After five years of marriage, Navier Armstrong wanted a divorce.
She discreetly slipping the divorce agreement among the stack of papers.
As she handed over the documents, Lysander was on the phone.
Without even glancing at them, he signed everything—including the divorce agreement.
Just as she reached for the documents to leave, her elbow accidentally knocked over a delicate picture frame on his desk. It toppled over, glass shattering across the surface.
The smiling girl in the photo was now partially obscured by broken glass.
It was Ophelia Belmont, Lysander's deceased first love.
"What the hell are you doing?!"
Five years of marriage, and she—a living, breathing human being—still couldn't compete with a photograph.
As she reached the doorway, she heard Lysander making another call.
His voice remained detached but carried an undercurrent of urgency. "Have you found anyone who looks like Ophelia yet?"
The person on the other end said something, and Lysander's voice betrayed a hint of barely suppressed anguish.
“Keep searching! It’s been years! Why the hell can’t I find someone—anyone—who looks like her? This… this isn’t fair.”
Navier paused mid-step, looking down at her bloodied palm and the corner of her mouth curved into a sorrowful smile.
"Lysander, you still can’t make it? Well, I did. Don't worry, I'll train her perfectly, and then I'll personally deliver her to your side."
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