Farewell at Dusk

In Brandon Vance’s eyes, I was never his wife. I was merely a toxic asset waiting to be written off. When I fell sick and asked for help, he brushed me off with impatience: "This falls under low-level issues you should resolve independently. No need to escalate it to me." When I broke down in tears, he scolded me coldly: "Losing control of your emotions only exposes the vulnerabilities of our strategic alliance. Starting next week, my PR team will train you in emotional regulation." Even during my horrific car crash, when I dialed his number in desperate agony, he hung up without a second thought: "Nothing you do justifies interrupting a multi-million-dollar acquisition." I fought for my life in the ICU for seven grueling days. The first day I dragged myself back to the penthouse, I walked in on Brandon leaning over to gently coax another girl into taking her medication. His mouth fell open, trying to stumble out an excuse. I let out a bitter, exhausted smile and handed him the folder I had prepared long ago. My tone sounded eerily like his: "Mr. Vance, regarding our marital portfolio, a comprehensive audit indicates an unacceptably low ROI. I am officially terminating our partnership." "Here is the divorce agreement. Sign it." Brandon rose to his feet, casually glancing over the papers without taking them. "Where have you been for the past two months?" "My assistant said you wouldn't pick up calls or respond to texts. Next time you decide to vanish, file a notice with my office beforehand!" Not a drop of concern. Just the same old cold, indiscriminate reprimand. To be honest, after all these years by his side, this was the first time I looked at Brandon Vance’s face and felt nothing but visceral disgust. Since he refused to take them, I didn't push. I set the papers down on the coffee table. "Mr. Vance, if there are no objections, just sign." I glanced down at the delicate girl sitting in the wheelchair beside him. My body was too weak to summon the energy for an argument or an interrogation. I bypassed her, heading toward the stairs to rest. Perhaps my flat, emotionless reaction caught him off guard. In a rare move, Brandon actually bothered to offer an explanation. "This is Luna. Her brother is an old friend, and he asked me to look after her. It’s easier to take care of her here, so I moved her into the penthouse. I explained it in a text, but you probably missed it... What happened to your hand?" Brandon abruptly changed the topic. Following his gaze, I looked down. Without the divorce papers covering it, my right hand was fully exposed under the harsh chandelier lights. Gaunt, sickly pale, with two layers of gauze tightly wrapped around the wrist, while the back of my hand was covered in dark purple bruises left behind by IV needles and resuscitation lines. "Are you sick?" It seemed he finally found what he believed to be the root of my bizarre behavior. He addressed me by my full name, not out of care, but in the scolding tone of a CEO dressing down an errant employee. "Serena Hart, never make emotional decisions when you're unwell. Take the agreement back." I was already used to it. My steps paused for barely a second. Without turning around, I walked straight up to the second floor. Before I could even latch the door, wave after wave of intense dizziness hit me. Drained of every ounce of strength, I slid down the wall and collapsed onto the hardwood floor. From downstairs, Luna's soft, sugary voice floated into my ears. "Brandon, did I upset Serena?" "Maybe... you should take me back. Being alone is just a little inconvenient, but I can manage." Brandon leaned down, his voice dropping into a tender murmur. "Nonsense. You're staying right here. That's just how she is. Give her a couple of days, and she'll get over it." "Come on, swallow your pills. The water is the perfect temperature." "It won't taste bitter. I brought candy." His voice was low, yet carried a warmth I had never once experienced in our entire marriage. I could even picture his expression—the exact tenderness and undivided focus I had begged for thousands of times. Now, he handed it out so generously to a stranger. A sharp wave of nausea surged from my gut. I clamped my hand over my mouth, dry-heaving violently, but nothing came up except the bitter burn of bile searing my throat. Brandon Vance, you were never cold by nature. You just never loved me. I wanted to laugh—to laugh at my own sheer stupidity and naivety. After crawling back from the edge of the grave, I had still harbored a pathetic sliver of hope for this sham of a marriage. Downstairs, his gentle yet razor-sharp voice kept drifting up, every word rubbing coarse salt into my bleeding wounds. *Buzz. Buzz.* My phone lay on the floor where it had dropped. My vision was too blurry to make out the caller ID, but my trembling fingers swiped across the screen to answer. A lazy, deep voice laced with playful amusement came through the speaker: "Now that you're a married woman, getting a text from you is a miracle. What's the matter? Looking to have an affair with me?" I cleared my throat with a weak, rasping cough: "Sure. But no need to call it an affair. I'm getting divorced." "Name your price. I'll be your sugar mommy."The man on the other end paused, then let out a delighted, resonant chuckle. His voice was thick with unmasked intrigue: "Send me the location. I'm picking you up." The next morning, Brandon glanced at the empty seat to his right at the dining table. He turned toward the maid: "Mary, tell her to come down for breakfast." Mary looked up, an expression of confusion on her face. "Mrs. Vance left early this morning, sir. She had luggage with her." The fork in Brandon’s hand froze mid-air. "She left?" "Brandon, maybe you really should take me home," Luna chimed in softly. "Serena must be furious with me..." Brandon cut her off with a frosted scowl. "It's not the first time she's pulled this dramatic runaway stunt. Once she cools off for a couple of days, she'll crawl back on her own." "Ignore her. Focus on your breakfast." He pushed a glass of warm soy milk toward Luna. She sipped it with lowered eyes, her face practically glowing with quiet satisfaction. Brandon picked his fork back up, intending to resume his meal. Yet, unbidden, the image of my pale, paper-thin face flashed through his mind, along with my icy, unwavering words and the signed divorce papers left behind on the glass table. "Tch." Brandon clicked his tongue, his appetite instantly evaporating. He stood up, his movements stiffer and more rushed than usual. "Clear the table." "Driver, bring the car around. We're going to the office." Meanwhile, having just checked myself out of the hospital, I found myself right back in one, rushed in by Tristan Hayes. Pushing my battered body to leave prematurely had backfired; my fever had spiked so high in his car that I had passed out completely. In a hazy, semi-conscious fog, I could vaguely feel someone gently massaging the bruises on my right hand. "A car accident? What do you mean three critical condition notices were issued? These are lingering complications?" "Her abdominal incision is showing signs of infection. I'm heading out to have the nurses flush the wound and change the dressing immediately." "Turn the thermostat up. Where is the IV fluid warmer?" ... I forced my heavy eyelids open, catching a glimpse of a pair of panicked, strikingly handsome eyes. "Serena?" "I'm right here. Go back to sleep. You'll feel better when you wake up." He wrapped his warm fingers around my freezing right hand, radiating steady heat. Burning up with fever, I couldn't even recognize who he was. All I knew was that his hands were wonderfully, genuinely warm. *Beep. Beep. Beep.* That was the eighth call Brandon had placed to my number. Still no answer. Whenever I used to throw a tantrum, it took two or three calls at most. Brandon wouldn't even need to apologize, and I would hurry back, desperate to appease him. "Assistant Sun, go track down—" Before Brandon could finish his order, a secretary knocked and opened the office door, showing a man inside. "Mr. Vance, this is Attorney Adams. He insisted on speaking with you, claiming to represent Mrs. Vance." The attorney adjusted his glasses and gave a crisp nod: "Good morning, Mr. Vance. I am here on behalf of Ms. Serena Hart." "I am here to negotiate the terms of your divorce." Brandon froze for two whole seconds. Then, a cold, mocking smirk spread across his lips, as if his suspicions had been validated. "Attorney Adams, is this another one of Serena's cheap little theatrics? Where is she hiding?" "I run a conglomerate, and I don't have time for her runaway games. Tell her to move back into the penthouse today. Luna has an anxious disposition, and Serena's constant drama is interfering with her physical therapy. When she returns, make sure she offers Luna a sincere apology." His tone was dismissive and casual, treating this like the petty tantrum of a spoiled child. Attorney Adams didn't argue. Instead, he unzipped his leather briefcase and extracted a crisp document. "Ms. Hart instructed me that if you doubted her intent, I should present this to you." It wasn't the divorce agreement, but a printed copy of an official corporate press release. "Per Ms. Hart's instructions, her venture capital firm and all associated holdings officially distributed this announcement to major financial outlets and corporate partners at ten o'clock sharp this morning." "It formally informs the public that Ms. Serena Hart has initiated divorce proceedings against you." The smirk on Brandon’s face shattered instantly, his pupils contracting into pinpricks. Black ink on white paper, stamped with corporate seals. It was the cold, ruthless, highly public strategy he always loved to deploy. Only now did Brandon finally realize. I wasn't throwing a tantrum. I was truly, irrevocably cutting him out of my life."Serena, this is the fifth time this week Mr. Vance has requested a private meeting with you." "Still refusing to see him?" I reached out, taking the glass of warm water from Tristan Hayes, and swallowed my medication in one gulp. "See him? For what?" "To watch him evaluate me like an quarterly balance sheet? To listen to him 'analyze' our garbage marriage like a failed startup pitch? To sit there like an obedient subordinate while he magnanimously agrees to 'process' our separation?" "His robotic, transactional bullshit makes me want to vomit. I'm done humiliating myself." I set the empty glass down and drew a deep breath. "Besides... Friday's gala is unavoidable." "Whatever papers need signing, whatever ties need severing—we'll settle it all there once and for all. Clean cut." "He can rule his Vance Empire, and I'll run my Hart Enterprises." The sunlight filtering through the window was pleasantly warm, and a heavy drowsiness began to pull at me. Right before closing the bedroom door, I pulled a sleek black card from my purse and handed it to Tristan standing behind me. "No PIN. There's five million in it." Tristan stared blankly at the card in his palm, then at the closed door. A soft, breathless chuckle slipped past his lips: "She actually meant it when she said she'd keep me as a boy toy." On the night of the gala, the ballroom was thick with the suffocating scent of expensive champagne, vintage perfumes, and socialite chatter. Since this was my first public appearance after the divorce announcement hit the news, I held a flute of champagne, navigating conversations with longtime family friends and industry titans. Brandon cut through the crowd, walking straight up to me. "Serena. We need to talk." His tone was distinctly softer than usual. I looked up. How the tables had turned. It was my turn to look at him as if he were an object up for appraisal. "Is there business to discuss, Mr. Vance?" The title 'Mr. Vance' visibly choked him. After a tense pause, his assistant stepped forward, offering a velvet jewelry box. Brandon opened it, revealing a breathtaking, vibrant gemstone necklace. "I... neglected you in the past." His voice was stiff and awkward; words of apology and reconciliation clearly didn't come naturally to him. "Consider this a peace offering. About the divorce, perhaps we could—" I stared at him. I couldn't quite fathom what was going through his head. Was he trying to protect our merged market valuation, unwilling to discard such an advantageous 'strategic partner'? The divorce was happening regardless. Still, from a purely commercial perspective, there was no need to burn every bridge down to ash. I had issues with him, not with money. Just as I weighed my response, a delicate, breathy voice sliced into the space between us. Laced with perfectly engineered surprise and familiarity: "Brandon! So this was the necklace you picked out for Serena?" "If I had known, I would have insisted Serena choose first." Luna rolled over in her sleek wheelchair, her gaze locking onto the jewels with a petulant, possessive pout. Draped around her neck was another piece from the exact same luxury collection. "I told you the other day that I found the design too plain. But seeing it again tonight, it's just so stunning... I really do love it." As she spoke, she reached out and gently tugged on the sleeve of Brandon's tuxedo jacket. Brandon's brows furrowed slightly. He looked at me, then glanced down at Luna in her wheelchair. His tone slipped effortlessly back into his usual dismissive rationality, as if managing a minor administrative clash: "Serena, Luna happens to love this piece." "My firm currently has major joint ventures running with the Miller family. Let her have this one. Tell me what styles you prefer, and I'll have my assistant source—" I burst out laughing, without an ounce of genuine anger on my face. "Mr. Vance." "I acknowledge your intention. But the gift?" "I am Serena Hart. I have never scavenged for someone else's discarded leftovers." My eyes swept pointedly over Brandon himself, my voice brimming with cool arrogance: "Besides, since when do gifts get rescinded on the spot? You've dominated the corporate sector for years, Mr. Vance—are you telling me you don't even know basic etiquette?" "Since you came here deliberately to slap my face, I see no reason to continue this discussion." I deliberately raised my voice, ensuring every ear in the vicinity caught every syllable. "I will instruct my legal counsel." "We will pick an auspicious date to take you to court for a contested divorce." *Clink.* The champagne glass in my hand 'slipped,' shattering violently right at Brandon's polished shoes and splashing expensive liquid all over his trousers. "My apologies. My grip slipped." "Some people in this room are simply too sickening to look at."I turned and walked away, spotting a server passing by with a tray of fresh drinks. Just as my fingers reached out to grab another glass of champagne, a hand intercepted mine mid-air. A tumbler of warm water was gently pressed into my palms. Tristan looked down at me with an exasperated, protective glare: "You're bold, trying to drink alcohol in your state. Drink warm water!" I chuckled softly, reaching up to lightly pinch his cheek. "Whatever you say, my little keeper." A faint gasp sounded from behind, followed by Luna's theatrical voice: "Serena... what are you doing?" I frowned and looked back. The girl was like a persistent ghost, endlessly irritating. Brandon's face, for once, showed some semblance of human emotion—a flush of unmistakable fury. "Serena Hart, our divorce hasn't been finalized." "It will be soon. If you sign the papers, we could be done in thirty days." I had zero patience left to entertain either of them. Just as I took Tristan's arm to walk away, Luna wheeled forward to cut us off. Holding two glasses of champagne, her face was a mask of counterfeit contrition: "Serena, I was acting immaturely earlier." "Let me toast you. Please forgive me. To make amends, my family's conglomerate is willing to concede five percent of the profit share on our upcoming resort development." Beside her, Brandon offered a rare concession: "Humiliating you publicly was my mistake. Forgive Luna, and I'll agree to split the returns on our last joint venture seventy-thirty." "Seventy to you, thirty to me." I sneered inwardly. After running the numbers, I saw no reason to let pride sabotage business. If I was walking out of this marriage, I might as well squeeze every cent out of him on the way out. Tristan quietly placed his hand over mine, murmuring under his breath: "You haven't recovered from your trauma. This petty change isn't worth it..." I arched a brow. I hadn't realized Tristan's standards were this ridiculously high: "Two hundred million is petty change?" Before he could respond, I took a polite sip from the flute. An unexpected, metallic bitterness hit my tongue. But before I could speak, a violent coughing fit seized my chest, causing my whole body to convulse. "Ugh..." A strangled groan of pure agony escaped my throat. In the next second, dark crimson blood surged past my lips, dripping through my fingers onto the marble floor in a terrifying display. Gasps of horror rippled through the surrounding crowd. Even Luna, who had personally handed me the flute, turned paper-white with shock. "How is this..." Brandon's voice cracked with raw disbelief as he instinctively lunged forward to catch my collapsing frame. But someone beat him to it. Tristan swept me into his arms in a single swift motion, his playful facade instantly replaced by murderous panic. "Call an ambulance! NOW!" The agony was unbearable. It was so blinding that I couldn't form words. I could only curl inward in Tristan’s embrace as blood kept pouring from my mouth, soaking his crisp dress shirt and suit jacket in deep red. My vision faded, plunging into pitch-black unconsciousness. Outside the emergency room. Tristan moved like a rabid beast. He seized Brandon by the lapels of his tuxedo and slammed him brutally against the frigid hospital wall with a sickening *thud*. "Brandon Vance, what the fuck did you do to her?! What was in that glass?!" "Do you have any idea she almost died?! How could you poison someone carrying critical post-trauma damage?!" A vicious hook snapped Brandon's head sideways, splitting his lip open as blood trickled down his chin. Dazed shock mingled with unprecedented terror in Brandon's eyes: "Let go of me! Luna brought that drink, I didn't—" "Wait, what post-trauma damage?" Tristan drove a merciless punch deep into Brandon's stomach. Every word ripped from his throat like shards of glass: "You don't know?" "You actually don't fucking know?! The exact day you went to welcome that worthless girl back, Serena's car was rear-ended at high speed on the interstate. Her vehicle rolled down an embankment!" "I pulled the phone records! Fifteen emergency calls to you! You didn't answer a single goddamn one!" Tristan pointed a trembling, bloodstained finger toward the locked double doors of the OR. "Do you know that because of massive internal hemorrhaging and delayed rescue, the hospital issued two critical condition notices?!" "Her heart, lungs, liver, and kidneys suffered traumatic ruptures! Her surviving at all was a fucking miracle!" "And you handed her poison?!" Brandon's pupils constricted violently, unable to anchor on anything. An icy chill plunged straight into his marrow. "What car crash... critical notices... What are you talking about?"