SEVEN YEARS AS HIS WOMAN—THE DAY OUR BREAKUP WENT LIVE, A TYCOON CLAIMED ME

LYDIA’S POV

I don’t know how long I sat on the cold floor of the bathroom stall, but eventually, the sobbing stopped. It didn’t stop because I was comforted; it stopped because I was empty. There was nothing left to squeeze out.

I stood up, my legs shaking, and moved to the sink. I splashed freezing water onto my face, trying to shock the puffiness out of my eyes. I watched the water droplets slide down the mirror, mimicking the tears I was determined to stop shed.

I opened my purse, pulled out a handkerchief, and dabbed my skin dry. I reapplied my lipstick and fixed my makeup until the woman in the glass looked like a polished doll instead of a discarded scrap of humanity.

I checked my phone.

8:30 PM.

I needed to get home to my father’s house, to get ready to leave this life for good.

My gaze shifted to the mirror as I practiced a smile. It was a tight, brittle thing, but it would hold. I pushed open the door and stepped back into the hall.

The atmosphere had shifted.

The music was off, and the guests were huddled in groups, whispering. The room looked disheveled, as if a storm had blown through and in the center of the floor, Lydia was draped over Patrick’s arm, sobbing hysterically.

I kept my head down, my gaze fixed on the exit. I didn't want to be a character in their play anymore or be dragged deeper into it. I just wanted to vanish.

“Stop!”

The screech was like nails on a chalkboard.

I froze.

Lydia untangled herself from Patrick and marched toward me, her face contorted with a fake, tearful rage.

“We’ve been searching for minutes!” she snarled, loud enough for every socialite in the room to hear. “We’ve searched the staff, we’ve searched the tables... and the reason we haven't found it is because you stole it!”

I felt a cold prickle of dread. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t pretend!” she yelled. “My engagement ring! You were so pained that Patrick chose me that you stole it out of spite! You couldn’t handle seeing it on my finger!”

My breath caught, staring at her making those void accusations without batting an eye.

A dry, bitter laugh almost escaped me.

“Why would I want a ring that belongs to you?”

"I just upended my purse in the bathroom and there was no ring in it. The last time I checked, I left as soon as he put it on your finger, how could I have taken it?”

If I hadn't just touched up my makeup, I'd probably be getting sweaty palms.

“You’re lying!” She yelled, her eyes darted to my handbag. “If you didn't take it, let us check your purse.”

My grip tightened on the leather strap.

I knew what this was. I wasn't stupid. This was the final nail in the coffin, the ultimate humiliation to ensure I could never show my face in this city again. They were trying to frame me.

“No,” I said firmly. “I won’t give you the satisfaction.” I snarled and made to get the hell out of there, but before I could move, she snatched the purse from my hand with a violent jerk and upended it.

My compact, my lipstick, and my handkerchief spilled across the marble floor and then…with a sickening clink, a band of gold and diamond rolled across the floor, coming to a rest right at Patrick’s feet.

The silence that followed was deafening.

My heart didn't even race; it felt like it had simply stopped beating.

They had framed me!

In the five minutes I was in the bathroom or in her pretense of looking for something, someone—a waiter, a guest, or Lydia herself—had slipped that ring into my bag.

Slap!

Lydia’s hand struck my other cheek, the one Patrick hadn't already bruised. “How dare you!” she screamed. “I thought you had at least a shred of dignity left, but you’re just a common thief!”

I just stared at the ring, my mind going blank.

Patrick picked up the ring, his face a mask of cold disappointment. He walked up to me, and for a second, a spark of the old Lydia tried to fight.

I grabbed the lapels of his suit, my voice trembling. “Patrick, you have to believe me. I didn't take it. I just checked my purse for my lipstick and it wasn't there. They're lying!”

Patrick gaze moved to mine, he looked at my hands as if they were filth and without a second thought he peeled my fingers off his suit and shoved me back.

“I didn't expect this from you, Lydia. You’ve embarrassed every memory we ever had. Apologize to her. Now!”

The last flickering light of hope in my soul went out staring at the anger radiating through him.

He didn't trust me.

Seven years of knowing my character, and he chose a lie concocted in a year.

“I will not apologize for something I didn't do,” I said, my voice sounding hollow and distant, as if someone else were speaking.

“You know how much I hate being disobeyed!” Patrick yelled, his face darkening.

“Guards! Hold her down!”

Strong hands grabbed my shoulders, forcing me onto my knees. I struggled, the jagged glass cut on my ankle screaming in pain as it pressed against the floor.

Slowly, Patrick bent in front of me, lifting my chin so I had to look into his icy eyes.

“Apologize,” he whispered.

“No.”

“Okay.” He leaned back, a cruel smile touching his lips. “Your father is already facing bankruptcy. I think I’ll call my assistant and tell him to speed up the process. I’ll make sure your family doesn't have a cent to their name by midnight.”

“No!” The scream tore from my throat.

My sister.

If my father lost everything, he would destroy her. “I’ll... I’ll apologize.”

He looked at me with a terrifying calm.

“You should have been obedient sooner. Now I’m angry.” He snarled, stepping backwards.

"You won't just say sorry anymore, you will kowtow to my fiancée and chant: 'I am just a worthless slut who is jealous of you'... five times.”

I stared at him tears.

This was the man I had loved.

This was the man I had given my youth to.

I felt the hot sting of tears, but as I looked at the smug, glittering face of the new Lydia, something inside me simply... broke.

The pain was so intense that it reached a peak and then went numb.

I leaned forward and pressed my forehead to the cold, hard marble.

“I am just a worthless slut who is jealous of you,” I whispered.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

When I finished the fifth, the guards' grip loosened.

I stood up slowly. I didn't brush the dust off my dress. I didn't look at the crowd. I didn't feel the shame they wanted me to feel.

I felt nothing.

I was dead inside, and there was a strange, terrifying peace in that.

I stumbled out of the hall into the cool night air and hailed a taxi. As I was about to step inside, a hand clamped onto my arm.

I turned…It was Patrick.

I looked at his hand, then at his face. I reached down and slowly, finger by finger, removed his hand from my skin.

“You look so pathetic right now,” he muttered, though there was a strange tension in his voice. “If you had just obeyed, it wouldn't have gone this far.”

"I’ve told someone to drive you home. Tell the cab to leave.”

“No need,” I said. My voice wasn't angry. It wasn't sad. It was bland. It was the voice of a woman speaking to a stranger she would never see again.

I turned to the taxi, but he grabbed me again. “Don’t be so dramatic! If you keep this up, I’ll really get angry and when you come back begging for me to take you back into my arms, I won’t let you.”

I paused.

A small, genuine chuckle escaped my lips. It was the first real thing I had felt all night.

“You can be well assured, Mr. Moore,” I whispered, “that will never happen.” I pulled my hand away for the last time and slid into the taxi.

As the car pulled away, making him shrink.inti the distance, a small smile grazed my lips.

The ache in my chest was gone. The weight that had crushed me for seven years had evaporated.

Patrick Moore, I finally don't love you anymore.