###1

"Ms. Lancaster, you and your husband have been married for thirty years. You have a son, a daughter, and a darling grandson. With such a picture-perfect family, don’t you feel even a little reluctant?"

The lawyer’s brows drew together slightly, hoping I might reconsider.

Happy? I couldn’t help but curl my lips into a cold smirk.

Not long ago, I was in a car accident. The hospital had called Stephen Mortimer and the children repeatedly, but none of them answered. Not even once.

When I finally woke from the coma, I saw that my daughter-in-law had forgotten to block me from her latest Instagram story.

That was how I found out: while I had been lying in a hospital bed, they had all been at the Clarendon Court Hotel, throwing a banquet for Stephen’s first love, Eleanor Windsor, celebrating her sculpture’s award.

In the video, my grandson ran across the floor, and children’s laughter echoed in the background. Stephen, with his graying hair, held Eleanor in his arms, smiling with radiant joy.

I sat in a daze the entire afternoon, finally realizing that this self-deceiving marriage should have ended long ago.

"I’ve made up my mind. Please prepare the divorce papers and the equity transfer contract."

I had decided, on the day of our thirtieth wedding anniversary, that I would give Stephen the biggest gift and also the final one.

Congratulations. He no longer needed to sneak around with his first love.

1

When I returned home from the law office, Stephen was out on the balcony, speaking to his assistant over the phone.

"Yes, the fireworks must be as breathtaking as a starry sky. Only something that beautiful is worthy of Eleanor!"

In thirty years of marriage, Stephen had never once brought me flowers. One year, I hinted that I wanted roses for my birthday, and he merely frowned with impatience.

"Can’t you be a little more frugal, Victoria? Roses? Aren’t there plenty blooming in the garden?"

Back then, I thought he simply lacked a taste for romance. Yet now, he was ready to spend millions on custom fireworks just to craft the perfect evening for Eleanor.

I stood frozen in the living room. Stephen ended his call, stepped inside, and without even sparing me a glance, tossed his suit jacket into my hands and muttered, "Why are you back so late? Haven’t made dinner yet?"

I suddenly realized that after all these decades, I had never been his beloved, only a tireless servant.

Suppressing the hollow ache in my chest, I quietly hung up his jacket.

"Stephen, I’m going to prepare your anniversary gift."

Only then did his scowl ease. He even raised an eyebrow, his mood visibly lifted.

"Then just order takeout. How about that Spanish place? Don’t you like Spanish ham?"

It was Eleanor who liked ham. The mere scent of it made me nauseous.

Half a lifetime had passed, and he still knew nothing about me.

Before I could say a word, his phone lit up again.

Though he swiftly turned the screen and stepped onto the balcony, I had already seen the name flashing.

Eleanor.

Ten minutes later, he came back in a rush.

"Working late tonight. Eat without me."

I grabbed his arm and handed him a single signature page and a pen.

"Stephen, I’m thinking of getting a new car for the house."

He clicked his tongue in annoyance and signed without even glancing at the page.

"Such a spendthrift. Fine. Just don’t waste my time with nonsense."

He tossed the paper back at me and reached for his coat. In his haste, he yanked a scarf off the rack and stepped right on it as he rushed out the door.

That scarf was the one I’d spent over a month knitting, my hands raw with cuts, just for our anniversary last year.

I picked it up and threw it in the trash as if discarding my own bruised and bloodied heart.

Then, I took off my wedding ring and walked into his room.

I entered the combination on Stephen’s safe, Eleanor’s birthday.

The door opened immediately.

Inside the box lay an album, carefully preserved, each page a silent witness to the years he spent with her.

My husband had taken three fixed business trips every year. But now, I knew the truth: each one was to accompany Eleanor on her travels abroad. From the age of thirty-five to fifty-five, for twenty long years.

My hands trembled as I turned to a photo of them wrapped in an embrace, locked in a kiss under the golden sun of the Gold Coast.

She wore a swimsuit, her figure still stunning despite her age, while he, though lined with crow’s feet, still held that broad-shouldered strength and masculine charm. The way they looked at each other wasn’t just affection. It was devotion, captured in a moment like two lovers forever sealed in time.

The earlier photos had already yellowed with age. In them, they were young, recklessly so.

The first one was taken beneath an observatory tower, the two of them holding hands just as the first shooting star streaked across the sky.

In Stephen’s familiar handwriting beneath it.

“I once missed a meteor shower. I hope I never miss the one who loves the stars.”

From black hair to white, they had never missed each other again.

I remembered the happiest moment I ever had with Stephen, the day he proposed.

Beneath a star-strewn sky, high on the grasslands at three thousand meters, he had slipped a glittering ring onto my finger. His gaze had been deep and earnest, his voice steady as he promised me a lifetime of loyalty.

But in the end, I realized it was never about me. It was because Eleanor loved stars.

Those burning vows were never mine to keep.

My chest ached, torn open by the weight of that truth. I set the album down, and tears spilled freely, like shattered beads, falling with no end in sight.

I had chased Stephen for three long years before he finally agreed to be with me.

Back then, my parents had warned me, told me he didn’t love me, not the way a man should. But I believed that if I gave him all my heart, he would eventually give his in return.

But a fruit forced to ripen was never sweet.

And after thirty years, I had finally tasted that bitterness in full.

I had watched over his meals, raised our children, helped with the grandchild, always moving, always giving, always exhausted.

Once a young, radiant girl, I had become a worn, plump woman. While he and his beloved remained untouched by time, elegant, graceful, glowing still.

Over ten years ago, Stephen had started forgetting our anniversaries, missing my birthdays, and leaving me alone at the hospital with nothing but a cold phone call.

Back then, I told myself, if I could count sixty-six disappointments, I’d walk away for good.

This was the sixty-sixth.

I placed the wedding ring and the signed divorce agreement into Stephen’s personal safe.

Then I picked up the phone and dialed.

"Edmund Dalton, do you still want my shares in Mortimer Group?"

###2

"Wow, did I hear that right? You love that Edmund guy so much, and now you’re offering your shares to me?"

The man's deep voice rose by two pitches, laced with disbelief, and when I stayed silent, he let out a low chuckle.

"Then I’ll gladly accept. But in return, I’ve got a big gift for you, Victoria. How about signing a lifelong contract with me?"

"Aren’t you into traveling? As it happens, I’ve just invested in a large-scale travel show. I’m still looking for the perfect host."

I froze. "But I’m old now, and my image—"

Edmund cut me off. "It’s never too late to begin again, especially when you’re only fifty-five. Back then, Victoria was the brightest, most dazzling host to come out of an Ivy League university."

He didn’t ask what I’d gone through. As if everything was already within his grasp, his tone allowed no room for refusal.

"Forget that washed-up Stephen and look ahead. I’ll come get you when I’m back from this trip."

Honestly, he was still just as overbearing as he had been in his youth.

A few seconds later, I let out a long sigh. "Alright. I accept, Edmund."

Yes, my life was only beginning, and this time, I would finally live it for myself.

Stephen didn’t come home that night.

Early the next morning, he called and asked me to bring breakfast to the company. "Make sure it’s a double portion. We have a guest."

He never liked anyone else’s cooking. For the past thirty years, whether I was running a fever, had insomnia, or just felt unwell, I still got up in the rain or cold to cook for him.

An hour and a half later, I opened the door to Stephen’s office, only to see Eleanor standing there in an elegant champagne-colored blazer and pencil skirt.

At her feet lay my favorite painting, roughly torn and scattered in shreds across the floor.

In the spot where it had once hung proudly, there now stood a new sculpture.

My mind froze for several seconds. Then, unable to hold back the fire in my chest, I shouted, "Who did this? That was my painting!"

Eleanor widened her eyes with an innocent look, then lightly covered her mouth.

"Oh no, I thought it was just some worthless junk, it looked so ugly. I gave Stephen my own piece instead. Sorry, Victoria, I’ll make it up to you with a new one."

But that was the only painting Stephen and I had ever completed together during a trip we once called our most precious memory.

Stephen, flipping through documents at his desk, didn’t even glance in my direction. He walked over and casually took the thermal container from my hands.

"No need. That thing was worthless anyway. Now that your artwork’s here, this whole office feels elevated."

As he walked toward her, he brushed past me carelessly, knocking me off balance. I fell hard.

The nails from the broken frame jabbed into my palm. Blood surged out instantly, the sting sharp enough to send cold sweat running down my back.

I bit my lip and tried to push myself up. But just then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a pair of pink underwear tossed carelessly in the corner.

It felt as if an invisible hand clutched my chest, squeezing tighter and tighter, leaving me breathless.

But Stephen didn’t notice the blood dripping from my palm. Nor did he see the pink underwear, Eleanor’s, the one he had taken off himself.

Instead, when she looked up at him with teary eyes and a pout, saying, “Stephen, there were peanuts in the oatmeal. I’m severely allergic… I could’ve died,” he immediately scowled.

Without hesitation, he slammed the oatmeal I had spent an hour preparing into the trash.

Then, glancing at me, still sprawled on the floor, he let out a cold scoff.

“Stop pretending to be fragile, Victoria. Get up and clean that ugly painting. And don’t you dare put peanuts in the food again.”

With that, he turned and took Eleanor out to enjoy a Michelin breakfast.

My entire body trembled. The pain in my palm throbbed harder, and warm tears finally spilled from my eyes.

Later that evening, at Eleanor’s celebration banquet, I saw him take her hand, refusing to let her carry even the smallest bag.

“Your hands create art, they should be treated like a goddess’s.”

And yet I had spent half my life tending to him like a maid, scrubbing, cooking, enduring, and no one ever asked if I was okay when I bled.

When I got home, I casually dabbed some ointment on my bleeding hand, then began sorting through all the gifts Stephen had ever given me.

Every holiday, he would buy things in twos. I used to think it was generosity until I checked his social media through a hidden account and saw the truth. Everything he ever gave me, he also gave to Eleanor. Not one thing was meant solely for me.

He simply couldn’t bear for her to go without.

By the time I finished sorting, the sun was already dipping. I didn’t even have time to fix my disheveled hair before rushing off to pick up my first-grade grandson, Henry.

When Henry walked out with his classmates, a few boys nearby pointed and snickered, "Hey, Henry, is that your grandma?"

His face flushed instantly. With panic in his eyes, he shouted, "No, she’s our housekeeper!"

"This is my grandma, she’s a famous sculptor!"

Henry held up a fashion magazine photo of Eleanor looking elegant and stylish. My head buzzed loudly.

My head went numb. This was the boy I had raised with my own hands.

While my son and his wife were busy managing the business with Stephen, I had changed every diaper, nursed every fever, and sung every lullaby, and now he denied me.

And now, I was nothing but his shame.

In the car, Henry kept his head down the entire ride. He either stared at his shoes or watched the world blur past the window as if afraid I might scold him.

But this time, I said nothing. No nagging, no lectures. I just sat there in silence, mocking the pitiful woman I had become.

When we pulled up to my son's house, Henry kicked at the curb as he climbed out, his voice barely a whisper. "Grandma, aren’t you mad?"

I looked at him, my gaze steady and calm. "Henry, do you want a different grandma? If you do, I’ll help you get what you want."

###3

I tossed him to the nanny and drove off without glancing back.

When I got home, worn down to the bone, the first thing I saw was the piano dumped carelessly on the lawn like garbage.

Inside, Arthur stood by the door, dragging in several large suitcases.

“Mom, Aunt Eleanor will be staying in the country for a while, so she’ll be living here. She doesn’t like noise, so I cleared out your music room to make a sculpture studio for her.”

I stared at him, his face distant and cold. At that moment, I realized I no longer belonged. I was just some unsightly remnant, awkward and out of place, stubbornly lingering where I wasn’t wanted.

That piano, his eighth birthday gift to me, was bought with all his New Year’s money.

He used to sit beside me, giggling in the sunlight, hands on the keys, clinging to my arm and saying, “I love Mommy the most.” That little boy had vanished into time.

Swallowing the ache in my chest, I forced a smile through the tears that threatened to spill.

“Arthur, this is how you treat your mother now.”

A flicker of unease crossed his face, awkward, almost guilty. And just then, soft footsteps echoed from behind him.

Stephen stepped into the yard with Eleanor beside him, his expression cold and identical to Arthur’s as he looked straight at me.

“Eleanor’s afraid of the dark. Your room gets the most sunlight. Please move out and let her stay there.”

I lowered my gaze and nodded. “Alright. I’ll move all my things out.”

They had expected resistance, perhaps tears or a tantrum. But my calm reply caught him off guard, and his face stiffened with surprise.

“Victoria—”

“Victoria, you’re so sweet! Then let’s get along well during this time,” Eleanor cut in with a sugary smile.

I didn’t spare them a second glance. I turned, climbed the stairs, and headed to the bedroom.

There, I bent down and quietly dragged out one heavy bag after another. Every item I packed carried years of silence, sacrifice, and dust.

When I tossed thirty years of memories into the trash truck, Stephen followed me out, brows furrowed.

“Why are you throwing away so much?”

“Just old junk I’ll never use again.”

He eyed me warily, unsettled by the eerie calm in my voice. He reached into one bag and froze.

“These… these are the gifts I gave you.”

I smiled faintly. “Things from decades ago should’ve been thrown out a long time ago.”

Just like certain people.

Stephen’s face tightened, displeased. “You used to treasure them…”

Yes, as long as it was a gift from him, I used to light up like a child, clutching it to my chest, promising I’d treasure it forever.

Back then, Stephen would glance at me and feel an inexplicable warmth bloom in his chest.

But forever was far too long. A heart soaked in betrayal couldn’t carry its weight.

I brushed past him without pause. “There’s someone new in the house now. You’ve never liked a crowd, have you?”

He opened his mouth, perhaps to explain that Eleanor was only staying temporarily, but I had already turned away and loaded everything into the car.

He let out a sigh. “There’s a banquet tonight. You haven’t been out in a while, why not come along with Eleanor.”

He hadn’t invited me to a formal event in years. Ever since I gained weight, he had stopped taking me anywhere that mattered.

At the banquet, the two of them stepped out of the car first.

The host beamed with admiration. “President Mortimer, your wife is still as beautiful as she was in her youth.”

Stephen didn’t correct him. With a smile, he naturally took the mistress’s hand.

“Thank you.”

“And this lady is…?”

Only then did he glance my way. There was a brief flicker, and then he looked away. “She’s our assistant.”

I stood frozen in place. Even though his answer didn’t surprise me, it still felt like someone had torn my heart wide open.

Swallowing the sting in my eyes, I lifted my head and walked into the banquet with what remained of my dignity.

Eleanor clung to Stephen’s arm, swirling her wine glass as they mingled effortlessly among the glittering crowd, like a true couple of high society.

And I stood at a distance, watching it all unfold as if I were just a passing shadow. The laughter, the glamour, none of it belonged to me.

Then, suddenly, a searing pain shot through my injured right calf.