said as if to justify himself. "Playing music doesn't mean I'm not practicing."

I knew what he was really saying. Earlier, I'd overheard him telling Sabrina, "I don't want to play with Mom. I want to practice with Aunt Sabby."

I smiled faintly. I wasn't angry or even hurt. Noah was growing up to be a remarkable kid.

That was all that mattered.

At dinner, the table was covered in dishes that Noah and Sabrina liked—perfectly cooked steaks, delicate salads, everything laid out just so.

"There's still a box of tiramisu in the fridge," Michael said as the meal ended. He started to rise. "I'll go grab it.”

"I'll help you plate it," Sabrina offered quickly, her voice bright.