Not the Right Fit

Just as I took off the suit, which was clearly a size too small, Sylvie Thompson walked through the door.

She reeked of alcohol, kicked off her high heels without care, and offered a half-hearted compliment. "Nice suit. Looks good on you."

Her eyes didn't linger. She didn't even glance at me twice. Instead, she pulled her car keys from her purse and tossed them onto the table.

"Take this tomorrow. Everyone attending will be someone of status. And make sure to find a makeup artist for that face of yours—cover up the scar."

I touched the scar on my cheek. The fleeting look of disdain on her face pierced through me, sharp and cold.

There was a time when she loved me. A time when she would worry about my injuries, when appearances didn't matter to her. But now, all that remained was undisguised disgust.

I said nothing. Quietly, I hung the suit back in the closet.

"No need. Cancel the wedding," I said calmly.

Then I reached into the drawer, took out the divorce papers, and looked straight at her. "Let's find a time to get the divorce done too."

She paused mid-step on her way to the bathroom. Her voice came out light and unbothered.

"All this because of a suit in the wrong size? Johnny, are you really divorcing me over that?"

"Tyler didn't know your measurements," she continued. "Just wear it for now. I'll get you another custom one later."

Tyler Camden was her assistant, her junior from university. She often said she admired his talent, that she wanted to train him personally. Whether on business trips or at the office, the two were always side by side.

Even the suit meant for our wedding had been designed based on Tyler's frame.

She never once asked what I thought. Never cared to hear the opinion of her actual husband.

It made sense that Tyler didn't know my size—he was just an assistant.

But how could Sylvie not remember?

She had designed this suit with her own hands.

"If Tyler didn't know, then what about you?" I asked.

She avoided my gaze. Her brow tightened with visible impatience.

It was always like this. Whenever I asked her anything real, she answered with silence.

I let out a bitter laugh. I hated myself for still hoping, for still expecting something different.

When I pulled the half-packed suitcase beside me, her patience snapped completely.

"Seriously? You're thirty years old and you're pulling the 'runaway' act?"

"You don't have a job. No apartment. No family. Without me, where the hell are you even going to go?"

She said it with such certainty—so sure I had nowhere else to turn. Because in this city, I had nothing. And she knew it.

Her face darkened as she continued, her voice growing sharper. "Johnny, I'm busy. I've got a new line to design, work to handle. Unlike you—doing nothing all day, just lazing around at home. I don't have time for your tantrums."

On any other day, I might've apologized.

But now, looking at the woman I had loved for years, all I felt was unfamiliarity.

She was still beautiful, still magnetic in her own way. But everything else… was gone.

"I mean it. Make sure you sign the divorce papers."

I turned away, opened the door, and left without looking back.

Behind me, I heard the shattering of glass. Sylvie was furious and out of control.

"Fine! Go ahead and leave! I can still have the wedding without you! Let's see where a scar-faced freak like you can go without me!"