Chapter 1
"What do you mean 'go all night'? Who are you talking to?"
I had not expected him to turn back and return so soon. I ended the call immediately and placed my phone face down on the table.
"Just a friend," I replied, my tone cold and detached.
He froze for a moment, then let out a short, mocking laugh.
"Just because of this small matter, you go running to complain to your friend?" he scoffed, and I saw pure annoyance flash in his eyes. "If you are not ashamed of behaving like this, I certainly am."
He crossed his arms over his chest and continued coldly, "Those purchase records are all from ages ago. I married you, didn't I?" He looked at me with clear impatience. "What more could you possibly want?" He pulled a fine velvet box from his pocket, opened it, and held it out toward me.
Inside lay a polished stone pendant, carved all over with intricate patterns.
"Didn't you keep asking for something like this before? Well, here it is. Take it, and we will consider this whole issue finished."
He always handled things this way.
I remember last winter, when I had a high fever and called him, begging him to come home and take me to the hospital.
Over the phone, his voice had been slow and distant.
He simply said, "Have my assistant drive you. I am busy making preparations for a ritual with my priest."
The next day, he brought back a rosary, and told me they would ward off illness and bad fortune.
On our first wedding anniversary, I had prepared a full, careful meal and waited late into the night.
He only called to say he was going to stay at a mountain retreat for three days of quiet meditation.
When he returned, he gave me a small golden statue, saying it had been specially blessed by a revered priest and would ensure harmony in our marriage.
He always tried to settle things with gifts. But he had forgotten who I used to be... bold, bright, and full of life, who loved nothing more than a red dress and my dark hair worn loose.
I had only pretended to share his interest in spiritual matters, dressed in plain clothes, and learned to live simply and quietly, because I wanted to be with him.
Now that I intended to end the marriage, I no longer cared about the things that mattered to him.
I handed the pendant back to him.
"Keep it," I said, meeting his eyes calmly. "I want a divorce."
"Lorelai." He stared back at me, his voice hard and sharp. "You have gone too far."
I said it again, clearly and steadily, "I want a divorce."
"You have lost your mind!"
For the first time, I saw genuine anger break across his face.
"I honestly think you have become completely unreasonable," he said, his voice low and tight with rising fury.
"I have tried to calm you down, I have given you gifts, I have tried to make this easy for you. What more do you want? Are you really going to destroy everything we have built, just because of some old purchase records from years ago? Is that what you want?"
I continued to look steadily into his eyes, and repeated every word slowly.
"I want a divorce."
He scoffed, his anger barely contained.
"You will regret this!" With those four words, he turned away again.
This time, the door slammed shut with a crash that shook the whole room.
I did not run after him as I used to.
I did not send messages to apologize.
I did not even shed a single tear.
Instead, I walked over to the full-length mirror and stood still, staring at the reflection.
I wore a plain, pale beige dress made of soft woven fabric, faded from many washes.
My face was bare, without any makeup. My hair was twisted loosely up with a simple wooden pin, and I could even see a few fine lines forming at the corners of my eyes.
I looked so different that I hardly recognized myself.
I had always believed he preferred this quiet, modest style, and that he liked me to be unassuming.
That was until that afternoon, when I found a carefully hidden painting in a corner of his study.
In the painting was a woman with dark hair and bright red lips, wearing a striking red dress... I had often caught him standing before that painting, standing perfectly still and staring at it for long minutes.
I had seen his fingers trace the outline of the woman in the painting when he thought no one was watching.
I had even heard him through the study door once—breathless whispers, muffled groans, all by himself.
Once, before one of our rare nights together, on impulse, I had pulled that old red dress from the back of my closet.
I had styled my hair in loose curls and applied makeup carefully, hoping to surprise him.
When he stepped out of the bathroom and saw me, he froze. But instead of looking pleased or impressed, he erupted in sudden, sharp rage.
"Who told you to dress like that? What kind of look are you trying to pull? Go change immediately!" He practically shouted the words, and the disgust and alarm in his eyes were impossible to miss.
At that moment, I finally understood. It was not that he disliked passion or boldness.
It was simply that the passion and boldness he loved were never meant for me.
Soon after, he said he needed to go to the retreat for deep meditation.
He stayed away for a whole month, never answering my calls, never replying to any message.
In the end, I was the one to give in. I put on my plain clothes again, washed away all my makeup, and went all the way up the mountain to find him.
I apologized humbly, promising I would never dress that way again, and begged him to come home.
He agreed to forgive me, but only reluctantly.
Looking back on it now, I could only think how foolish I had been back then.
