“Ms. Lancaster, you and your husband have been married for thirty years. You have a son, a daughter, and a darling grandson. With such a picture-perfect family, don’t you feel even a little reluctant?”

The lawyer’s brows drew together slightly, hoping I might reconsider.

Happy? I couldn’t help but curl my lips into a cold smirk. Not long ago, I was in a car accident. The hospital had called Stephen Mortimer and the children repeatedly, but none of them answered. Not even once.

When I finally woke from the coma, I saw that my daughter-in-law had forgotten to block me from her latest Instagram story. That was how I found out: while I had been lying in a hospital bed, they had all been at the Clarendon Court Hotel, throwing a banquet for Stephen’s first love, Eleanor Windsor, celebrating her sculpture’s award.

In the video, my grandson ran across the floor, and children’s laughter echoed in the background. Stephen, with his graying hair, held Eleanor in his arms, smiling with radiant joy.

I sat in a daze the entire afternoon, finally realizing that this self-deceiving marriage should have ended long ago.

“I’ve made up my mind. Please prepare the divorce papers and the equity transfer contract.”

I had decided, on the day of our thirtieth wedding anniversary, that I would give Stephen the biggest gift and also the final one. Congratulations. He no longer needed to sneak around with his first love.

When I returned home from the law office, Stephen was out on the balcony, speaking to his assistant over the phone.

“Yes, the fireworks must be as breathtaking as a starry sky. Only something that beautiful is worthy of Eleanor!”

In thirty years of marriage, Stephen had never once brought me flowers. One year, I hinted that I wanted roses for my birthday, and he merely frowned with impatience.

“Can’t you be a little more frugal, Victoria? Roses? Aren’t there plenty blooming in the garden?”

Back then, I thought he simply lacked a taste for romance. Yet now, he was ready to spend millions on custom fireworks just to craft the perfect evening for Eleanor.

I stood frozen in the living room. Stephen ended his call, stepped inside, and without even sparing me a glance, tossed his suit jacket into my hands and muttered, “Why are you back so late? Haven’t made dinner yet?”

I suddenly realized that after all these decades, I had never been his beloved, only a tireless servant. Suppressing the hollow ache in my chest, I quietly hung up his jacket.

“Stephen, I’m going to prepare your anniversary gift.”

Only then did his scowl ease. He even raised an eyebrow, his mood visibly lifted.

“Then just order takeout. How about that Spanish place? Don’t you like Spanish ham?”

It was Eleanor who liked ham. The mere scent of it made me nauseous. Half a lifetime had passed, and he still knew nothing about me.

Before I could say a word, his phone lit up again. Though he swiftly turned the screen and stepped onto the balcony, I had already seen the name flashing: Eleanor.

Ten minutes later, he came back in a rush.

“Working late tonight. Eat without me.”

I grabbed his arm and handed him a single signature page and a pen.

“Stephen, I’m thinking of getting a new car for the house.”

He clicked his tongue in annoyance and signed without even glancing at the page.

“Such a spendthrift. Fine. Just don’t waste my time with nonsense.”

He tossed the paper back at me and reached for his coat. In his haste, he yanked a scarf off the rack and stepped right on it as he rushed out the door. That scarf was the one I’d spent over a month knitting, my hands raw with cuts, just for our anniversary last year. I picked it up and threw it in the trash as if discarding my own bruised and bloodied heart.

Then, I took off my wedding ring and walked into his room. I entered the combination on Stephen’s safe: Eleanor’s birthday. The door opened immediately.

Inside the box lay an album, carefully preserved, each page a silent witness to the years he spent with her. My husband had taken three fixed business trips every year. But now, I knew the truth: each one was to accompany Eleanor on her travels abroad. From the age of thirty-five to fifty-five, for twenty long years.

My hands trembled as I turned to a photo of them wrapped in an embrace, locked in a kiss under the golden sun of the Gold Coast. She wore a swimsuit, her figure still stunning despite her age, while he, though lined with crow’s feet, still held that broad-shouldered strength and masculine charm. The way they looked at each other wasn’t just affection. It was devotion, captured in a moment like two lovers forever sealed in time.

The earlier photos had already yellowed with age. In them, they were young, recklessly so. The first one was taken beneath an observatory tower, the two of them holding hands just as the first shooting star streaked across the sky. In Stephen’s familiar handwriting beneath it: “I once missed a meteor shower. I hope I never miss the one who loves the stars.”

From black hair to white, they had never missed each other again. I remembered the happiest moment I ever had with Stephen, the day he proposed. Beneath a star-strewn sky, high on the grasslands at three thousand meters, he had slipped a glittering ring onto my finger. His gaze had been deep and earnest, his voice steady as he promised me a lifetime of loyalty.

But in the end, I realized it was never about me. It was because Eleanor loved stars. Those burning vows were never mine to keep. My chest ached, torn open by the weight of that truth. I set the album down, and tears spilled freely, like shattered beads, falling with no end in sight.

I had chased Stephen for three long years before he finally agreed to be with me. Back then, my parents had warned me, told me he didn’t love me, not the way a man should. But I believed that if I gave him all my heart, he would eventually give his in return. But a fruit forced to ripen was never sweet. And after thirty years, I had finally tasted that bitterness in full.

I had watched over his meals, raised our children, helped with the grandchild, always moving, always giving, always exhausted. Once a young, radiant girl, I had become a worn, plump woman. While he and his beloved remained untouched by time, elegant, graceful, glowing still.

Over ten years ago, Stephen had started forgetting our anniversaries, missing my birthdays, and leaving me alone at the hospital with nothing but a cold phone call. Back then, I told myself, if I could count sixty-six disappointments, I’d walk away for good. This was the sixty-sixth.

I placed the wedding ring and the signed divorce agreement into Stephen’s personal safe. Then I picked up the phone and dialed.

“Edmund Dalton, do you still want my shares in Mortimer Group?”