Chapter 3: Our Last Goodbye

Marcus stood at the entryway, dragging a suitcase. He smelled faintly of expensive cologne and airport coffee, the kind of scent that lingered long after the door shut.

He looked like he’d just stepped out of a GQ shoot—soft tee, worn-in jeans, that dumb matching bracelet we bought at the street fair still clinging to his wrist.

Even after all this time, he looked like he belonged on a magazine cover—movie star jawline, tousled hair, the kind of guy who makes strangers double-take in airports. The bracelet was still there. I remember picking it out together at a street fair, back when we thought matching meant forever.

Through the dim light, we looked at each other from a distance. No words.

The TV was playing a behind-the-scenes clip of him and Lily Grant.

Lily is cheerful and loves to laugh, her voice sweet. She likes to call Marcus “senior.”

When the conversation gets lively, she leans her head and body toward him, like a girl in love.

Marcus doesn’t avoid it. He watches her acting up and laughing, helpless but indulgent. He even protects her so she won’t fall.

He fell in love with a very beautiful girl. Even though, at that time, I was asking him whether we should get a marriage license.

It’s a bit awkward now.

The awkwardness thickened the air, like a cloud that wouldn’t move. I wanted to melt into the hardwood floor, vanish behind a pile of junk mail.

I knew not turning off the TV and wasting electricity would come back to bite me. See, karma comes fast.

I rarely felt embarrassed, so I smiled and lied, “The TV just turned itself on.”

I tried to sound casual, but my voice cracked in the quiet. There was nowhere to hide, not even behind a bad joke.

Before, when I acted like a jealous ex and hunted for evidence of his thing with Lily, these behind-the-scenes clips became my proof against him.

Back then, Marcus was extremely impatient with me. He wouldn’t explain or pay me any attention. Every call, every FaceTime I made, was answered by his manager.

Afterward, I would receive all kinds of indirect hints. Nothing more than: I wasn’t worthy of Marcus anymore.

If I was smart, I could take a large sum of money and leave.

At twenty-five, I was too young, and I insisted on fighting for my sincerity.

So, I forced Marcus to marry me. If he didn’t, I threatened to ruin his career.

He probably hated me to death, but couldn’t get rid of me. So he married me, unwillingly.

That marriage license, I showed it off on Instagram. Like a trophy.

But I never expected it would later become another knife in my heart.

Marcus would rather stay in a hotel than come home.

This house became the punishment for my sincerity. Every room was filled with reminders of him—his favorite coffee mug, the jacket he always left on the banister, the half-read books on the nightstand. It was like living in a museum where the only exhibit was regret.

Fortunately, it’s not too late. I silently thought: It’s time to let go. Let them have their happy ending.

I don’t know if Marcus believed me. He just nodded lightly. Then he closed the door and came in.

For years, there had only been me at home. His slippers were already covered in dust. Marcus paused when picking them up, then went to get a pair of disposable ones. He unwrapped them, put them on, and stood up straight again.

He looked at me. I was still standing in the same spot. A bit at a loss.

Because when guests come to your home, the host should entertain them. But this house was bought by him—he should be the host.

As for me, the guest, there’s no reason for me to leave without a word.

So, after thinking it over, I said tentatively, “I’m going to sleep.”

I paused, then gave a dry laugh: “Do your own thing, don’t mind me.”

Marcus and I are childhood sweethearts. Both our families know each other.

I’m a bit socially anxious, and every time I talk to someone I’m not close with, I always politely say, “Do your own thing, don’t mind me.”

This is the first time I’ve ever used that line on Marcus.

He probably remembered my habit too. He pressed his lips together, then nodded.

The heart I’d been holding up finally settled down. I breathed a sigh of relief and immediately turned to leave.

But just as I turned, he called me back: “Aunt Lisa said you agreed to the divorce?”

His voice was gentle now, no longer cold and impatient. So he came back for this.

I can’t say how I felt inside.

I turned back, pretending not to care, nodded hard, and smiled: “Mm, I thought about it—money is better.”

“Aunt Lisa said I could get quite a lot.”

Aunt Lisa is his manager. Also Lily’s manager. She was the top manager that Marcus specifically asked to take on because he didn’t feel at ease about Lily. When he loves someone, he really goes all out—gentle and considerate.

Marcus’s face was hidden in the shadows; I couldn’t see it clearly. The behind-the-scenes clips were still playing on TV. Lily’s voice filled the air, constantly reminding me of her presence.

My eyes felt uncomfortable. So I quickly ran to the study, rubbed my sleepy eyes, and came back. Holding the stack of divorce papers in my hand.

The money offered was generous—enough for me to live worry-free for several lifetimes.

I didn’t go near Marcus, but placed the agreement on the spotless dining table. “I’ve already signed. Once the cooling-off period is over, we’ll go get the certificate.” I smiled.

Marcus didn’t reply. I thought he didn’t believe me.

So I reassured him: “Don’t worry. I’ll definitely go. I won’t go back on my word.”

I tried to inject some lightness, but my throat was thick with unsaid things. The table between us might as well have been an ocean.

After saying that, I didn’t look at Marcus again and turned back to the bedroom.

We slept in separate rooms. Marcus gave me the master bedroom. I guess he wanted to keep himself pure for Lily.

The master bedroom is huge. Lying on the bed, I suddenly couldn’t sleep. After a while, I got up and started packing.

Mostly clothes—three suitcases were enough. Three suitcases. That was it. My twenties, all zipped up and ready to go. I thought I’d need a moving truck for all the memories, but they fit with room to spare.

After packing, I sat on the cold floor and suddenly realized that my youth only filled three suitcases. I thought it would be heavier. I overestimated it.

Maybe that drama was just too moving. My tears fell again.

I don’t like crying anymore. So I tried hard to curve my lips, crying and laughing at the same time.

Suppressed sobs echoed in the bedroom. A laugh slipped out, sharp and ugly, tangled up with a tear I pretended not to notice.

I really wanted to go to the bathroom and cry my heart out. But I was afraid of disturbing Marcus next door.

Just then, someone gently knocked on the door. I glanced at my phone. It was already 5 a.m.

“Coming!” I called out loudly. Then quickly got up, wiped my tears carelessly, straightened my clothes. Then went to open the door.

The cold bedroom light instantly pierced the dark hallway. Marcus is a head taller than me. He looked down at me, his eyes unreadable. I knew my eyes were red.

I tried to shrug it off. "Just a show. You know, the sappy kind. Got me in the feels, I guess."

“What is it?”

A slender hand suddenly lifted, then stopped in midair. As if its owner didn’t realize what he was doing. When Marcus noticed, he let it drop back down.

I pretended not to notice, and asked again: “What is it?”

Marcus moved his lips, and after a while he lowered his eyes and said softly: “Aunt Lisa wants us to go on the ‘Let’s Divorce, Darling’ show.”

“Let the audience know in advance.”

I know that show. Celebrities who want to divorce first submit a divorce agreement, then there’s a cooling-off period. After the show, if they still want to split, they can get the certificate right away.

Some stars used it to make a comeback and made a lot of money. But Marcus doesn’t need a comeback. He’s already popular enough, with countless girls calling him their guy.

He wants to go on the show just to keep me from saying anything after the divorce. An amicable divorce is very important for a popular actor.

I could feel my pulse in my ears. This wasn’t about TV or Instagram. This was about leaving clean, with no stains for the world to gawk at.

I understand their concerns. But I’m not interested in going on the show.

After thinking, I said: “Can I just post something on Instagram?”

“Amicable divorce—I won’t mention Lily.”

I suggested seriously, my tone calm. My Instagram has long been overrun by fans; I get thousands of hate comments every day.

It’s pretty popular. I guess once I post the divorce news, I’ll finally be free.

Thinking of this, I smiled.

Marcus stared straight at my face, as if searching for something. Gradually, the hand hanging by his side trembled slightly.

Maybe he felt it wasn’t safe enough. I frowned and added: “Then you guys draft the post. I’ll post it exactly as you write it, okay?”

I’ve backed up as far as I can—this is my bottom line. If that’s not enough, I have no other way.

Marcus stood in the darkness, the cold white light shining on his face, illuminating his somewhat dazed eyes.

Suddenly, a phone ringtone rang sharply. It was Marcus’s phone. He was holding it—he must have come to talk about the show right after getting Aunt Lisa’s call.

At this moment, the screen flashed the name “Lily.”

Marcus seemed startled, immediately hung up, and looked up at me.

I smiled, took a step back, and said: “Go ahead and answer.”

“She’ll worry if she can’t reach you.”

The person in front of me gave me millions. So it’s not a loss or a debt, right? After all, sincerity is the cheapest thing.

The ringtone kept ringing, as if it wouldn’t stop until he picked up. Marcus frowned, seeming a bit hesitant.

I thoughtfully said: “Just have Aunt Lisa send me the post. I’ll go to sleep first.”

Without waiting for his response, I quickly closed the door. The darkness in the hallway was instantly shut out.

I sat on the floor against the door, hugging my knees in a daze. The curtains weren’t drawn. I looked up at the sky outside, watching the dawn slowly spread across the horizon.

It was that odd liminal hour, the world between night and day, when everything feels fragile and raw. I wondered if the birds would start chirping soon, if a new day could really erase what happened in the dark.

The person outside, softly answering the phone, had already left.

When all the streetlights went out, I stood up. My legs were numb; I almost fell to the ground.

Luckily, I grabbed the cabinet against the wall and avoided a nasty fall. But the photo frame on the cabinet crashed to the floor with a bang. Shattered to pieces.

I looked down at the frame. The two seventeen-year-olds inside, now covered in glass shards, were still smiling brightly. That smile was too dazzling—like a sudden blow to the head. I felt awful, my heart started to ache.

The noise was too loud. I heard hurried footsteps outside the door.

“Rachel, what’s wrong?”

Rachel…

When did Marcus start calling me by my full name? It seems it was the day I forced him to get married. He looked at me coldly, as if looking at an enemy.

Words can cut, and so can a look. It must have been at that moment that I killed my Marcus Langley with words. And Marcus killed the Rachel who was full of him with his gaze.

The ending is too cruel, making the memories bleed.

Expressionless, I squatted down, ignoring the pain, and pulled out the photo. A sharp sting bloomed on my fingertip—blood welled up, bright and stubborn. I sucked in a breath, but the ache in my chest was worse.

I tore the photo to pieces. Then threw it into the trash can.

I replied to Marcus in a hoarse voice: “Nothing.”

“I just accidentally knocked something over.”

After half a second, I politely added: “I’ll clean it up.”

It was quiet outside for a moment. Marcus seemed to be affected by me; his tone was also a bit hoarse.

He asked: “Did you get hurt?”

I casually wiped the wound and answered, “Mm.”

He said again through the door: “No need to clean up, let the housekeeper handle it.”

I didn’t reply. I grabbed a towel, bit by bit wrapped up the shards, and threw them all in the trash.

When everything was cleaned up, I opened the door. Marcus was still there. I looked at him, puzzled.

His gaze passed over my shoulder and landed on the three suitcases. His face was a bit pale. Probably from staying up all night.

When he talks to someone he likes on the phone, it usually lasts a long time. Even if the other person falls asleep, he can’t bear to hang up.

“You’re leaving?” he asked me.

I looked at him in surprise and explained: “I’m not taking the house, just the cash.”

“I’ve already called the courier to pick up my things; he’ll be here soon.”

As the first rays of sunlight crept in, I wondered if the world would even notice I was gone—or if I’d just fade, one Instagram post at a time.

As soon as I finished speaking, the phone in Marcus’s hand slipped to the floor. He scrambled to pick it up, staggering, almost falling.

I instinctively took a step back. Afraid he’d fall on me.

Marcus froze. His phone clattered to the floor, echoing in the silence between us. For a second, it felt like the world was waiting—for him to say something, for me to change my mind, for anything but goodbye.