Faded love, I don't want it anymore

“Auntie, I need to resign a month early. There’s still work to hand over, but you can arrange the rest however you see fit. I’m fine with it—sorry for the trouble.”

“Oh, you child, why so polite?”

My aunt laughed lightly on the other end of the phone, her voice cheerful, betraying no hint of concern.

The moment I hung up, I sat at my desk in silence for three seconds.

The resignation form on the table was stained with coffee, leaving a faint brown ring.

I traced that ring with my fingertip. Somehow, it looked like an old ring rusted into the skin—neither removable nor wearable.

The computer screen was still glowing when a news alert popped up:

“Z Corporation’s Executive CEO Rory attends charity gala with two children—‘Perfect Father,’ warm and devoted.”

He was in a black suit, holding a child in each arm.

His smile was gentle—his most practiced expression.

My fingers curled inch by inch as I stared at the photo.

Those two children weren’t mine.

My child had died on the operating table.

Even now, I can still hear the doctor’s urgent voice echoing in my head:

“Severe hemorrhage! We need to terminate the pregnancy immediately!”

I had shaken my head with every last ounce of strength, my throat raw:

“No…”

Then came a deep, steady voice from outside the door:

“Sign it.”

It was his voice—calm, precise, and clear as a blade.

I thought it was the doctor asking for consent.

I didn’t realize it was him signing his name in the “family authorization” column.

The baby was gone.

When he entered the ward, the first thing he said wasn’t a word of comfort, but:

“Be more careful next time.”

And then:

“This wasn’t an accident—it was the rational choice.”

From that moment, I understood—reason was his only faith.

And I was merely the believer he sacrificed to prove it.

Three years have passed, and I still hear the buzz of that surgical lamp in my dreams.

It shone so bright, yet gave no warmth.

I closed my laptop and went to the kitchen to make coffee.

The hiss of steam filled the air. I took a sip—it was bitter enough to burn.

I looked at my reflection in the glass and smiled faintly.

“Wendy, you’ve finally learned to be rational.”

The wedding photo on the wall was spotless, polished until it gleamed.

In it, I was smiling softly, my eyes still holding the innocence of that year.

He stood beside me, elegant, his hand resting naturally on my shoulder.

When the photographer said, “A little closer,” he frowned slightly and replied,

“Can we hurry? I have a meeting this afternoon.”

I nodded and smiled.

That smile was captured forever—the image of “happiness” everyone believed in.

Back in the study, I pulled out a folder from the drawer:

Property transfer papers.

Insurance.

Trust documents.

Everything neatly arranged.

My life—just the way he liked it: orderly, quiet, obedient.

My phone buzzed. It was Yuanzi.

“Wendy, are you sure about this?”

Her voice trembled. “Faking your death? Are you insane?”

“I’m not insane,” I said softly. “I’m finally awake.”

“But if he finds out—”

“Then I’ll die a second time.”

I smiled. “I’ve already died once, remember?”

There was a long silence before she sighed.

“All right. I’ll set it up. The flight, the crash simulation—everything.

But you’re sure? You won’t tell him?”

I paused for a moment, my voice almost a whisper.

“He doesn’t need to know.

To him, whether I’m dead or alive—it makes no difference.”

Night had fallen.

I opened my laptop and began to write a letter.

When it was done, I folded it neatly, slipped it into an envelope, and placed it beneath my resignation form.

Then I took off my wedding ring and set it on top.

The metal was cold, its reflected light sharp enough to make me squint.

The living room lights were a sterile white.

I carried my coffee out. Rory was sitting on the sofa, long fingers turning through a stack of documents.

It was his nightly ritual—work, plans, schedules, directives. Perfect. Predictable. Unfaltering.

Without looking up, he asked evenly, “Did the application get approved?”

“Mm.”

“Resignation?” His tone didn’t change. “What for?”

“Rest.”

He paused for a moment, then curved his lips into that humorless almostsmile.

“You’re not suited for rest. When people have too much time, they tend to overthink.”

He’d said those exact words once before—

the night I lost our child.

When I came home from the hospital, he was, as usual, in his study reviewing papers.

I had stood in the doorway, trembling, my clothes still carrying the metallic tang of blood and disinfectant.

He looked up briefly and said,

“Wendy, don’t overthink. Be rational.”

Rational.

His favorite word.

I looked at his manicured nails, at the wedding band trimmed with a faint gold edge, and suddenly felt a hollow, lucid kind of grief.

He never belonged to love.

He belonged to order.

“What’s for dinner?” he asked.

“Whatever you like.”

He nodded, satisfied—as if speaking to a competent assistant.

“The charity gala tomorrow—don’t forget to prepare your outfit.”

“Okay.”

“Sybil will be there too.”

My fingers froze.

He went on casually, “She’s just returned. There’s a joint project with her foundation. The media will be there—don’t embarrass yourself.”

I lifted my gaze to that forever calm, composed face.

“She’s back?”

“Mm. I met her this afternoon.”

He added, almost as an afterthought, “She looks gentler than before.”

I smiled.

And in that instant, I understood exactly how cold his rationality was.

He could lay open an old wound at the dinner table and call it business.

After dinner, I cleared the dishes as usual.

He stood on the balcony, phone pressed to his ear, his voice low and smooth:

“Sybil, I’ve adjusted the seating for tomorrow. You’ll be beside me.”

A glass slipped from my hand and shattered across the floor.

“What happened?” he asked, turning slightly.

“Nothing.”

I knelt to pick up the shards.

A sliver cut my fingertip—blood welled and dripped, bright against the white tile.

He frowned, fetched the firstaid kit from the cabinet, and said in that same flat tone,

“You’re always like this.”

He dressed the wound deftly.

“Next time, don’t lose focus,” he added, as if reprimanding an employee.

The smell of antiseptic burned my nose, and I suddenly laughed.

He looked up. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing.”

I shook my head.

It just struck me—this life of mine felt more like death than death itself.

Night deepened.

After his shower, he came out with a towel hanging loosely at his waist.

I pretended to be asleep.

He lifted the blanket and lay down beside me, his skin carrying that faint, cool scent of soap and fatigue.

He wrapped an arm around my waist out of habit—his touch as cold as the aftertaste of a drink at a business dinner.

“Wendy,” he murmured near my ear, “don’t quit your job on a whim again.”

“Okay.”

“Be rational.”

He closed his eyes.

I stared at the ceiling and quietly counted my breaths—

one, two, three—

until he fell asleep.

And in that moment, I knew.

I was leaving.

Not because I hated him.

But because I finally refused to keep living as his version of rational.

The morning light was a cold white.

When I woke, the bed beside me was already empty.

Before leaving, Rory had—like every morning—left behind his three daily sentences:

“Breakfast is on the table. Don’t be late. Be rational.”

Be rational.

He loved those three words more than he had ever loved me.

I sat at the table for a long time, slowly finishing the glass of milk that had already gone cold.

Outside, I heard the car door close, and his silver Bentley eased down the driveway.

Silence swallowed the house, thick and eerie.

And in that moment, I felt—strangely—free.

I went back to the study, intending to tidy up the documents he’d left out from the night before.

Among the neatly stacked folders, there was one that was thicker than the rest, marked with his personal seal.

I opened it without much thought—

and froze.

“Authorization for Termination of Pregnancy.”

My hands began to tremble.

The handwriting was unmistakably his—firm, precise, confident.

Family signature: Rory.

My breath caught. I could almost hear again the buzz of the surgical lamp from that day—

the doctor’s urgent voice,

the nurse’s hands pressing down on my shoulders,

and that low, steady voice from outside the door:

“Sign it.”

It hit me all at once.

From beginning to end,

what he signed that day wasn’t consent to save my life—

it was consent to let our child die.

I didn’t even know how I ended up sitting down.

The paper gleamed pale under the sunlight, almost translucent.

And in that light, my entire world collapsed.

The doorbell rang.

I rose slowly and went to open it.

The woman standing outside wore a beige trench coat, her long hair falling smoothly over her shoulders.

She smiled—gentle, graceful, polished.

“Mrs. Gu,” she said softly. “It’s me—Sybil.”

For a second, I just stared.

She reached out her hand, her smile unwavering.

“Rory asked me to bring over some contracts. He’s been busy, so he asked me to deliver them.”

I stepped aside to let her in.

Her heels clicked softly on the floor; her perfume was faint but deliberate.

Her gaze drifted over the desk—

and stopped on the document.

“You’ve read it?” she asked, still smiling.

Then, almost tenderly: “That day… I was the one who brought it to the doctor.”

I looked up. “What?”

She tilted her head slightly, voice light as if recounting someone else’s tragedy.

“You were bleeding badly. The doctor said they needed the family’s signature. Rory hesitated for a long time outside, so I took him the form.”

Her tone didn’t waver.

“He didn’t even read it. Just signed.

He said, ‘She’s rational. She’ll understand.’”

The air seemed to thin, the sound drained from the room.

I stayed upright only through sheer willpower.

Sybil smiled faintly, her voice soft as silk:

“Don’t blame him. He didn’t want you to suffer. That child… was never meant to stay.”

I laughed.

The sound surprised even me.

“So,” I asked quietly, “did you come here to comfort me—or to prove you understand him better than I ever did?”

She paused, then sighed gently.

Leaning closer, her whisper brushed my ear:

“I just wanted you to know—

that signature wasn’t only what saved your life.

It was the first act of his rationality.”

The sound of a key turning came from the door.

Rory was back.

He saw Sybil, frowned slightly, but not in surprise.

“The contracts—did you bring them?”

“Yes. I just dropped them off.”

She gathered her purse, her composure flawless, and turned to me with a pleasant smile.

“Mrs. Gu, take care of yourself.”

When the door closed behind her, the house fell silent again.

Only the two of us remained.

He took off his coat, his expression unchanged, as if nothing had happened.

“She was helping me deliver some files,” he said.

And just like that, the world continued—

as if the truth lying open on my desk meant nothing at all.

“My voice was calm. ‘I know.’”

“You read the authorization form, didn’t you?”

He turned to me, his gaze terrifyingly composed.

“Your condition was critical. The doctor said waiting any longer meant losing both lives.

I signed it to save you.”

I looked at him and smiled faintly.

“Then why was I conscious?”

He paused for a beat, lowering his voice. “I happened to be at the hospital that day—for a charity project—and…”

“You don’t have to explain.” I cut him off.

I picked up the document from the table and placed it gently in his palm.

“This,” I said softly, “is your rationality.

And I no longer need to be rational.”

He frowned. “Wendy, are you being emotional again?”

I met his eyes, my tone as calm as falling snow.

“No. I just understand now—what you call love has never been warmth.

It’s control. It’s choice. It’s a signature.”

For the first time, a crack appeared in his expression.

“Stop.”

“Okay,” I said quietly.

I turned toward the bedroom, each step steady, precise, like walking across ice.

The door closed softly behind me.

I leaned against it, eyes shut.

No tears fell.

But somewhere inside me, something caved in—silently.

That night, I understood completely.

Some people don’t need a divorce to end you.

All they have to do is sign their name—and you die once.

The rain fell all night.

As if fate itself had torn open a seam in the sky,

letting every drop of suppressed pain fall through it,

one by one.

I sat at my desk, the document spread before me.

Under the lamp, his signature gleamed faintly cold—

“Family Signature: Rory.”

And I finally understood why that surgical light had been so blinding.

It wasn’t to save me.

It was to make sure I saw clearly who destroyed my child.

A car pulled up outside.

Before I could hide the papers, the door opened.

He was back.

His black suit was wet from the rain.

Loosening his tie, he asked evenly, “Still awake?”

I looked up, my face serene. “Waiting for you.”

He stepped closer, his gaze brushing over the desk.

“What are you reading?”

“Files for the charity gala,” I said lightly.

“Sybil told me you haven’t been doing well lately,” he said, removing his coat and brushing off the raindrops.

“She asked me not to let you overwork. She’s taking over a new project for me—very capable.”

I smiled faintly.

“Yes. I know you well.”

He didn’t hear the edge beneath my words.

He only murmured an indifferent “Mm,” then, as always, sat across from me, opened his laptop, and began typing.

The house fell quiet—

the only sound the rhythm of his fingers on the keyboard.

That kind of silence… was the one I knew best.

And the most despairing of all.

“Rory,” I said suddenly.

He didn’t look up. “Hm?”

“That day… when you signed the paper at the hospital—did you hesitate?”

His fingers stopped.

After a pause, he replied evenly,

“The doctor advised it. Continuing would have led to only one outcome.”

“One outcome?”

“You dying.”

When he said those two words, his tone was as cold as a meeting summary.

I stared at him—and then, unexpectedly, laughed.

He frowned. “What’s funny?”

“Nothing. I just suddenly realized—when you say rational,

you sound more like a doctor than the doctor himself.”

He didn’t respond.

He simply stood, picked up the document, and said quietly,

“Go to bed early.”

“Alright.”

He turned away.

He didn’t see it—

the moment my eyes went completely cold.

The door closed, and the air seemed to collapse inward.

I leaned back in the chair, my chest tightening with each breath.

My phone lit up on the desk—a new message from Sybil.

“Mrs. Wendy, sorry to bother you.

Rory is here at my place tonight to work on the project files.

Just wanted to let you know so you wouldn’t worry :)”

I stared at the smiling emoji, then almost laughed.

So this was their idea of rationality—

he delivered her files,

she delivered me peace of mind.

How thoughtful.

I typed two words back: “Thank you.”

Then I turned off my phone.

Lightning flashed outside the window.

In the mirror, my face looked pale—my eyes sharp enough to shatter.

And in that instant, I knew—I no longer belonged to this house.

I stood and opened the drawer, taking out my passport.

Its cover was worn soft from years of use.

A photo was tucked into the corner.

It was from our wedding day.

He was smiling, gentle, perfect.

I was smiling too—foolishly, blindly.

My fingers brushed across that frozen grin.

“Thank you,” I whispered. “For teaching me how to destroy trust.”

At one in the morning, Una arrived at my apartment.

The moment she stepped inside, her eyes turned red.

“Wendy, are you sure about this?

This isn’t just leaving—it’s disappearing.”

I nodded.

“Rory will never agree to a divorce.

As long as I’m alive, he’ll keep me locked here—rationally.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “I’ve already arranged everything.

The pilot’s in place. The mock crash goes public tomorrow night.

The media’s been notified.

Once you’re on that plane—you’ll be dead to the world.”

I looked out at the night, my voice steady.

“He took away my right to be a mother.

I’ll let him taste what it’s like to lose a wife.”

Una choked out, “Aren’t you scared?”

“I am.” I smiled faintly. “But I’m more afraid of living forever inside his cage of reason.”

The wind swept in, scattering papers across the desk.

The letter I’d written fell to the floor.

Una bent to pick it up—and froze when she read the first line.

“Rory, you signed my death once.

This time, I’ll sign it myself.”

Her voice trembled. “You’re ruthless.”

I smiled, quiet and cold. “He taught me.”

The night deepened.

I sat at the edge of the bed, staring at my wedding ring.

Moonlight filtered through the curtains, making the metal gleam too bright to look at.

Slowly, I took it off and slipped it into the envelope.

My fingers lingered on the cold gold as I murmured,

“Wendy, this is where it ends.”

Outside, the night thickened like ink.

City lights fractured against the rain.

At one a.m., a storm warning echoed across the sky.

Wendy—dressed in a dark gray coat—stood before the window.

Lightning flashed, her reflection flickering back at her:

a face both familiar and foreign,

eyes glacial, unrecognizable.

On the table lay the finished letter.

The ring rested on it—small, silent, and blinding.

I lifted the envelope flap one last time,

and added a final line at the bottom:

“If you ask me whether I regret it I regret not dying sooner.”

Half an hour later, I slid into Una’s car.

The headlights cut through the fog and rain, stretching long shadows over the road.

Her hands trembled on the wheel.

Her voice was hoarse. “Wendy… is this really worth it?”

I fastened my seatbelt, my tone even and calm.

“For three years, I’ve lived in his world.

Now—it’s time to live in mine.”

Una bit her lip. “If he ever finds out the truth… he’ll lose his mind.”

“That’s good.”
My voice was calm. “Madness is closer to being human than reason ever was.”

The private runway was slick with rain, the storm lashing sideways like knives across our faces.
Crew members hurried through the downpour, checking the instruments one last time.

Una handed me my passport and a slim folder. Her voice trembled.
“Everything’s ready. The flight departs at 1:30 a.m. sharp.
The crash signal will transmit forty minutes later.”

“The radar will log a false reading.
The coordinates are locked on the East Sea.
The wreckage will be handled by the technical team.
And I’ve arranged an ‘exclusive witness’ for the press.”

I listened quietly, my expression as still and cold as ice.
“Once the report is released, everyone will believe you’re dead,” she said, choking back tears.
“So will he.”

“That’s enough.”

At 1:30 a.m., the plane tore through the storm and vanished into the sky.
Rain hammered against the windows; wind howled like a wounded thing.
I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes.

For the last time, I thought of him—
the calm, handsome, impeccably gentle man
who had once signed my termination of pregnancy with a perfect stroke of his pen,
cutting clean through every bond that had tied us together.

“Goodbye, Rory,” I whispered.

Lightning split the heavens.
The plane disappeared into the clouds.

Meanwhile, on the top floor of Z Corporation headquarters,
the conference room lights had burned all night.

Rory was on a video call with the board.
Outside, rain lashed the glass.

His assistant burst in, pale and shaking.
“Mr. Zhou—the private jet’s signal… it’s gone.”

The pen slipped from his hand. Ink bled across the paper.
“What?”

“The jet Mrs. Gu boarded—
it lost radar contact twenty minutes after takeoff.
No communication from the crew since.”

He froze, his pupils contracting sharply.
Even his breathing stopped.

“Coordinates.”

“Over the East Sea. In the storm zone.”

He grabbed his coat and bolted from the room.

“Sir! The weather’s too dangerous—please!”
The assistant’s voice chased him down the hall.

“I’m afraid of the cold,” Rory said without looking back.

Two hours later, the rescue team reached the sea.
The wind roared; waves towered two meters high.
Debris bobbed beneath the floodlights.

“Wing fragment found!”
“There’s luggage on the surface!”

A mangled piece of metal was pulled from the water.
Three letters were etched into it—W.

Rory stood motionless, rain streaming down his face.
He stepped forward and touched the fragment.
It was ice cold.

“Keep searching!” His voice broke.
“She’s not dead!”

The sea wind shredded his words to pieces.
He shoved rescuers aside and waded deeper into the surf.
The water climbed past his knees, his waist.

“She’s not dead…” he muttered,
half delirious.

His assistant tried to grab him, but Rory threw him off.
“Go! Keep searching! She’s afraid of water, afraid of the dark—
she’s waiting for me!”

No one dared stop him again.

He stood there all night,
through the storm, through the rising tide, until dawn.

By morning, the rain had stopped.
His coat was soaked through.
The first light of day touched his face as he sank to his knees on the shore.

“Wendy…”
His voice was hoarse, broken.
“Come back.”

At that same moment, along a fogcovered border road,
a black SUV moved quietly through the gray dawn.

Una sat in the passenger seat, glancing back.
In the rear seat, a woman wore dark sunglasses, her hair cropped short, her face calm.

“Wendy,” Una said softly, “the news is out.”

I handed her my phone.
On the screen, the headline scrolled across in bold letters:

“Z Corporation CEO’s Wife Presumed Dead in Private Jet Crash — Wreckage Found in East Sea.”