Chapter 6

Scarlett POV

By the time I returned to the mansion, night had fallen completely.

The living room was brightly lit.

Thomas was sprawled on the rug, drawing, while Phoebe sat beside him, sharpening pencils. Jackson was reviewing documents.

If not for the few large cardboard boxes piled in the corner, this would indeed be a picture of a warm family scene.

Those were my things.

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

All haphazardly stuffed into cardboard boxes, like a pile of garbage waiting for disposal.

"What's all this?"

I changed my shoes and walked over to the boxes.

Gamma Lena, who was sealing a box with tape, startled when she saw me, making the tape rip with a sharp, grating sound.

"Luna Scarlett... Ms. Phoebe said the house was too cluttered, easy to collect dust, and not good for Thomas, so..."

"I asked Gamma Lena to tidy up."

Phoebe put down her pencil, stood up, and looked at me with an innocent expression. "Scarlett, don't overthink it. I saw you hardly ever use these things, they were just taking up space. Besides, the doctor said Thomas has a bit of allergic rhinitis, and the house needs to be kept clean."

Allergic rhinitis.

Though children at that age often got sick, I didn't recall him having that condition.

I looked at the unsealed box.

Inside was a bedtime storybook, its corners worn from use.

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

Now it was an allergen.

"Just throw them out."

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

I looked at the man's profile.

Cold, entitled.

As if he wasn't throwing away my belongings, but me.

"Okay."

I bent down and picked up the box.

It was heavy.

Lena started to help, but I dodged her.

"I'll do it myself."

I carried the box and walked out.

As I passed Thomas, he suddenly looked up, holding out his drawing, and called out to Jackson, showing off, "Daddy, look! My family portrait!"

Jackson put down his document, took the drawing, and a smile touched his lips.

"That's good."

I instinctively glanced over.

There were three people in the drawing.

A tall daddy, a pretty mommy, and Thomas in the middle, holding hands.

The "mommy" wore a pink dress and a sparkling necklace.

That was Phoebe's outfit today.

I wasn't in the drawing.

I felt the box in my arms suddenly weigh a thousand pounds, suffocating me.

"Thomas is so talented."

Phoebe patted Thomas's head, giving me a defiant look. "How about I take you to art classes later?"

"Yes! I love Phoebe the most!"

Thomas hugged her neck and gave her a loud kiss on the cheek.

I averted my gaze and quickened my pace.

I walked out the front door, all the way to the open yard outside.

I dropped the box heavily to the ground.

Thud!

A cloud of dust rose.

Looking at the storybook, a corner peeking out.

It suddenly felt ridiculous.

Scarlett, look.

The memories you cherished like treasure are, in others' eyes, nothing but trash to be discarded at any moment.

I pulled a lighter from my pocket.

Click!

A blue flame danced in the night wind.

I lit a corner of the box.

The fire spread quickly, the dry paper curling and blackening, turning to ash.

The firelight reflected in my eyes, feeling hot.

At some point, Jackson stood behind me.

"What are you doing?"

His voice was deep, tinged with surprise.

He probably hadn't expected me to burn my own things.

After all, before, even a sticky note, if he'd given it to me, I would have carefully saved it.

"As you said."

I watched the dancing flames, not turning around. "Cleaning up trash."

Jackson was silent for a few seconds.

"Scarlett, you've been acting strangely lately."

He walked over to me, scrutinizing me. "If this is to get my attention, you're overacting."

Overacting?

I turned, looking at the man I had loved for seven years.

In the firelight, his profile was still breathtakingly handsome.

But my heart, like this pile of ashes, was utterly cold.

"Jackson."

I called his name. "If I died one day, would you be sad?"

Jackson froze.

Then, he frowned, an obvious look of disgust appearing on his face.

"Don't say such morbid things."

He flicked his cigarette ash, his tone cold. "Someone like you, you're tough as nails. How could you die so easily?"

I smiled.

Yes.

Someone like me, like a wild weed.

Stepped into the mud, burned by fire, as long as there's a root left, I can cling to life.

But Jackson.

This time, I'm pulling up the roots too.

"That's good."

I said softly. "That's good."

I won't love you anymore, Jackson.

You destroyed me with your own hands.