Chapter 6

Scarlett POV

When I returned to the mansion, night had fallen completely.

The living room blazed with light.

Thomas lay on the carpet drawing, Phoebe sat beside him sharpening pencils, and Jackson reviewed documents.If you didn't look at the large cardboard boxes piled in the corner, this would indeed seem like a warm family scene.

Those were my things.

My books, my tea set, even the coats I wore regularly.

All carelessly stuffed into boxes, like a pile of garbage waiting to be disposed of.

"What's this about?"

I changed my shoes and walked to the boxes.

The housekeeper Anna was sealing them with packing tape. Seeing me return, her hand jerked, the tape making a harsh ripping sound.

"Ma'am... Miss Phoebe said there was too much clutter in the house, it accumulates dust and it's bad for Thomas's respiratory system, so..."

"I had Anna pack them up."

Phoebe set down her pencil and stood up, looking at me with innocent eyes. "Scarlett, don't take it the wrong way. I noticed you hardly use these things anyway, they're just taking up space. Plus, the doctor said Thomas has some allergic rhinitis, so the house needs to be kept clean."

Allergic rhinitis.

I looked at one of the unsealed boxes.

Inside was a copy of "The Little Prince," its corners worn from being read so many times.

That was the storybook I'd read to Thomas every night when he was three.

Now it had become an allergen.

"Throw it out."

Jackson didn't even look up, turning a page of his document. "It's useless anyway."

I stared at that man's profile.

Cold, matter-of-fact.

As if what he was throwing away wasn't my belongings, but me as a person.

"Okay."

I bent down and picked up the box.

It was heavy.

Anna tried to help, but I dodged her.

"I'll do it myself."

I carried the box toward the door.

Passing by Thomas, he suddenly looked up, holding up his drawing paper, his face full of pride as he shouted to Jackson: "Daddy, look! I drew our family!"

Jackson set down his documents and took the paper, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Not bad."

I instinctively glanced at it.

There were three people in the drawing.

A tall daddy, a beautiful mommy, and little Thomas in the middle holding their hands.

That "mommy" wore a pink dress with a sparkling necklace.

That was Phoebe's outfit today.

I wasn't in the picture.

The box in my arms suddenly felt like it weighed a thousand pounds, pressing until I couldn't breathe.

"Thomas is so talented."

Phoebe patted Thomas's head and shot me a challenging look. "How about I take you to art classes?"

"Yes! I love Phoebe the most!"

Thomas wrapped his arms around her neck and planted a kiss on her cheek.

I looked away and quickened my pace.

I walked out the front door, all the way to the trash station in the residential area.

I threw the box in heavily.

Thud.

Dust rose up.

I stood in front of the dumpster, looking at "The Little Prince" with half its cover showing.

Suddenly I felt ridiculous.

Scarlett, look.

The memories you treasured like precious gems were, in others' eyes, just garbage that could be discarded at any moment.

I pulled a lighter from my pocket.

Click.

The blue flame danced in the night wind.

I lit one corner of the box.

The fire spread quickly. The dry paper curled and blackened, turning to ash.

The firelight reflected in my eyes, somewhat scorching.

I don't know when Jackson appeared behind me.

"What are you doing?"

His voice was heavy with surprise.

He probably never expected me to be the one setting fire to my own things.

After all, in the past, even a sticky note-as long as it was from him-I would carefully preserve.

"Just as you said." I watched the dancing flames without turning around. "Taking out the trash."

Jackson was silent for several seconds.

"You've been acting strange, Scarlett."

He stepped closer, his eyes scanning me. "If this is some play for attention, you're overdoing it."

A play?

I turned to look at the man I had loved for seven years. In the firelight, his face was still unbearably handsome.

But my heart, like the ashes between us, had gone cold.

"Jackson." I said his name softly. "If I died, would you be sad?"

Jackson froze.

Then he frowned, his face showing obvious disgust.

"Don't say such morbid things."

He tapped his cigarette, letting the ash fall. "Someone with your resilience doesn't die easily."

I laughed.

Right.

I was like a weed.

Trampled into mud, scorched by fire, yet as long as one root remained, I could cling on, miserably.

But Jackson.

This time, I would tear it out from the root.

"That's good then." I said softly. "That's good."

I'm done loving you, Jackson.

You killed me with your own hands.