When Jackson put the only life jacket on Phoebe, he didn’t even look at me. Thomas, the boy I’d loved and cared for over five years, was clinging to Phoebe’s leg, screaming that I was a bad woman. The seawater rose past my ankles, icy and sharp. The pregnancy test I’d been clutching was already ruined by the saltwater. Ten minutes ago, I had thought this was just an ordinary yacht accident. Then Jackson chose Phoebe. Then Thomas bit my hand, forcing me to let go of the life preserver. I realized then that this marriage had been a fraud from the very beginning. I was nothing more than a full-time nanny Jackson had hired to fill in while Phoebe was abroad recovering. And I had seven days left before I completely disappeared from this world. Scarlett POV The ambulance was already waiting when the yacht docked. Paramedics swarmed the pier, lifting a blanket-wrapped, shivering Phoebe onto a stretcher. Jackson followed behind, his brow furrowed tight. The hand that wore his wedding ring was now clamped around Phoebe’s wrist. Thomas toddled beside the stretcher on his short legs, his voice raw from screaming, “Phoebe, don’t die.” And I stood alone on the deck. The breeze had dried my wet clothes, making the fabric stiff and rough against my skin. My abdomen throbbed with a dull pain-right where Thomas had kicked me hard earlier. Before I could make my way down the spiral stairs, Jackson suddenly turned around. Through the crowd and the flashing emergency lights, his gaze landed on me. That look was cold, impatient. “Scarlett, stop dawdling.” He called my name, his voice the same cold tone he used for incompetent subordinates. “Phoebe’s in shock. Go home and make her hot chocolate, then bring it to the hospital.” I wanted to say I’d fallen into the water too. I wanted to say my stomach hurt. I wanted to say the seawater-ruined paper had read “six weeks pregnant.” The words reached my lips, but all I tasted was blood. I swallowed it down. “Okay.” I heard my own calm voice. Jackson seemed satisfied with my compliance and turned to climb into the ambulance. The door slammed shut with a bang, cutting off all lines of sight. The crowd at the pier gradually dispersed. I took a cab back to the Beverly Hills mansion alone. When I walked through the door, the housekeeper Anna was pouring hot ginger tea into a thermos. Seeing me come in, disheveled and dripping, she froze, her eyes turning evasive. “Ma’am… Mr. Sterling called. He said to send hot drinks to Miss Phoebe. He didn’t mention you were…” She didn’t finish, but I understood. In this house, Jackson’s orders were the only law. I ignored her awkwardness and went straight upstairs. Passing by the nursery, toys were still scattered all over the floor. Thomas’s favorite superhero figure lay alone on the carpet, one arm broken off. That was a limited edition I’d stood in line all night to buy for him six months ago. This morning before we left, Thomas had thrown a massive tantrum because I’d accidentally knocked over that figure. He’d pointed at my nose and cursed: “I knew you weren’t my real mom! If it was Auntie Phoebe, she would never break my stuff!” At the time, I’d dismissed it as childish nonsense. Now it seemed children’s instincts were often the most accurate. He’d known all along who the outsider in this family really was. I returned to the master bedroom and locked the door. In the bathroom mirror, a pale face stared back at me. There was a bruise on my temple from hitting the railing when I fell into the water. I touched it. No sensation. I stripped off the wet clothes reeking of ocean and balled them up, throwing them directly into the trash. Along with the pulpy mess in my pocket that used to be paper. Hot water cascaded over my body, bringing sharp little pinpricks of pain. I looked down at my flat abdomen. A tiny life had once been growing there. Just a few hours ago, I’d been so happy, planning to tell Jackson the good news. Now, it was all gone. That kick had been vicious. The ice-cold seawater mingled with the blood trickling down my thighs, winding across the white tiles before spiraling into the dark drain. I didn’t cry. I just felt tired. After showering, my phone screen was lit up. A text from Jackson. Just one brief line: Did you send the soup? Phoebe’s still shaking. Not one word asking if I was hurt. Not one word asking how hard that kick had been. I stared at the screen for a long time until my eyes started to ache. Then I replied: “On its way.” After sending that message, I pulled open the bottom drawer of my nightstand. Inside was a divorce agreement I’d drafted long ago, along with a one-way ticket to Switzerland. Originally I’d planned to burn these. Since I was pregnant, I’d wanted to give this marriage one more chance. But now, that wasn’t necessary. I pulled out the ticket, my fingertips tracing the date printed on it. Departure in seven days. That was Jackson’s birthday, and also the final deadline I’d set for myself. I picked up a pen and drew a heavy circle on the calendar. The countdown had begun.
Scarlett POV The next morning, I was woken by noise from downstairs. Jackson was back. And he’d brought Phoebe and Thomas with him. I stood at the top of the stairs, watching the harmonious scene in the living room. Phoebe wore Jackson’s shirt, the oversized hem covering her thighs, making her look small and delicate. She sat on the sofa holding a cup of hot milk. Thomas nestled in her arms, mouth open wide waiting for her to feed him. Jackson sat beside them cutting fruit, his knife skills clumsy, the peel breaking several times. But he was patient. You should know, in the past when I wanted fruit, he’d only frown and say: “If you want it, cut it yourself. I’m not your servant.” “Scarlett’s awake?” Phoebe noticed me first. She tried to stand, but Jackson pressed her shoulder down. “Sit still. The doctor said you’re weak, don’t move around.” Jackson’s voice was heavy. When he turned to look at me, it instantly went cold. “Since you’re up, come down and cook. Anna took the day off, and Phoebe wants your seafood chowder.” My fingers clenched the banister, knuckles bleaching white. Seafood chowder. The whole city knew Phoebe was allergic to seafood. Was this a test? A deliberate humiliation? Or had he simply forgotten, in the space between her and me, which one of us carried the allergy? “She’s allergic to seafood,” I said flatly. Jackson’s hand cutting fruit paused. The blade sliced his thumb. A bead of blood welled up. Phoebe cried out, immediately grabbing his hand and putting it in her mouth. Jackson didn’t push her away. Instead, he looked at her with tender eyes. “Phoebe’s still so thoughtful.” Then he looked up at me, his gaze carrying reproach. “If you got it wrong, just admit it. Don’t make excuses. I never saw your memory being this bad before.” Before? How had I lived before? Every meal had to accommodate everyone’s tastes. Jackson didn’t eat garlic, Thomas didn’t eat carrots or bell peppers. If even a trace of something they disliked appeared in a dish, the entire table of food would be dumped straight into the trash. I remembered everyone’s preferences, but no one remembered I didn’t eat cilantro. “Maybe I did get it wrong.” I didn’t argue, just turned and walked into the kitchen. Since he wanted his sweetheart to have seafood soup, I’d make it. Processing the lobster, chopping onions, simmering the broth. Every step I executed methodically. The kitchen’s glass door wasn’t fully closed. Fragments of conversation from the living room drifted in. “Jackson, is Scarlett angry?” That was Phoebe’s voice, tinged with grievance. “Maybe I should move out. I’m not as clingy as Thomas, it’s fine.” “This is my house. You can stay as long as you want.” Jackson’s voice was iron. “Don’t worry about her. With that temper, she’ll be fine in a couple of days.” “But.-” “No buts. Thomas needs you too. Look at him this morning. When has he ever asked for Scarlett?” Thomas’s high voice piped up. “I don’t want that bad lady! I want Phoebe to be my mommy!” Crash. I turned the faucet to full blast. Water rushed over the cold porcelain bowl, drowning out those piercing voices. I looked down at the sink. A expressionless face reflected back at me. In the past, hearing words like these would hurt. I’d hide under the covers and cry all night. I’d reflect on whether I wasn’t doing enough, whether I wasn’t gentle enough, considerate enough. But now, my heart felt nothing. Like watching a terrible reality show. Just absurd. Half an hour later, I carried the steaming pot of soup out of the kitchen. Jackson was feeding Phoebe freshly cut apple pieces. Seeing me emerge, he didn’t even lift an eyelid. “Leave it there. Let it cool before serving.” I set the soup on the dining table without a word, then turned to go upstairs. “Stop.” Jackson called out. He set down the apple, pulled out a tissue to wipe his hands, his tone casual: “Clear out your studio. Phoebe needs it for yoga.” My footsteps stopped. That studio was my only private space in this house. It held my unfinished artwork, and the easel my mother had left me. That was my bottom line. “There’s a gym downstairs,” I said. “The gym doesn’t have good lighting.” Jackson frowned. “I told you to clear it out, so clear it out. Why all the back talk? Those worthless paintings don’t sell for much anyway. They’re just taking up space.” Worthless paintings. Those were my heart and soul. Proof that I’d once dreamed of becoming an artist. In this billionaire’s eyes, they were just garbage taking up room. “Understood.” I heard myself say. No argument, no hysterics. Jackson seemed somewhat surprised by my compliance, but he didn’t give it much thought, just waved his hand dismissing me. I returned to my room and pulled out a large black trash bag. I walked into the studio. The painting I’d worked on for three months, “Deep Sea,” stood quietly on the easel. In the image, a drowning woman reached upward, trying to grasp that beam of light filtering down. I picked up the utility knife. The sharp blade sliced through canvas, making a harsh tearing sound. Once, twice, three times. The complete image shattered into pieces. I stuffed the fragments into the trash bag, along with the paints, brushes, and the easel my mother had left behind. It was all cleared out in under ten minutes. The once-full room turned hollow and bare. Only the faint, sharp smell of turpentine still hung in the air. Nothing of Scarlett remained here now. And nothing of her remained in this house.
Scarlett POV I was jolted awake by urgent pounding on my door. Opening it, Thomas stood there holding his broken superhero toy, his face fierce. “Bad woman, who told you to touch my Legos!” He hurled the figure viciously at my legs. The hard plastic edges struck my kneecap, pain drilling deep. I looked down at the stepson at my feet. Five years old, looking exactly like Jackson-like they’d been cut from the same mold. The eyebrows, the nose, even that domineering expression were identical. I still remembered when he was first brought home, all soft and cuddly. Jackson found him too noisy and refused to hold him. It was me who’d paced the room night after night with him in my arms, humming lullabies until he fell asleep. His first word of “mama,” his first steps, his first time using a spoon. Every moment, I’d been there with him. But from the day Phoebe returned to the country, everything changed. It only took one piece of candy from Phoebe to earn a sweet “Thank you!” Yet the full meals I’d spent hours preparing would only ever get a “This is disgusting.” “I didn’t touch your Legos.” I bent down, picked up the broken figure, and held it out to him. “You broke this yourself yesterday.” “You’re lying!” Thomas slapped my hand away. “Auntie Phoebe said you broke it ’cause you were jealous her gift was better! You’re a wicked witch!” Wicked witch. Since when did a five-year-old talk like that? I didn’t need to guess who’d put those words in his mouth. I looked at his flushed little face and suddenly felt exhausted. Too tired even to explain. “Think whatever you want.” I stepped around him, heading downstairs to get water. Thomas clearly hadn’t expected this reaction from me. In the past, whenever he threw a tantrum, I’d scramble to appease him, agreeing to all his unreasonable demands. Being ignored made him instantly lose control. He rushed at me and bit down hard on my calf. His sharp baby teeth pierced through the fabric and into flesh. I gasped in pain and instinctively pushed him. It wasn’t even that hard. But Thomas threw himself backward, landing on his bottom, then let out an ear-splitting wail. “Wahhh-Daddy! The bad woman hit me!” The laughter downstairs cut off abruptly. Urgent footsteps approached. Jackson charged up the stairs, saw his son sitting on the floor crying, and me standing there watching coldly. His expression darkened instantly. “Scarlett, what are you doing?” He strode over and shoved me aside, scooping Thomas into his arms. The force was considerable. I stumbled backward several steps, my lower back slamming into the stair railing. The pain made it hard to straighten up. “She pushed me! She tried to push me down the stairs!” Thomas burrowed into Jackson’s embrace, pointing at me accusingly, crying his heart out. “I didn’t.” I steadied myself against the railing and looked at this father and son. “You didn’t?” Jackson laughed coldly, his gaze landing on me full of disgust. “Thomas is only five. Would he lie? Scarlett, I never realized how vicious you were-you can’t even tolerate a child?” Vicious. Can’t tolerate. So that’s what I was in his mind. Phoebe rushed upstairs then, looking anxious as she checked on Thomas. “Did you get hurt? Let me see.” She wiped Thomas’s tears while turning to look at me, her eyes full of reproach: “Scarlett, kids don’t know better. You could just talk to him nicely. How could you get physical? What if he’d gotten seriously hurt…” “Enough.” Jackson cut her off, standing up with Thomas in his arms. He looked down at me from his height, like looking at a criminal. “Apologize to Thomas.” I froze. “I didn’t do anything wrong. Why should I apologize?” “Do I need to say it twice?” Jackson’s voice suppressed fury. “Apologize.” I looked into those cold eyes. Five years of marriage, and in his eyes it apparently couldn’t compare to one word from Phoebe’s mouth, one lie from Thomas. I suddenly smiled. A light laugh. “Fine.” I nodded, looking at Thomas’s face, twisted slightly with smugness. “I’m sorry.” As those words left my mouth, I felt something inside me break completely. It was the last thread connecting me to this family. Thomas huffed and turned his head away, ignoring me. Jackson’s expression eased slightly, though it remained unpleasant. “Stay out of Thomas’s sight for the next few days. Save him the annoyance.” With that, he carried his son downstairs with Phoebe. A family of three. What a harmonious picture their backs made. I stood there, watching them disappear around the staircase. The wound on my knee was still bleeding, the bite mark on my calf already bruising purple. But I felt no pain at all. I returned to my room and pulled the suitcase out from under the bed. I opened the closet. Most of the clothes inside were black, white, and gray-the style Jackson preferred. He said bright colors made me look frivolous, that only muted tones suited the wife of a billionaire. I didn’t take any of them. I only took a few pieces I’d bought before marriage, and that photo album hidden deepest in the closet. I opened the album. The first photo was our wedding picture. In it, Jackson had his face set, brow slightly furrowed, looking quite unwilling. And I smiled like an idiot, my eyes full of light. That was me five years ago. Back then I believed that if I just tried hard enough, loved him enough, this stone would eventually warm up. Only now did I understand. A stone can’t be warmed. Especially when that stone’s heart already belonged to someone else. I picked up scissors. Following the photo’s center line, snip. That woman smiling with happiness and that cold man were completely separated. I threw Jackson’s half of the photo into the trash. Only keeping the version of myself whose eyes held light. Though that light had now gone out. But I would relight it. Somewhere without Jackson.
Scarlett POV It was late at night by the time I finished packing. The suitcase was light, barely half full. It turned out that after five years of living here, I had so little I could take with me. I pushed the suitcase to the back of the walk-in closet and covered it with some old coats. Just as I straightened up, the bedroom door opened. Jackson walked in. He’d just showered, carrying the scent of body wash mixed with a faint tobacco smell. That was the brand of cigarettes Phoebe had given him. He didn’t even glance at me, walking straight to the bed and sitting down, drying his hair while saying: “There’s a charity gala tomorrow night. You’re coming with me.” In the past, hearing such a request would have made me too excited to sleep. Because it meant he acknowledged my status. But now, I only felt the irony. “Isn’t Phoebe back?” I walked to the vanity and picked up face cream, applying it. “She’d be more suitable for that kind of occasion than me.” Jackson’s hand stopped mid-motion. He looked at me through the mirror, his brow furrowing again. “Scarlett, are you ever going to stop?” He impatiently threw the towel on the bed, his tone dismissive: “Phoebe’s body hasn’t recovered. She can’t handle the noise of that kind of event. You’re my wife. This is your responsibility.” Responsibility. So that’s why I existed. Human shield, tool, nanny. Whatever it was, definitely not beloved. “I’m not going.” I capped the face cream and turned to look at him. “I don’t feel well.” Jackson apparently hadn’t expected me to refuse. This was probably the first time since marrying him that I’d said “no.” He stood up, strode over to me, and grabbed my chin. The grip was hard, painfully tight. “Scarlett, don’t think I don’t know what game you’re playing.” His gaze was sharp as a knife, as if trying to see through to my bones. “Playing hard to get doesn’t work on me. You weren’t this dramatic before. What, now that Phoebe’s back, feeling insecure?” Insecure? I couldn’t help but laugh. If this were seven days ago, maybe I would have been. But now, facing a marriage on its deathbed, where was there room for insecurity? “Jackson.” I looked directly into his eyes, my tone so calm it surprised even me. “I genuinely don’t feel well. And also, I’m tired.” Jackson stared at me for several seconds. As if trying to find traces of lies on my face. But he failed. My eyes held no emotion-no jealousy, no anger, just dead-water calm. This calm made him feel strange, even inexplicably irritated. He released his grip and snorted coldly. “Suit yourself.” With that, he turned to leave. Reaching the door, he stopped. “Since you’re not going, don’t regret it later. I’m taking Phoebe tomorrow. When the media writes whatever they want, don’t come crying to me.” This was a threat. He knew I cared about status, about maintaining the dignity of this marriage. Unfortunately, he’d miscalculated this time. “I won’t.” I looked at his back, saying softly, “As long as you’re happy.” Jackson’s figure stiffened. But he didn’t turn around, just slammed the door hard. BANG. The impact made the wall clock shudder. I looked at the closed door and let out a long breath. Actually, I hadn’t lied. I really didn’t feel well. The dragging pain in my abdomen hadn’t disappeared-it was getting stronger. I rummaged through a drawer for painkillers and dry-swallowed two pills. The bitter taste of the pills spread across my tongue. I lay in bed and turned off the light. In the darkness, my phone screen suddenly lit up. A bank transfer notification. Five million dollars. Followed by a message from Phoebe: Scarlett, thank you for clearing out the studio for me. This money is compensation for your paintings. Jackson asked me to transfer it to you-he said he couldn’t let you work for nothing. I looked at that long string of numbers. In Jackson’s eyes, my dreams and dignity were worth exactly this much. Or rather, it was hush money-a pittance to let Phoebe occupy my space guilt-free. I didn’t reply, didn’t return the money. I accepted it. Why not? This was what I deserved. Consider it my nanny wages for five years, emotional damage compensation. Besides, medical bills would be expensive later. I placed my phone face-down on the nightstand and closed my eyes. Six more days. Just endure a little longer. Just six more days, and I’d be completely free. As I drifted off to sleep, a commotion suddenly erupted downstairs. The sound of something breaking, accompanied by Phoebe’s scream. I rolled over and pulled the blanket over my head. Even if the house collapsed, it had nothing to do with me. That night, I had a dream. I dreamed I’d become a bird. Trapped in a gilded cage, I’d plucked out all my feathers trying to please my master. Finally, the master opened the cage. Not to set me free. But to put a more beautiful peacock inside. The featherless bird was casually tossed into the trash. Dying. When I woke, my pillow was soaked. Not with tears. With cold sweat.
Scarlett POV I don’t remember how I left the mansion. I only remember the sunlight outside was blinding, falling on my skin with no warmth at all. I took a cab to the downtown hospital. The obstetrics corridor was always filled with two completely different sounds. On one side, the robust cries of newborns and families unable to contain their joy; on the other, heart-wrenching sobs and deathly silence. I sat in the cold chair in the examination room, clutching my registration slip. “Scarlett?” The doctor was an older woman who pushed up her glasses, her gaze landing on my test results as her brow furrowed tight. “Your condition is dangerous. Incomplete miscarriage with retained tissue in the uterus, and signs of infection. We need to schedule surgery immediately to clear it out.” Surgery. I knew what that meant. Cold instruments probing into my body, scraping out that unformed blood clot bit by bit, along with all my hopes for the past. “I’m not having surgery.” I heard my own calm voice. “Just prescribe me strong painkillers and antibiotics.” The doctor’s head snapped up, staring at me like I was insane. “Do you have a death wish? The infection could spread and cause sepsis. You could go into shock at any time. And your current clotting function…” She paused, pointing at the abnormally low value on the lab report. “Have you been getting nosebleeds frequently, or unexplained bruising?” I instinctively tugged at my sleeve, covering the purple bruise on my wrist. Jackson had left that yesterday. “I know what I’m doing.” I stood up, and without waiting for the doctor to say more, walked out of the examination room. Only I knew this body was already broken. Beyond repair. Even if I fixed this, something else would be waiting. Rather than lying on an operating table kept alive by cold tubes, I’d rather walk through these final days with dignity. When I picked up my prescription, the TV mounted in the lobby was broadcasting entertainment news. “Billionaire Jackson Sterling attended a charity gala with a mysterious female companion, spending millions on a pink diamond necklace…” On screen, Jackson wore an impeccably tailored bespoke suit, his posture straight. Phoebe held his arm, wearing that dazzling pink diamond necklace around her neck, her smile radiantly happy. Reporters’ microphones were practically shoved in their faces. “Mr. Sterling, is this lady your newly wedded wife?” Jackson didn’t deny it. He just looked down at Phoebe, his gaze so tender it could melt. “She’s the most important person in my life.” Many people in the lobby were watching-some envious, some skeptical. I stood at the back of the crowd, holding a bag of painkillers, the bitter taste of bile rising in my mouth. The most important person. Then what was I? Five years of marriage. I’d been with him from nobody to corporate power player. To help him secure investments, I’d drunk myself to a bleeding ulcer and hospitalization. To care for his sick mother, I’d kept vigil at her bedside for three solid months, not even seeing my own mother one last time. In the end, I was just an invisible person who didn’t even deserve to have her name mentioned. I lowered my head, popped a pill in my mouth, and dry-swallowed it without water. The rough tablet scraped down my throat, bringing a burning pain. But the pain was good. At least it reminded me I was still alive.
Scarlett POV When I returned to the mansion, night had fallen completely. The living room blazed with light. Thomas lay on the carpet drawing, Phoebe sat beside him sharpening pencils, and Jackson reviewed documents.If you didn’t look at the large cardboard boxes piled in the corner, this would indeed seem like a warm family scene. Those were my things. My books, my tea set, even the coats I wore regularly. All carelessly stuffed into boxes, like a pile of garbage waiting to be disposed of. “What’s this about?” I changed my shoes and walked to the boxes. The housekeeper Anna was sealing them with packing tape. Seeing me return, her hand jerked, the tape making a harsh ripping sound. “Ma’am… Miss Phoebe said there was too much clutter in the house, it accumulates dust and it’s bad for Thomas’s respiratory system, so…” “I had Anna pack them up.” Phoebe set down her pencil and stood up, looking at me with innocent eyes. “Scarlett, don’t take it the wrong way. I noticed you hardly use these things anyway, they’re just taking up space. Plus, the doctor said Thomas has some allergic rhinitis, so the house needs to be kept clean.” Allergic rhinitis. I looked at one of the unsealed boxes. Inside was a copy of “The Little Prince,” its corners worn from being read so many times. That was the storybook I’d read to Thomas every night when he was three. Now it had become an allergen. “Throw it out.” Jackson didn’t even look up, turning a page of his document. “It’s useless anyway.” I stared at that man’s profile. Cold, matter-of-fact. As if what he was throwing away wasn’t my belongings, but me as a person. “Okay.” I bent down and picked up the box. It was heavy. Anna tried to help, but I dodged her. “I’ll do it myself.” I carried the box toward the door. Passing by Thomas, he suddenly looked up, holding up his drawing paper, his face full of pride as he shouted to Jackson: “Daddy, look! I drew our family!” Jackson set down his documents and took the paper, a smile tugging at his lips. “Not bad.” I instinctively glanced at it. There were three people in the drawing. A tall daddy, a beautiful mommy, and little Thomas in the middle holding their hands. That “mommy” wore a pink dress with a sparkling necklace. That was Phoebe’s outfit today. I wasn’t in the picture. The box in my arms suddenly felt like it weighed a thousand pounds, pressing until I couldn’t breathe. “Thomas is so talented.” Phoebe patted Thomas’s head and shot me a challenging look. “How about I take you to art classes?” “Yes! I love Phoebe the most!” Thomas wrapped his arms around her neck and planted a kiss on her cheek. I looked away and quickened my pace. I walked out the front door, all the way to the trash station in the residential area. I threw the box in heavily. Thud. Dust rose up. I stood in front of the dumpster, looking at “The Little Prince” with half its cover showing. Suddenly I felt ridiculous. Scarlett, look. The memories you treasured like precious gems were, in others’ eyes, just garbage that could be discarded at any moment. I pulled a lighter from my pocket. Click. The blue flame danced in the night wind. I lit one corner of the box. The fire spread quickly. The dry paper curled and blackened, turning to ash. The firelight reflected in my eyes, somewhat scorching. I don’t know when Jackson appeared behind me. “What are you doing?” His voice was heavy with surprise. He probably never expected me to be the one setting fire to my own things. After all, in the past, even a sticky note-as long as it was from him-I would carefully preserve. “Just as you said.” I watched the dancing flames without turning around. “Taking out the trash.” Jackson was silent for several seconds. “You’ve been acting strange, Scarlett.” He stepped closer, his eyes scanning me. “If this is some play for attention, you’re overdoing it.” A play? I turned to look at the man I had loved for seven years. In the firelight, his face was still unbearably handsome. But my heart, like the ashes between us, had gone cold. “Jackson.” I said his name softly. “If I died, would you be sad?” Jackson froze. Then he frowned, his face showing obvious disgust. “Don’t say such morbid things.” He tapped his cigarette, letting the ash fall. “Someone with your resilience doesn’t die easily.” I laughed. Right. I was like a weed. Trampled into mud, scorched by fire, yet as long as one root remained, I could cling on, miserably. But Jackson. This time, I would tear it out from the root. “That’s good then.” I said softly. “That’s good.” I’m done loving you, Jackson. You killed me with your own hands.
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