I Don't Love You Anymore

Right after the London Fashion Week, my husband unprecedentedly gave me a vacation, arranging a ten-day trip to New York.

I thought he finally learned to be considerate, until I overheard his conversation with our son.

"Dad, if you are marrying Aunt Barbara, what about Mom?" our son asked innocently.

"It's merely a ceremonial engagement," my husband chuckled. "Be a good boy, Oliver. Keep this a secret from Mom, and I'll buy you that limited-edition model airplane."

My mind went blank. I stood frozen for a long while before stepping out onto the terrace to catch the chilling wind.

If he wants to rewrite his past with his first love.

Then I will reclaim the design dream I threw away for him.

Once I leave for New York, I am never coming back.

The moment I entered the hallway again, I ran straight into Louis.

He was standing in front of the gilded mirror, adjusting his cufflinks.

He was wearing a bespoke three-piece suit in deep burgundy.

Louis had always despised burgundy. For years, he sneered at the shade, calling it loud, tacky, and utterly un-British. Yet here he was, dressed in it from head to toe, right down to the silk pocket square.

"Vivian?" He jumped slightly, his hands dropping from his collar. A flicker of panic flashed across his face before he plastered on his signature polished smile. "You're still awake? I thought you were upstairs packing for New York."

Staring at his flashy burgundy suit, I frowned. "I thought you despised burgundy."

"People change, Vivian. It's the color of the season," he said quickly, smoothing his lapels. "Plus, I’m helping my friend try on his wedding tuxedos tonight. Figured I should wear something a bit more festive."

He fired off the excuses rapid-fire, barely taking a breath.

But then it hit me. Burgundy was Barbara’s absolute favorite color.

In fact, ever since she moved back to London, Louis’s closet had mysteriously sprouted several burgundy coats, silk scarves, and even pocket squares.

Barbara Moreau. The French former paddock girl. The white moonlight he’d been obsessed with since he was nineteen.

So the signs had been there all along. I just hadn't been looking.

"You look exhausted from the after-party meetings. Why don’t I drive you?" I said, stepping forward. I casually jingled the car keys in my pocket.

Louis’s face instantly stiffened. "No!"

The refusal came out too fast, too sharp.

Realizing his slip, he quickly cleared his throat and forced a gentle smile, reaching out to pat my shoulder. "I mean... there's no need, darling. You’ve worked day and night for the spring show. You need your rest. I’ll be back before midnight."

He brushed past me in a hurry, not daring to meet my eyes for another second.

"I’ll bring you and Ollie some lemon tarts from Soho on my way back!" he tossed over his shoulder as he practically jogged toward the front foyer. "Don’t wait up for me!"

The door slammed shut with a dull thud.

A second later, the roar of his sports car echoed outside, fading quickly into the rainy London night.

I stood alone under the crystal chandelier, looking around the sprawling manor house.

To the outside world, Louis Ashworth and Vivian Laurent were the golden couple of British high fashion—the aristocratic heir and the French-British design prodigy.

Nobody remembered what Ashworth House looked like ten years ago when Louis’s father passed away.

Back then, the brand was drowning in millions of pounds of debt. Suppliers refused to ship fabrics, luxury department stores dropped our accounts, and debt collectors were banging on the manor gates.

I threw away my own dream of launching an independent label. I worked eighty-hour weeks, redesigned their entire signature line from scratch, fought cutthroat buyers, and dragged Ashworth House out of bankruptcy and back to the front row of London Fashion Week.

Ten years of devotion couldn't compete with a single text message from his car-model ex.

A cold, mocking smile touched my lips.

I walked down the quiet hallway toward the nursery.

The door was slightly ajar. A warm yellow light spilled across the hardwood floor.

Inside, eight-year-old Oliver was sitting on his rug. On his lap was a massive, glossy black box—the limited-edition Boeing 747 model kit.

"Ollie," I whispered softly, walking over and kneeling down beside him on the rug.

Oliver looked at me with wide, hazel eyes—eyes that held my shape, but reflected Louis’s nervous guilt. Suddenly, he threw his little arms around my neck, clinging to me tightly.

"Mom..." he mumbled against my shoulder, his small hands clutching my sweater. "You... you won’t ever leave Dad and me, right? No matter what?"

I wrapped my arms around him, feeling the fragile beat of his heart.

I gently pulled back, cupped his soft face in my hands, and looked straight into his teary eyes.

"Oliver," I asked. "If... if Dad and I decide not to live together anymore... who would you choose to go with?"

Oliver froze.

The color instantly drained from his face, and his eyes welled up with terrified tears.