After Seven Years of Suffering, I Finally Broke Free novel

The moment I pulled back the curtain to try on the wedding dress, Frederick Shaw answered his phonewith his first love.
He stood with his back to me, whispering words of comfort into the receiver for half an hour.
The shop assistant awkwardly complimented me on how beautiful I looked.
I looked at myself in the mirror, wearing the white wedding dress, and felt like a clown.
Half an hour later, Frederick turned around, without so much as a glance at me, and said,
"Emilys having a breakdown; shes threatening to jump off a building. I have to go."
"You can choose the dress. Dont try to save money."
I didnt look at him either and removed my veil in front of the mirror.
"Go ahead."
Anyway, this is the last time Ill wear a wedding dress for him.

Frederick left in a hurry.
He didnt even notice his car keys had fallen on the carpet; the shop assistant had to pick them up and run after him to hand them over.
The fitting room was empty except for rows of expensive gowns hanging silently.
The sales assistant asked cautiously, "Ms. Sinclair, are you satisfied with this? Mr. Shaw might have something urgent."
I glanced down at the lace on the skirtintricate, delicatemuch like the tangled seven-year relationship between Frederick and me.
This dress had taken three months to customize, was air-freighted, and cost six figures.
Frederick hadnt even flinched when he swiped his card.
He thought money could solve everythingeven my emotions.
"Help me take this off," the sales assistant said, surprised.
"Arent you going to order it?"
"It doesnt fit."
I turned, staring at the expressionless woman in the mirror.
"It doesnt fit anywhere." The foundation around my eyes was caked, the lipstick too pink.
Im clearly not young anymore, but I still cant accept it.
Just like I cant accept that Frederick no longer loves me.
I picked up my bag, opened the door, and walked out.
I didnt take a taxi. I walked slowly, along every inch of the streets Frederick and I once walked together.
Shop windows displayed the latest seasonal styles.
Young couples walked hand in hand.
The sweet scent of popcorn and roasted sweet potatoes filled the air.
Today is May 20th.
How ironic.
My phone vibrated in my bag.
A message from Ryan Jacobs: ["I heard you went to try on wedding dresses? How was it? Did you stun everyone?"]
I stopped and replied: ["Stunning is a good word, but its used in the wrong place."]
Ryan answered instantly: ["? Whats going on? That bastard Frederick pulling his tricks again?"]
"Yeah." I didnt reply further and shoved the phone back into my bag.
Ahead, the intersection light was red.
The taillights formed a river of light, so bright it hurt my eyes.
I remembered seven years ago, at a similar intersection.
Back then, Frederick rode a secondhand electric scooter, and I clung tightly to his waist.
It was windy, and he shouted, "Lydia, Ill make sure you ride in a car without wind from now on!"
Now, hes done it.
But the passenger isnt me anymore.
I got home at nine.
The moment I opened the door, a strange perfume hit me.
My gray linen slippers were gone.
In their place, a pair of pink slippers with fluffy rabbit earsclearly too smallsat in the middle, as an intruder asserting dominance.
I stared at them for a few seconds, then nausea washed over me.
The living room light glowed warm and yellow.
Frederick sat on the leather sofa, holding a woman who was sobbing in his arms.

Emily Jordan.
She wore a large white shirtone of Fredericks.
She huddled in his arms like a frightened kitten seeking shelter.
Hearing the door open, she flinched, stiffening, then burrowed even deeper into his embrace.
"Lydia, youre back." Frederick looked up at me, a flicker of unease in his eyes.
It was the panic of being caught, quickly masked by practiced composure.
"Emilys rented apartment was awful. There was a barbecue stall downstairs, the soundproofing was terrible, and drunks kept knocking. She just got back from abroad, and her mental state is fragile. The doctor said she shouldnt be under stress, so I brought her here first."
His explanation flowed smoothly, as if rehearsed.
I changed my shoes and hung my bag on the coat hanger.
I kicked the pink slippers aside.
"The guest room hasnt been cleaned," I said casually. "The sheets are still in the closet."
Frederick frowned, a flash of displeasure at my coldness.
"Shes afraid of the dark. Sleeping alone in the guest room will give her nightmares. Besides, its too quiet. Ill stay with her in the living room tonight."
Emily finally lifted her head from his chest.
Her face was streaked with tears, eyes red and swollen, lips palepitiful.
She looked at me timidly, her voice barely a whisper:
"Miss Sinclair, Im sorry its all my fault Frederick was just worried something might happen I Ill leave tomorrow, I wont bother you."
She reached out and clutched Fredericks sleeve.
He immediately patted her back tenderly, voice gentle yet cutting: "What nonsense are you talking about? How could you walk in this state? What if something else happens? Stay here until you recover."
Then he turned to me, eyes sharp, tone commanding:
"Lydia Sinclair, youre sensible. Emily is a patient now, and also our friend. Dont hold it against her. You should have that much compassion, shouldnt you?"
Friend?
Whose friend?
The one sleeping in her fiancs arms?
I looked at them.
Under the light, how harmonious, how well-matched they seemedone broken, needing saving; the other strong, eager to save.
And I, the normal person standing straight, emotionally stable, capable of handling everything alone, felt like the most superfluous presence in the room.
I suddenly felt exhausted.
Not physically, but deep in my soul.
Like walking a long road, only to find the destination a swamp.
"Whatever." I didnt look at them again and went to the master bedroom.
That night, I locked the door.
Lying in bed, I didnt toss and turn as Id imagined.
Perhaps because my heart was dead, my body had activated its self-protection.
At two a.m., I got up for water.
Opening the door, the living room light was off, leaving only a floor lamp spilling dim yellow light onto a corner of the sofa.
Low voices came from the other end.
"Frederick, am I a burden?"
"Dont think like that. You never will be."
"In my heart, youll always be that little girl who needs protection."
"But Miss Sinclair, she seems unhappy. Her face was so cold when she came back. Does she hate me?"
I heard Frederick rustle the blanket around her.
"Thats just her personalitycold and aloof, a workaholic. Always staring at blueprints and construction sites, long forgetting how to speak gently. Dont worry; shell be fine in a couple of days. Shes reasonableshe wont actually kick you out."

I stood in the dark corridor, fingers stiff around the glass of water.
Cold and aloof.
Workaholic.
So, in his eyes, my calm independence and tireless work for our future were flawseasy to belittle, even to complain about to another woman.
When his business collapsed, when creditors surrounded his door, penniless, I stayed with him in that moldy basement for two years.
I spent my days on construction sites, inhaling dust, and my nights drawing and doing freelance work until three in the morning, giving him half to pay debts, half as start-up capital.
Back then, he said, "Lydia, youre the strongest and most beautiful woman Ive ever met. Without you, I would have collapsed long ago."
Now, strength has become cold.
Beauty has become a lack of gentleness.
Time is a cruel magician, turning pearls to fish eyes, red roses to mosquito blood.
I didnt say a word. I turned and went back to my room.
This time, I didnt sleep.
I opened my laptop and pulled up the property ownership contract for this house.
Joint purchase.
The down payment was split fifty-fifty, and the mortgage payments had been made together.
Every transfer record was in my online banking.
I sent Ryan an email:
Draft a property transfer agreement, and also, help me find out if there are any buyers urgently selling large apartments. Cash is fine, the price can be lower.
Ryan, a night owl, replied instantly: ? This is sudden. Arent you getting married next month? Whats going on?
I stared at the blinking cursor.
Typed three words:
Its not happening.
After sending them, I closed the laptop.
The room was pitch black, moonlight faintly filtering through the window.
No tears, no hysteria.
Only a resolute sense of finality.
In the following days, Emily took root in this house.
Her intrusion was gradual, like a spreading fungus.
My gray slippers disappeared, probably kicked into a corner.
Her skincare products appeared on the bathroom sinkbottles and jars crowding my minimalist set to the edge.
Even the sparkling water in the fridge was replaced with her favorite fully-sweetened fruit juice.
Frederick ignored it all.
Or rather, he seemed pleased.
He started coming home early. Once claiming busy social engagements, now he was in the kitchen wearing an apron, making soup for Emily.
"Emily has a sensitive stomach; she cant eat takeout. Its too oily."
Coming home from work, I saw a sumptuous three-dish meal and soup on the table.
Yam and pork rib soup, steamed sea bass, and blanched bok choy.
All stomach-friendly dishes.
Only two sets of bowls and chopsticks.
Frederick came out of the kitchen carrying soup. Seeing me at the entryway, he said casually,
"Oh, I thought you were working late, so I didnt make you anything. Make some noodles, or order takeout."
As if I were the one who didnt belong at the table.
Emily sat there, spoon in hand, wearing my silk pajamas.
Champagne-colored, brand new, tags still onthe ones I had hesitated to wear.
"Lydia, why dont you eat mine? I cant finish it; Frederick took too much."
She blinked, looking innocent and generous, pushing the bowl toward me.
I looked at the pajamas.
The silk hung loosely on her, like a child in adult clothes, cheap and mismatched.

"No need," I said calmly. "Remember to dry clean these pajamas. If its not clean, just throw it away."
Emilys face went pale, and the spoon in her hand clattered into the bowl.
Tears welled instantly, filling her eyes.
Frederick slammed the soup bowl on the table, spilling a few drops.
"Lydia, can you not be so sarcastic? Its just a piece of clothingdoes it have to be like this?" He frowned, impatience written all over his face.
"She didnt bring any clothes. Whats wrong with borrowing one? You have so many in your closetwould it kill you to lose one?"
I looked at Frederick.
The veins on his neck stood out slightly, eyes full of accusation.
He truly believed I was being unreasonable, truly thought I was overreacting.
In his mind, generosity and tolerance were my duties; if I didnt comply, something was wrong with me.
I nodded. "Fine, Ill take her." I turned and went to the bedroom, pulling a large silver suitcase from the top shelf of the wardrobe.
I opened the wardrobe and began unpacking.
There wasnt much to pack; Ive always kept things simple.
A few sets of business attire, some design drawings, and my computer.
Frederick followed me in, standing in the doorway, arms crossed, sneering:
"Here we go again? Running away from home? Lydia, youre thirty this year, not eighteen. Tricks like this get old fast."
Each word stabbed my heart.
He knew exactly how much I cared about age.
Frederick and I had a seven-year differenceonce a sweet burden he praised as "older women are more caring," now a supposed proof of my unreasonable, immature behavior.
I ignored him, hands moving steadily.
Seeing I didnt reply, Frederick stepped closer, tone softening, tinged with condescending helplessness:
"Alright, stop making a scene. Emily is just staying temporarily. If you keep forcing this, Ill let her leave."
"You know how much I love you."
"Im not making a scene, Im just making space."
I reached for my suitcase.
I couldnt move it.
He was holding on tightly.
"Make room for what?" Frederick frowned, puzzled.
"I already said Emily is only staying temporarily. Why do you have to be so aggressive? Werent you generous before? How come youre worse with age?"
I gave up on the suitcase and looked at him.
"You said it yourselfIm thirty.
A thirty-year-old doesnt like squeezing in with others. Not in space, not in a relationship."
"What do you mean?! Whos squeezing in with you? You know perfectly well youre the only one in my heart!"
Frederick roared,
"You insist on this? Fine! Ill make Emily leave! Ill make you happy!"
He turned abruptly and stormed out.
Before he even reached the door, Emily burst in.
Her hair was a mess, eyes were swollen like walnuts.
"Its all my fault! Its all my fault!" Her voice was shrill, piercing, full of heartbreaking sobs.
"If I hadnt been so desperate to wear this instead of a nice outfit, you wouldnt have argued Its all my fault!"
She screamed, tugging frantically at her pajamas.
The silk was slippery, and with her rough pull, the shoulder strap snapped with a sharp "pop."
The pajamas slid off her shoulders, bunched at her waist, and she yanked them down forcefully, throwing the garment onto the floor.
Frederick froze, his hand outstretched, hanging mid-air.
"Emily! What are you doing!"

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