It was raining.

The kind of rain that seeped into your bones, slow and cold. I stood under the transparent cover of the terminal entrance, my fingers clenched around the umbrella’s handle. The wind blew sideways, but I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

Across the wet glass, I watched him—my husband—rush forward with a smile I hadn’t seen in months. He held out his arms, eyes sparkling like spring after drought. The man who stepped into them wore a cream trench coat and a scarf that matched his eyes—stormy blue, just like the ones in the photo album hidden at the back of our closet.

His first love had arrived from abroad.

The hug lasted too long. Their laughter echoed even through the thick glass.

I swallowed.

We were supposed to have lunch together today. I made his favorite: soy-braised ribs and rice porridge. He left early, saying he had a meeting. Said he wouldn’t be long. I should’ve known. He’d worn cologne. He never wore cologne for meetings.

Maybe I was the fool. Maybe I always had been.

After all, I was just the one he married when his first love left the country. The convenient choice. The safe one. The one who cooked and cleaned and waited. The one who kissed his shoulder goodnight and cried quietly in the shower when he turned away.

I didn’t know how long I stood there, watching them walk away together, suitcase in hand, under a shared umbrella.

I didn’t cry.

Not until I got home and saw the still-warm ribs on the table.

Then I packed a bag.

And I left.

Because I may have been the safe choice, but I wasn’t anyone’s second option.

Not anymore.

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I shouldn’t have followed them.

But I did.

Maybe I still had a sliver of hope. Maybe I thought—if I could just see it with my own eyes, it would finally kill whatever was left of this love eating me alive.

They checked into a hotel not far from the airport. A boutique place—quiet, discreet. I stayed across the street in the rain, watching until the curtains of Room 504 were drawn shut. My heart was louder than the downpour. My hands were shaking even before I stepped into the building.

I told the front desk I was meeting a friend. Smiled like my heart wasn’t breaking. Walked into the elevator with a calmness I didn’t feel. The hallway to the fifth floor was dim, the carpet muffling my footsteps like the world was trying to soften the blow.

But nothing could.

Not when I heard it.

Soft moans. The creak of a bed. A voice I knew better than my own whispering someone else’s name.

I stood outside the door, my phone in hand. My thumb trembled over the record button.

I shouldn’t have done it.

But I pressed it.

The screen lit up, and I stared at the closed door, recording the sounds of betrayal. My breathing grew uneven. I bit down on my lip so hard I tasted blood. My tears fell silently, sliding down my chin, mixing with the raindrops on my coat.

I didn’t make a sound.

Because if I did, I would’ve screamed.

I would’ve broken the door down and begged him to look at me—to see me—not as a placeholder, but as the person who gave him everything.

Instead, I stood there like a ghost, filming my own heart shatter. No one in that room knew I was outside. No one cared.

When the silence came—sated and warm and filled with laughter that didn’t belong to me—I turned off the recording.

I stared at my reflection in the dark screen. Red eyes. Pale lips. A quiet nothing.

And that’s when I knew.

There was nothing left for me here.

I left the hotel without saying a word.

No confrontation. No tears in front of them.

Just the video in my phone, and the storm still raging inside me.

I returned home like a ghost. The food was still on the table, cold now. I didn’t touch it. I just sat there, numb, staring at the empty space across from me where he used to smile.

It was evening when I heard the door.

He came in like nothing had happened, shaking off his umbrella with that casual smile he wore when hiding something. And behind him was him—the man from the hotel, the one whose body he held, whose lips he kissed just hours ago.

“My friend,” he said, like the word didn’t burn.

“They just came back from abroad. No place to stay yet.”

The man bowed politely, elegant in every movement. His voice was soft—too soft. Like feathers brushing against bruised skin. He smiled at me, beautiful and delicate, not a flaw in sight.

“Thank you for welcoming me,” he said, like he wasn’t the reason my world had cracked open.

I stood there, a statue in my own home.

I didn’t speak. I couldn’t.

What was I supposed to say?

Welcome? Make yourself comfortable in the bed I used to share?

My husband didn’t even look at me twice. He talked and laughed with him, like I was a wall. I watched him pour tea for that man—his hands gentle, eyes warm.

He hadn’t looked at me like that in months.

And I knew, then.

He wasn’t even sorry.

He didn’t care what I saw, what I felt. In his mind, I would just endure. I always did.

I went to the bedroom without a word, shut the door behind me, and sat on the edge of the bed. My hands were clenched so tight they trembled.

The video was still in my phone.

My proof.

But who was I proving it to?

He knew. He knew I’d understand what they were.

And he brought that man into our home anyway.

Because he thought I wouldn’t leave.

Because I’d never left before.

I lay down on the bed that night while they stayed up talking and laughing in the living room.

And I stared at the ceiling, waiting for the courage to come.

Tomorrow, I would go.

Even if it shattered me.

Because staying would finish what was left of me.

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Dawn came soft and gray, like the world itself was holding its breath.

The house was so quiet.

Too quiet.

The kind of silence that presses down on your chest, heavy and unforgiving.

But inside me, my heart was a storm. Wild and crashing. Angry and aching. It wouldn’t settle. Not yet.

I folded the papers carefully—divorce documents, signed in a shaky hand, final and cold. Alongside them, a copy of the video.

Proof. My only witness.

I placed them on the kitchen table, where he would find them.

No note.

No explanation.

Just the truth.

I packed one small bag. Nothing more. No pictures, no memories. They belonged to a past I was done living.

The car keys were left on the counter. Our car—the one we bought together, the one I used to think was ours—I didn’t take it.

I didn’t want to carry anything of us with me. Not the house. Not the memories. Not even the car.

I walked out the front door for the last time.

I didn’t look back.

The rain had stopped, but my cheeks were still wet—from tears or from the sky, I couldn’t tell.

I disappeared into the gray morning.

No trace of myself remained.

Not in the house.

Not in the car.

Not in the life I left behind.

But maybe—in that emptiness—I could find who I really was.

Years passed.

And with each passing season, the pain became quieter—like a scar kissed by the wind. It never vanished, but it no longer bled.

I found myself far from the city, in a province that smelled of soil and sky. My late grandfather, a man I barely knew but now silently thanked every day, left me a hundred hectares of farmland. Wild and untouched, it waited for someone who needed a reason to begin again.

I became that someone.

I started with apples.

Rows and rows of trees now fill the hills. I learned to prune them, feed them, coax sweetness from the earth. Their blossoms were the first thing to make me smile again. And when harvest came, I sold to factories and small markets, enough to live quietly.

But there was one buyer who kept coming back.

Leon.

He owned a food company, specializing in artisan wine and cider. Always polite, always curious about the land. He didn’t just buy—he stayed. Asked about the soil, the harvest, the weather. Asked about me, though I didn’t answer much at first.

He was tall, handsome, with sun-kissed skin and sleeves always rolled up. He looked like someone who worked with his hands, who built things with patience. A man who listened.

He’d come by with a crate of his latest cider batch, smile wide, boots dusted in earth, and say things like,

“Let me trade this for a walk through your orchard.”

And somehow, I always said yes.

There were moments, quiet and slow, where I’d catch him watching me—not with hunger, not with pity—but with something softer. Respect. Admiration, maybe. Something I hadn’t felt in years.

Sometimes, we’d sit under the oldest apple tree on the hill, sipping his wine as the sun dipped low.

He never asked about my past.

But once, I caught him glancing at the ring mark on my finger—faded now, almost gone—and he looked away without a word.

That silence was the kindest thing anyone ever gave me.

And I realized—maybe not all love needed to hurt.

Some could grow like apples, slow and steady.

And maybe, just maybe…

This was the season I could bloom again.

...ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩ...

The sun had barely set when my phone buzzed. A message from Leon.

“Dinner? I’ll cook. Don’t worry, I’ve improved.”

I chuckled. Last time he tried to make pasta, he nearly burned down the guest kitchen in the old warehouse he turned into his vineyard storage.

But I typed back, “Alright. I’ll bring apples.”

When I arrived, the place smelled like garlic, thyme, and something roasted. Soft jazz played from a speaker near the windows. He greeted me in a dark button-up and an apron, sleeves pushed up, hair slightly messy. His usual.

But tonight, he looked different. Less like the buyer who drove up in a truck, more like the man behind something larger. A quiet power he never flaunted.

Dinner was simple, warm. Chicken, roasted potatoes, apple-glazed vegetables. Wine he made from last fall’s batch. I sat across from him, the candlelight catching in his eyes, and I wondered if this was what peace looked like.

He poured me a glass, his fingers brushing mine.

“I’m glad you came,” he said.

I nodded. “I needed a break from watching apples grow.”

He laughed. “They grow beautifully under your care.”

We ate, and talked—about the soil, the spring rain, the orchard dog that wouldn’t stop chasing wild chickens. I found myself laughing more than I expected.

Then, between a sip of wine and silence, he said, “Sean…”

I looked up.

“I’ve never asked, but... will you let me in? Just a little more?”

I paused, heart tightening.

“I don’t want to know everything,” he added gently. “Just what you’re ready to give.”

I studied him. His honesty. His quiet patience. He was a man who could easily command rooms, build empires—but here, he waited for my walls to come down on their own.

I nodded slowly. “I used to be someone’s husband,” I whispered. “And it ended with silence, betrayal… and me disappearing.”

Leon didn’t speak. He didn’t ask who, or why, or how.

He just said, “Thank you… for telling me.”

I looked at him. “You’re not just a cider maker, are you?”

He smiled. That mysterious, knowing smile. “Leon Frost. Frost Group.”

I blinked. I’d heard of them. Everyone had. Real estate, international trade, renewable energy—the Frost name was everywhere.

And yet, here he was. In a vineyard kitchen, cooking for me.

“I figured it out,” I admitted softly. “But I didn’t want to ask.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” he said. “Because when I’m here, I’m not the heir. I’m just… me.”

He reached across the table, hand outstretched—not demanding, just waiting.

And this time, I didn’t flinch.

I placed my hand in his.

Warm.

Steady.

Real.