Chapter 3

2

I went back to our apartment in Paris.

I pushed open the door and found the wooden chest where Silas kept his most used tools.

Inside was the first set of professional German shears I ever bought him.

"They're too heavy. They don't feel as smooth as the ones Maisie found at the flea market," he had told me back then.

The irony was that he used those "heavy" shears to cut the very pieces that won him the award.

The box was also filled with my late-night sketches. Some of the edges had turned yellow with age.

I had spent countless nights refining those designs under a dim lamp. He would only give them a cold glance and bark, "Redraw it."

I started throwing the sketches into the trash, one by one. My hands shook as I tossed the first one. By the tenth, I felt nothing but a cold numbness.

Finally, I threw the shears in too.

My phone buzzed. It was an Instagram notification.

Silas had posted a gallery of nine photos.

He was kissing Maisie under the Eiffel Tower. The sparkling lights of Paris served as their backdrop.

They looked blissfully happy. The caption read: "Crowning our love. No regrets in this life."

I stared at the screen until my vision went dark. My body hit the floor with a heavy thud.

A sharp, stabbing pain erupted in my stomach. This was the price of working seventy-two hours without a break.

In my rush to finish his designs, I had completely forgotten to eat.

The phone buzzed again. It was a text from Silas.

"Where is that Indian silk I brought back? I need to show it to the Vogue editor tomorrow. Bring it to me right now!"

I couldn't even speak. I just curled up on the floor, gasping for air.

Ten minutes later, a second message arrived, even more vicious. "Still throwing a tantrum? Lyra, get your act together. Don't act like a pathetic, bitter housewife!"

I gritted my teeth and struggled to sit up. My fingers tapped out a single line: "Silas, we're done. Don't ever contact me again."

I blocked him immediately and turned off the phone.

I finished clearing the chest and collapsed back onto the floor.

In the middle of the night, the lock clicked.

Silas stumbled in, smelling of expensive whiskey and Maisie's signature rose perfume.

"What is wrong with you!" he roared when he saw the mess on the floor.

I didn't answer. I just watched him with empty eyes.

He marched over and grabbed my wrist. He squeezed right where the sewing needle had pierced me a few days ago. The bandage soaked through with fresh blood.

"It's just a piece of paper! Is it really worth all this drama?" he hissed.

I ignored the pain and stared at him. "Did you sleep with her?"

He froze for a second, then scoffed. "Stop being so paranoid. I just had a few drinks because I was stressed!"

Looking at his cold, handsome face, I felt a sudden sense of liberation.

Ten years of love died in that exact moment.

"I'm resigning tomorrow," I said, my voice steady. "And you're going to pay back every cent you owe me."

He let go of my arm and laughed mockingly. "You? Without me, you're nothing but a ghostwriter. You won't survive a day in this industry."