The crystal chandelier in Sotheby's New York auction hall dazzled the eyes, its refracted light falling on my bare wrist, shimmering with an almost unreal beauty.

On the large screen, António's face was magnified—his Mediterranean-blue eyes deliberately softened for the camera, the Savile Row suit cuffs perfectly fitted around his wrists, our wedding ring flashing once under the lights, making my eyelashes tremble.

"Mr Costa, does this Monet hold special meaning for you?" The host's voice carried formulaic enthusiasm.

His cuff-adjusting hand paused for half a second, a playful smile curling at his lips as he said slowly, "My wife loves Monet."

Loves. What an understated word.

I remember standing before the circular Water Lilies at the Musée de l'Orangerie in Paris three years ago, crying for half an hour when he embraced me from behind, his chin resting on my hair, murmuring in that deep yet tender voice, "Lea, wait for me. Someday I'll bring home the Water Lilies that belong to you." Back then, his breath carried the familiar scent of neroli oil I always used—not like now, that faint, unfamiliar sandalwood fragrance captured on camera.

The lady in a Chanel suit sitting beside me lowered her voice, pearl earrings swaying gently with her words. "Lea Costa is so fortunate. Everyone in our circle knows Mr Costa rented out that Tuscan vineyard just for her."

"I heard the vineyard is planted entirely with her favorite lavender, and they even specially hired a winemaker from Provence."

I looked down at the pear-shaped diamond on my ring finger—ten carats, custom-made by Graff, with our initials engraved inside.

Five years ago, when he slipped it onto my finger, he said, "The hardness of this diamond represents my loyalty to you, Lea. I will always respect and love you, and remain faithful only to you."

Loyalty.

My fingertips suddenly turned cold. Instinctively, I clenched my handbag, feeling the phone inside pressing against my palm—the image from that anonymous email this morning still fresh in my mind: an identical ring on a slender hand, nails painted in a bold, flamboyant rose-red, against the backdrop of António's silk sheets in a New York hotel suite, that pale grey color he specifically chose because it wouldn't show stains.

The postscript contained just one sentence: "He says it looks better on me than on you."

"Mrs Costa?" The jewelry appraiser adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, his voice tinged with cautious hesitation. "This ring's clarity and cut are both top grade, a custom Graff piece. Market value at least twelve million dollars. Are you certain you want to..."

The phone screen lit up again as a reminder notification from Cambridge University's Institute of Neuroscience popped up: "Invitation confirmation deadline: 48 hours."

The rejection letter from three years ago still sits in my email drafts folder.

Back then, António had just secured the New York tech park project, working overnight shifts at the office. When I brought him lemongrass tea, he'd pull me onto his lap, nuzzling his chin against my neck. "Lea, just wait a bit longer. When the project stabilizes, I'll go with you to Cambridge for your postdoc."

I waited three years. What I got were anonymous emails, unfamiliar perfume scents, his increasingly late returns home and increasingly perfunctory hugs.

"All proceeds will be donated to the Children's Cancer Foundation."

I slid the ring off my finger, its cool metallic touch against my skin feeling like some kind of farewell.

The appraiser's surprised gaze fell upon my face, but I couldn't meet his eyes—afraid that if I looked up, the utter defeat in my eyes would be impossible to hide.

The scene from the wedding on the Amalfi Coast four years ago suddenly flooded back.

On the white cliffs, with the sea breeze carrying the scent of lemon blossoms, António knelt before me, his suit trousers dusted with grass stains, his eyes frighteningly red. "Lea, I swear on the honor of the Costa Family, you will be the only love of my life. To lose you would be to lose my right to breathe."

At that time I believed him. How much did I believe? I believed him when he said family opposition meant nothing, believed in his resolute determination when he gave up 30% of company shares for me, believed every time he video-called me at dawn during business trips just to show me the moon outside his hotel window.

But even the moon waxes and wanes.

The muffled thunder outside grew closer as I picked up my handbag and stood. My high heels clicked sharply against the marble floor, the sound piercingly loud in the empty auction hall.

When I reached the doorway, I couldn't help but glance back at the big screen—António was still being interviewed, his smile poised and his gaze profound, just like the Italian exchange student who had once captured my heart.

But back then, his eyes had sparkled, whereas now they held nothing but unfathomable detachment and indifference.

The dark clouds over Central Park hung oppressively low, like a waterlogged black cloth. António's Rolls-Royce Phantom was parked at the street corner. He sat in the back seat, his fingers tapping impatiently against the leather upholstery, the glow from the tablet screen casting sharp shadows across his face.

I knew that gesture all too well.

This was his habit when anxious—a nearly vulnerable side he only showed in front of me. When handling tough acquisition cases or clashing with his family before, he would tap the seat like this. I would hold his hand, bring warm lemongrass tea to his lips, and he'd pull me into his embrace, saying, "With you here, I fear nothing."

But now, I only wanted to step back.

Seeing me, he quickly tucked the tablet into his suit pocket and stepped out of the car to greet me.

Raindrops had begun to fall, dampening his hair. A few dark strands clung to his forehead, giving him an uncharacteristically disheveled look.

"Sorry, darling." He reached to touch my face, but as his fingertips neared my skin, I instinctively turned away.

His hand froze mid-air, a flicker of panic in his eyes. "There were issues with the acquisition. It kept me until now. You look pale. Are you unwell?"

I caught the scent of his cologne—orange blossom and sandalwood, cloyingly sweet with a hint of cold sharpness—definitely not my usual white tea fragrance, nor the cedar aroma from his office.

It was the scent of that woman from the anonymous email, the one wearing my identical ring, lying in his bed.

"Just tired." My voice tightened, my throat clogged as if blocked by something, making even breathing laborious. I dared not meet his eyes, afraid that one glance at those once-drowning blue eyes would shatter all pretense.

"Then let's go home." He withdrew his hand, softening his tone. "I'll make you lemongrass tea with your favorite honey, no sugar."

The car's heater was turned up too high, stifling to the point of suffocation. I took out the Tiffany-blue gift box from my clutch and handed it to him.

António raised his eyebrows, his fingers tracing the ribbon on the gift box. "It's not my birthday, nor an anniversary."

"An early anniversary gift." I forced a smile, trying to sound natural. "But you must promise me not to open it until next month when we visit Venice."

Venice. That's where we first met.

Five years ago at an academic conference, I got lost in the University of Venice library and bumped into him while he was researching. He smiled and said in clumsy Chinese, "Miss, you've bumped into my heart."

His eyes softened as expected. When he took the gift box, his fingers lightly brushed against the back of my hand—just like countless times before, with that careful tenderness. "You're always so romantic, Lea. After we finish our business in Tokyo, I'll take you to Venice for a whole month, just the two of us, like before."

Like before.

Those five words pierced my heart like needles. What was it like before? He used to remember I only eat medium-well steak, would quietly prepare midnight snacks when I stayed up writing my thesis, and when I cried over failed experiments, he'd hold me in his arms, saying, "It's okay, my Lea is already amazing."

Now, he doesn't even notice when I change my shampoo's scent, doesn't ask about the missing ring on my finger.

Last month's image of him returning from the charity gala suddenly surfaced.

He was dead drunk, the smell of whiskey mixed with unfamiliar perfume nearly suffocating me.

As I helped him upstairs, he suddenly pulled me close with force, his scorching breath against my neck, drunken words sputtering intermittently. "Lea... if... if I did something unforgivable... would you... would you let go?"

My heart skipped a beat then, my icy fingertips brushing his cheek. "You would never do such a thing."

He smiled bitterly, the curve of his lips uglier than tears. "But what if? If I did it... could you... could you give me one more chance?"

Before he passed out drunk, I promised him three wishes.

The first wish was to dance with him at the Harvard graduation ball.

That day, he walked through the crowded hall holding a white rose, came to me reading alone in the corner, and said in English with an Italian accent, "Beautiful lady, may I have the honor of this dance?"

The second wish was to marry him.

Amidst objections from the Costa Family, he transferred 30% of his shares to his younger brother, just to gain the freedom to marry me. He said, "Shares can be earned back, but without you, I'd have nothing left."

The third wish was what he said with drunken eyes: "Give me freedom."

At the time I thought it was drunken nonsense, but now I understand—that might have been his only sober moment.

The divorce papers in the gift box were printed by me last night after staying up late. There's no dispute over asset division, no hysterical accusations, just a calm farewell.

I don't ask for much, just to reclaim the life that belongs to me—Lea, who gave up Cambridge, abandoned research, and lost herself for him, needs to wake up now.

António is still caressing the gift box, a gentle smile playing on his lips as if anticipating the surprise inside.

I turn my head to look at the fleeting cityscape outside the window. The trees in Central Park appear somewhat desolate in the rain, mirroring exactly how I feel at this moment.

The rain grows heavier, drumming against the car window with a pitter-patter, as if playing a sorrowful prelude for this marriage about to reach its finale.

After I Decided to Leave — Chapter 7

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