Lian Yue woke to a dull ache spreading through her forehead, heavy and throbbing, as though her skull had been stuffed with cotton overnight. The world felt strangely slow, like she was underwater. Her pillow was still slightly damp from last night's tears; she had cried herself into a fitful sleep, and her eyes burned as proof.
Her throat felt tight, and as she slowly sat upright, she pressed her palm to her chest, as if trying to physically hold herself together. Last night's devastation still clung to her like a second skin—his voice echoing, cold, indifferent.
It has nothing to do with you.
The sentence replayed over and over until it felt like a blade carving itself into her heart all over again.
Rhea forced a shaky breath. Another day. Another chance to pretend she still had strength left.
She reached for her phone. No messages. Not even a missed call. Not that she had expected any—Arjun rarely called first.
Still… her fingers moved almost mechanically as she typed:
"Are you coming home for dinner tonight?"
A simple question. Soft, cautious, careful, as though she were tip-toeing across glass. She didn't ask where he had been last evening. She didn't ask why he hadn't come home. She didn't ask why another woman had been at his side.
She never asked those questions.
She hit send and waited. One minute. Two. Then five.
A faint ding came from the phone. Rhea's heart jerked in hope, but when she unlocked the screen, her stomach dropped.
The message status showed "Read" — two blue ticks that felt louder than any silence.
And yet… no reply.
Her throat tightened painfully. A single tear slipped down her cheek before she wiped it away quickly, as though ashamed of it. She had grown used to being ignored. But being used to pain never meant it stopped hurting.
Rhea stood slowly from the bed, head spinning for a moment. Maybe it was lack of sleep. Maybe heartbreak had physical symptoms after all. Or maybe the universe was just tired of watching her hope every day only to break again.
She walked to the bathroom, splashed cold water on her face, then stared into the mirror.
Her eyes were red, her skin pale, her expression empty. This wasn't the version of herself she had imagined when she married him. She had been the girl who believed love could change fate. The girl who wrapped her dreams around a man's last name. The girl who thought patience could melt stone.
She touched the ends of her freshly cut bob, still foreign against her jawline. A sad smile touched her lips for a second. It felt light. Liberating. Like a small piece of herself had returned when she let those long strands fall yesterday.
And yet… even that small victory felt drowned in the vast ocean of hurt now.
A sudden wave of nausea hit her, and she gripped the sink. Her stomach churned; her head spun. She swallowed hard, breathing slowly until it passed.
"Maybe I'm just tired," she whispered to her reflection.
Or maybe grief could make a body sick too.
Her phone vibrated suddenly. Hope flared—maybe he replied?
But it wasn't him.
It was a message from an acquaintance from high society—one of those people who always knew every rumor before morning coffee.
"CEO Shen Tinglan with leading actress at the Met Gala"
Lian Yue stared at the message. Her fingers turned cold.
Starlet.
Another one.
Again.
She looked up slowly, numbness spreading along her spine like frost. All those little whispers, all those photos online, all the silent nights… they had all pointed to this.
She had just never wanted to believe it.
Her vision blurred for a moment. This pain—sharp, cold, humiliating—felt different. Like somehow, this time, her heart finally reached its limit.
She sat down slowly on the bed, trembling fingers gripping her knees.
Last night, she had cried for exhaustion.Right now… she felt something else pulling her chest apart:
Finality.
She had tried. She had loved until love itself felt exhausted in her veins. She had stayed silent, patient, loyal. She had held onto a marriage built on her feelings alone.
But the moment she cut her hair… something changed inside her.
And this morning—this silence, this ignored message, this news about him and another woman—finished the change.
For three years she had waited for him to see her.Three years she had waited to be loved.Three years she had begged fate to give her a miracle.
But miracles didn't come to those who waited forever. Sometimes they came to those who finally walked away.
Rhea wiped her cheek and inhaled deeply. Her voice, when she spoke aloud, felt foreign—soft but unbreakable.
"I think it's time… to ask for a divorce."
The word trembled, but it came out. And with it, something chains-like snapped in her chest. A pain-release. A breath after drowning.
She wasn't sure if she felt free or shattered.
Maybe both.
Her phone buzzed again—another notification, a news update this time confirming Arjun's appearance at the event, photos flashing: him in a black suit, and beside him, that rising film star smiling like she owned the world.
Rhea locked the screen. Her fingers paused, hovering over the message thread with him. She stared at the tiny "Seen."
So cold. So indifferent. So effortless for him to ignore her.
She typed again—not a question this time, not a plea, not a gentle request.
"We need to talk."
She hit send. Her fingers didn't tremble this time.
Whether he replied or not… it didn't matter anymore.
Because this time, she wasn't waiting.
This time, she was deciding her own ending.
Her chest ached—fear, grief, maybe relief mixing together—but her eyes held a quiet clarity she hadn't seen in a long time.
Walking away from someone you love didn't mean you stopped loving.It meant you finally started loving yourself too.
And for the first time in three years, Rhea whispered to herself like a vow—soft but firm:
"I deserve better."