Chapter 2 Make over

Scarlett’s POV

“Miss Taylor, it’s your turn.”

The receptionist’s voice cut through my thoughts, gently anchoring me back to the present.

I blinked, then nodded and stood up, the crumpled test reports still tucked inside my purse like a ghost I couldn’t shake off. But not now. Not in this place.

I followed the attendant down a quiet hallway and into a private room bathed in soft, golden light and the faint scent of jasmine. The stylist was already waiting inside—young, elegant, her hands folded politely.

“Madam,” she asked kindly, “what kind of look would you like?”

I stared at my reflection.

The woman in the mirror looked tired. Drained. A ghost of who she used to be. My skin was pale, my eyes dulled, and my long, dark hair—once my pride—hung limp and lifeless around my shoulders. There was a hollow in my chest that no amount of makeup could hide.

But my voice was steady when I spoke.

“I want to change everything. My hair. My face. My entire look. I don’t care how long it takes.”

The stylist looked slightly startled but nodded. I met her eyes through the mirror and added, more quietly this time, “Make me look like a different person. Someone… reborn.”

There was a pause. And then she smiled gently. “Understood.”

As she turned to begin, I took one last long look at the woman in the mirror.

Scarlett Taylor—the woman who waited at cold dinner tables, who stayed up at night wondering if a man would ever come home, who fought for love and dignity only to be met with silence—she was gone.

Dead.

And in her place, someone new would rise.

No more tears. No more waiting. No more Everett.

I didn’t have forever. But whatever days I had left, I would spend them as me—not as someone’s wife, someone’s afterthought, someone’s shadow.

Just me.

Scarlett Taylor.

And this time, I would finally learn what it meant to live.

I closed my eyes.

My thoughts drifted, unbidden, to a memory buried four years deep.

Back when everything began… or perhaps, when everything started to end.

Four years ago, Everett Robinson was in a car crash.

I still remember the headlines. “The CEO of WS Group in Critical Condition!”

The whole city was on edge. People whispered, speculated. Doctors weren’t sure he’d survive the night, let alone ever walk again.

And Amelia Martin—his first love, the woman everyone thought would never leave his side—disappeared.

Just like that.

Gone.

She boarded a plane abroad, chasing dreams far more dazzling than a hospital room.

She loved him, sure—when he was whole, powerful, magnetic. But her love wasn’t for the broken. It wasn’t for someone lying unconscious, tubes in his veins and scars on his face.

But me?

I stayed.

No one asked me to. In fact, they begged me not to.

“You’re ruining your future,” they warned.

“He doesn’t love you,” they whispered.

But I didn’t care. I left behind everything—my rising career, the weight of the Taylor family name, my bright future. I packed a bag and moved into the hospital.

I slept on stiff ICU chairs. Fed him. Bathed him. Read to him when he couldn’t hear me. Talked to him when he couldn’t respond. I became his shadow. His silent anchor. His ghost of hope.

And maybe… God had heard my prayers. Because after nearly a year, he opened his eyes.

When his lashes fluttered and he whispered my name, I laughed and cried and collapsed to the floor in relief.

That moment felt like the beginning of everything.

Like maybe… just maybe… my love had reached him.

A few months later, when he was fully recovered, he looked at me and asked softly, “What do you want, Scarlett?”

I should’ve said, “I want you to be happy.”

I should’ve said, “I want to be free.”

But I was foolish. I smiled—wide-eyed and hopeful—and whispered, “I want to marry you.”

I saw it—the flicker of hesitation in his eyes.

I felt it—the silence that stretched between us.

But I ignored it. Because even if I had only his name and not his heart, I thought it would be enough.

The next day, he took me to the marriage registration office.

No vows. No flowers. No ring.

Just a government form, a silent assistant, and a pen.

He didn’t kiss me.

He didn’t even look at me when the papers were stamped.

On the ride back, he simply said, “Keep our marriage private.”

I nodded. My lips trembled. But I didn’t protest.

Because back then… I thought that if I stayed long enough, worked hard enough, loved hard enough… he would choose me.

I moved into Green Lake Villa—his villa. Our supposed “marital home.”

I cleaned. I decorated. I transformed it from a cold mansion into a warm sanctuary.

But Everett never truly came home.

He was polite. Always distant. Always cold.

Three years of marriage—yet the days he actually stayed with me… I could count on one hand.

I woke up early to iron his shirts, packed his lunch, managed his schedule, cooked his favorite meals. I waited at the dinner table night after night… only for silence to answer me.

But I endured.

Because I believed—so stupidly—that one day he would look at me the way he once looked at her.

Then one day, he took me to a formal party.

I remember the rush of joy in my chest.

I thought—finally. He’s acknowledging me.

But when he introduced me, he said, “This is Scarlett. My personal secretary.”

I smiled. My heart bled. But I smiled.

Because at least I was still standing beside him.

Day after day, I lived in the shadow of another woman.

Amelia Martin — the ghost that never left his heart.

Still, I gave everything.

My dignity. My youth. My identity.

All for a man who never asked me to… and never thanked me.

Then, three months ago, everything shattered.

Amelia came back.

She returned from abroad, glowing, beautiful, radiant. And Everett…

Everett went to pick her up himself.

There were photos. Videos. Rumors.

They said they were dating. Said marriage was on the horizon.

That night, I prepared his favorite dinner. Lit the hallway with soft lights. Sprayed his favorite cologne like I always did.

And I waited.

Like a fool.

He came home late, smelling faintly of her perfume.

And something inside me—finally—snapped.

For the first time in three years, I confronted him.

“Everett,” I said, my voice shaking. “Can’t you see what you’re doing to me? I gave up everything for you! When you were broken, I was there. She left you! I stayed!”

I spilled every word I had buried. All the pain. All the silence. All the bleeding I had done for his love.

He looked at me, calm and cold.

“You have no right to ask.”

Those five words shattered everything inside me.

I broke.

I screamed. I sobbed. I shouted things I never thought I’d say. I told him how Amelia left. How I stayed. How I waited. How I endured.

And Everett?

He just looked at me.

Expressionless.

Then he said three words.

“Then let’s divorce.”

No explanation.

No apology.

No guilt.

He walked out, leaving me crumbling to the floor—broken and alone, my cries echoing through the walls of a house that had never felt like home.

The next morning, the first set of divorce papers arrived.

I didn’t sign.

Then came the second.

And the third.

Ten sets in total.

Each envelope like a slap.

Each signature line a reminder that I was just a temporary stand-in…

Until she came back.

That’s when I finally understood.

If a man doesn’t love you, no matter how much of yourself you give, he never will.

Looking at the final envelope, I took a deep breath.

It was time.

Time to end this one-sided, fruitless relationship.

Time to choose me.