Rejected, Now He Craves For Me

The sound of laughter didn’t belong in this house anymore.

  Not the kind that rang through the marble halls like music, but the sharp, intimate kind — a man’s low chuckle, a woman’s light giggle — drifting from the foyer.

  Isabella froze halfway down the staircase, her hand tightening on the polished rail.

  For a moment, she wondered if she was just imagining it. Julien rarely brought anyone home, and when he did, it was for business; never this late, never with that warmth in his voice.

  She took a few more steps downwards and then she saw them.

  Julien Hamilton stood in the glow of the chandelier, his arm loosely around a woman with golden hair and eyes that sparkled like she owned the room. 

  Victoria.

  That name alone had haunted Isabella for years. Victoria was Julien's ex, the same one who had left him before their wedding, the one his mother once called the perfect match.

  Now she was here. In Isabella’s home.

  “Oh, Belle,” Margaret, Julien's mother's clipped voice came from the sitting room, her pearls gleaming under the light. “You’re finally down. You remember Victoria, don’t you?" There was no response, but she continued anyway. "Well, she’ll be staying with us for a while.” She added.

  Isabella’s fingers trembled at that last statement, then her gaze shifted to Julien.

  His expression was calm, detached — the same unreadable mask he’d worn for years.

  He didn’t deny it. Didn’t correct his mother. Didn’t even look ashamed.

  “Victoria just returned from London,” he said with a cool tone. “She’ll need a place until her penthouse is ready. I told her she could stay here.”

  Here. 

  The word hit like glass shattering inside her chest. Of all the expensive and luxurious hotels and suites she could stay in, you choose here. She thought.

  For six years, this house had been her cage. Every room spotless, every smile forced, every silence heavy with disappointment. But she had endured it all, telling herself love required patience. That one day, Julien would remember why he married her.

  But this?

  This was the moment that illusion ended.

  “I see,” she said softly. Her voice was steady, though her throat burned. “Then I’ll make sure the guest room is ready.”

  Victoria’s lips curved. “Actually, Julien thought I could stay in the west wing, since it’s closer to his study." Victoria shot. "You wouldn’t mind, would you, Isabella?”

  For the briefest second, Isabella thought she saw victory flash in the other woman’s eyes.

  Julien's mother, Margaret was already smirking. The servants had gone still.

  Every gaze in that grand foyer turned to her, waiting for the meek little wife to smile, nod, and disappear as usual.

  But tonight? 

  Tonight was different.

  Something inside her — something she had buried for six long years — stirred.

  She looked at Julien again, really looked at him. Standing right there was the man she’d once loved beyond reason.

  He wasn’t even watching her. He was adjusting his cufflinks, impatient, as if her reaction was an inconvenience and he wanted her to leave.

  “Of course,” Isabella murmured. “Whatever my beloved husband wishes.”

  And with that, she turned away, her silk gown whispering across the floor. 

  Her pulse was thunder in her ears, but her face remained calm, poised, perfect. Exactly the way he had taught her to be these past years.

  She soon reached their bedroom and closed the door quietly behind her. Walking up to the mirror she stopped in front of it. 

  For a long time, she simply stood there, staring at her reflection in the mirror.

  All she saw was a woman whom she barely recognized, staring back at her. Pale, beautiful, and hollow.

  Her wedding ring gleamed on her finger — the last thing tying her to this bondage, the last chain she still wore.

  Calmly, she slipped it off her finger.

  Isabella placed the ring on the vanity and exhaled a trembling breath before turning her attention to the drawer at the corner of the room. 

  She walked up to it and opened the first base. Her hands found the stack of papers she had signed a few days ago but never had the courage to deliver them to the supposed recipient. The divorce papers she’d hidden in her drawer like a guilty secret.

  Until now.

  Downstairs, she could still hear their laughter, faint but sharp. Each sound carved another crack into her heart, but there was no pain anymore, only clarity.

  She would do what was needed, maybe what she should've done a long time ago.

  Love had died quietly in this house, long before tonight. But she had just refused to bury it.

  ***

  By morning, the Hamilton mansion gleamed as usual. It was still early but breakfast had been served already, filling the air with the smell of coffee and roses. 

  At the dining table, Julien sat at the head of the table, reading financial reports as if nothing had changed.

  He didn’t look up when she entered. “You’re up early.”

  “Yes,” she said, her tone calm — perhaps too calm. “There’s something I need to give you.”

  She added, then proceeded to set the envelope in front of him. White paper. Clean edges with his name written in her elegant handwriting.

  Julien frowned slightly. “What is this?”

  “The end,” she said softly. And the entire room went cold.

  For the first time in years, Julien looked at her - really looked.

  And what he saw made his brows knit. There was no desperation in her eyes, no tears, no tremor in her voice. 

  Only quiet resolve.

  She didn’t even wait for him to speak.

  Isabella turned and walked away, her heels clicking against the marble, each step a declaration she’d been too afraid to make.

  Just on her way out, she bumped into Margaret. “Where are you going, dear? Breakfast isn’t over.” Margaret asked, her voice sharp and mocking.

  Isabella paused at the door and looked back, then smiled serenely.

  “I know,” she said. “I’m done with what’s been served here.”

  After that, she walked out.