Chapter 5: Divorce Proposal
925words
In twelve months, I'd transformed from a woman desperate for her husband's approval to someone who remembered her own worth. I was no longer that pathetic creature who would have traded her soul for Julian's smile.
A week before the competition, a courier delivered a large box. Inside lay an exquisite sapphire gown, perfectly tailored for performance. The card simply read: "Wishing you success. —J"
I stared at the dress in disbelief. Julian had somehow remembered both my measurements and my favorite color. After a year of marriage, this was his first real gift.
I slipped the dress over my head and faced the mirror. The woman who stared back was a stranger—eyes clear and determined, shoulders squared with newfound confidence. My heart no longer fluttered at the thought of Julian's approval.
That evening, Julian arrived home unexpectedly early. He froze in the doorway when he saw me in the gown.
"It suits you," he said, his voice oddly rough.
"Thank you for the gift," I said with a calm smile. "It's our anniversary today, and I have something important to discuss."
Julian's expression shifted to wariness as he waited for me to continue.
I drew a steadying breath. "I want a divorce."
Julian's face went completely blank, as though I'd slapped him.
"Why?" he asked, his voice unnaturally controlled.
"Because this marriage was a mistake from day one," I said, meeting his gaze unflinchingly. "You've never loved me, and I've finally stopped loving you."
Julian's brow furrowed. "You don't love me anymore?" He sounded almost… confused.
"That's right," I confirmed, surprised by my own serenity. "I've loved you since sophomore year of college. But now, I'm free of it."
Julian stared at me for a long moment. "Is this about the competition? Your music career?"
I shook my head. "Not entirely. Julian, our marriage is a hollow performance. You have Isabelle, I have my music. Why keep pretending?"
At Isabelle's name, something flashed across Julian's face—guilt, perhaps?
"You know about her?" he asked carefully.
"I've known all along," I said with a humorless laugh. "I was at Le Ciel that night, watching you give her that bracelet."
Julian looked momentarily thrown but recovered quickly. "Our agreement was for two years. It's only been one."
"Lin Group is stable now," I countered. "Your investment has already paid dividends. The business arrangement has served its purpose."
Julian turned away, facing the window. "What if I refuse?"
"Why would you?" I asked, genuinely puzzled. "You never wanted this marriage. I'm offering you freedom—the chance to be with Isabelle openly."
Julian turned back, his expression unreadable. "You truly don't love me anymore?"
His fixation on this point baffled me. "No, Julian, I don't," I said firmly. "I want my own life back."
Julian studied me for what felt like eternity, then nodded once. "Fine. If that's what you want."
He disappeared into his study, returning with a document folder. Inside was a divorce agreement, dated a month earlier.
"I've had this prepared," he said flatly. "It just needs your signature."
I stared at the papers, a strange cocktail of emotions washing over me. So he'd been planning this too—had the papers drawn up weeks ago.
"What about assets?" I asked, practical despite everything.
"Keep whatever I've given you," Julian said dismissively. "Just don't make the divorce public until after your competition."
I nodded agreement. My hand trembled slightly as I signed, but my heart remained steady.
"Is that all?" I asked, capping the pen.
Julian slid the papers into his folder with mechanical precision. "That's all."
I turned toward the stairs to begin packing. "Mei," Julian called after me, "will you be leaving?"
"Tomorrow," I replied without turning. "I've found a place."
Julian seemed poised to say more, but ultimately just offered: "Good luck with your performance."
That night, as I sorted through my belongings, I unearthed the artifacts of our sham marriage—staged photos from charity galas, the blue dress, our marriage certificate.
I packed them in a box labeled "Past." Whatever else it had been, this year was part of my story.
The next day, I moved into my new apartment—a sun-drenched studio with hardwood floors and, most importantly, space for my baby grand.
David helped carry the last of my boxes. Setting them down, he studied my face. "Are you really okay?"
I smiled—genuinely. "I'm better than okay. I'm free."
It wasn't a lie. Despite the bittersweet ending, I felt lighter than I had in years.
Three days before the competition, my phone buzzed with a text from Julian: "Need a ride to the airport?"
I typed back: "No thanks. David's driving me."
After sending the message, I hesitated, then added: "Julian, thank you for everything this past year. I hope you and Isabelle find happiness together."
The message showed as read, but no reply came.
What I couldn't see was Julian in his empty mansion, staring at my message with a haunted expression. He stalked to the bar, poured three fingers of whiskey, and downed it in one burning swallow.
His phone rang—Isabelle. He silenced it. A text followed: "Heard the divorce is final! Celebration dinner tonight?"
Julian powered off his phone and climbed the stairs to the attic. The room still seemed to hold echoes of my music. He sat at the piano bench and pressed a single key.
The solitary note hung in the air like a question with no answer.
