Maybe this time, fate was finally giving me the pen to rewrite my own
story.
That morning, the sky was gray, like it had been dusted over with ash.
I leaned against the window, staring at the streetlamp outside—
the one that had never gone out.
Its cold light fell across the table, illuminating an unread email.
The sender: Solomon.
He had written only two lines:
“We’re missing a creative director for the new Paris exhibition.
If you’re ready, we’re ready for you.”
Five years.
I had almost forgotten that someone, somewhere, was still waiting for my
reply.
Back then, I refused because Lucas had said,
“A married woman shouldn’t be parading herself in public.”
Now, that sentence sounded nothing but ironic.
I was just about to type my reply when my phone rang.
The screen lit up with a name I hadn’t deleted—
Lucas.
I had thought that once the divorce took effect, our connection would
finally end.
But his voice came through the line, as commanding as ever:
“What are you doing out there? I don’t want to see your name appear at
any brand’s launch event.”
A soft laugh escaped my lips.
“Are you reminding me that I still belong to you?”
He paused for several seconds. When he spoke again, his tone had turned
cold.