LYDIA’S POV
“It’s been seven years of you dating Lydia, and another year of you dating her namesake. You know your relationship with Lydia is the longest you’ve ever had… it’s a pity you’d never marry her.”
Those words didn't just drift through the doors of Patrick’s study; they sliced through them like a jagged blade. I’d stood frozen in the hallway, my fingers trembling against the velvet box in my pocket.
I had gone there to finally push my fears aside. I had gone there to be the one to ask—to propose to the man who had held my heart captive for seven years but was met with those freezing words.
I’d waited for the denial. I’d braced myself for Patrick to laugh and tell Roman he was an idiot, or to defend me with the sweet, honeyed words he used to reserve for my ears alone. But when his voice finally rang through, it was sluggish and thick with drink.
“Marry her?” He let out a dry, hollow cackle that made my blood run cold. “Don't make me laugh, Roman.”
"I’ve grown so tired of trying to pretend I still love her when I actually don’t. It’s been over a year since I fell out of love with her, and honestly? I can’t even find a reason why I fell for her in the first place.”
The hallway seemed to tilt. I’d reached for the wall to steady myself, but his next words were the ones that truly brought my world down in ruins.
“She isn’t like my Lydia,” he sighed, his voice softening with a tenderness I hadn't felt in months. “I’ve known this new Lydia for just a year, and yet she beats the seven years I’ve known the other one. They’ve only got the same name, but she’s nothing like her. She’s... everything the first one isn't.”
I’d stumbled back, my legs turning to lead, and somehow made it back to my father’s house.
For two weeks, I became a ghost. I cried until my eyes were raw and my throat was parched, mourning a seven-year life that had been erased in a single sentence.
And in those two weeks? Silence.
Patrick didn't call.
He didn't text.
He didn't come knocking on my father's door wondering why his girlfriend—the woman he had asked to move in with him—had suddenly vanished.
I realized then that the late night business trips and the emergency meetings of the past month hadn't been work at all. He had been building a life with her. My namesake. My replacement.
I remembered our beginning so vividly it hurt. I was fresh out of college, painting by the basketball courts to escape my father’s constant badgering about marriage.
Patrick had been mid-game, drenched in sweat, his friends shouting for him to pass the ball, yet he had stopped dead in his tracks just to woo me.
He spent a month chasing me, tucking into my life until I couldn't imagine a day without him. Until I said ‘yes’ when he got down on his knees with those flowers.
Seven years.
I had given him everything. I had given him my youth, my heart, and the prestige of being the woman on the arm of the city’s fourth richest heir.
I had waited for the ring, for the ‘Will you marry me?’ I wanted him to utter, that would finally satisfy my father and secure my future. Instead, I got a face-slapping truth: I was a placeholder.
I pushed open the front door, and the sight in the living room made my heart constrict so violently I thought it might actually stop.
Patrick was lying on the sofa, his head resting in the lap of a girl. She was beautiful, fragile, and undoubtedly the other Lydia. He was stroking her hair with a rhythmic, adoring touch.
Her gaze snapped to mine, and she immediately tried to push him off in embarrassment, but Patrick held her firm.
She whispered something to him, pointing toward me. When Patrick turned his head, the warmth vanished. His eyes were ice.
Slowly, deliberately, he grabbed the other Lydia by the hair—not roughly, but possessively—and planted a lingering peck on her lips.
He did it to mock me. I'd wondered why he finally remembered I existed, why he called me over to his house—some part of me wished he'd realized his mistake—but it was clear what he called me for.
A broken chuckle escaped my lips before I could stop it. Tears blurred my vision, but I refused to let them fall in front of them.
“I’ll be in the garden,” I said, my voice thin and brittle. “Waiting until you’re... done with her.”
I turned to flee, but his voice stopped me cold. “Stop.” He looked at the girl in his lap. “Lydia, give us two minutes.” She nodded, standing up and smoothing her skirt.
As she passed me, she paused to offer a small, polite greeting. I could only nod back, paralyzed by the surreal cruelty of it all.
“Sit down,” Patrick said once we were alone, his voice devoid of any emotion.
“I’m better off standing,” I replied, my hands balled into fists at my sides. “Why did you call me here, Patrick?”
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he walked to the window, watching the other Lydia as she wandered through the garden, sniffing the flowers with an innocent grace.
“How do you view her?” he asked, not looking at me.
I looked at her—at her soft features and the way she seemed to glow in the sunlight. “Sweet. Kind. Innocent. Full of love,” I whispered.
“She reminds me of how you used to be,” he said, finally turning to face me. “Six, seven years ago…before you changed. Doesn't she?”
The unfairness of it nearly choked me. He was the one who had changed me! He had molded me, pressured me, and demanded I become someone else to fit into his high-society world, and now he was belittling me for the very transformation he had caused.
“Yes,” I said simply, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an argument.
He walked up to me and reached out, patting my hair with a chillingly platonic affection. “Lydia, you’ve been a wonderful girlfriend... but I don't see a future with you. Let's not waste our time any longer”
“Seven years!” I finally broke, my voice rising into a jagged yell. “We dated for seven years, Patrick! And only now you realize you don't see a future?”
He stepped back, looking annoyed rather than guilty. “I’m sorry, but my heart doesn't choose you anymore!”
"I’ve known her for a year, and I already know I want to spend my life with her. It’s unfair to her if I keep double-dating. I don't want to hurt her, so I need to let you off.”
That was why he finally had the balls to end this…because he didn't want to hurt her. The girl of one year was worth more protection than the woman of seven.
“Even though we basically broke up two weeks ago in my mind,” he muttered, “I’ll say it officially. Let’s end things, Lydia.”
Things.
Our seven years were just ‘things’ to him?!
“Okay,” I said, lifting my chin, though my soul felt like it was crumbling into ash. “I’ll get my bags.”
“They’re by your left,” he said coldly.
I turned. There, stacked neatly by the door, was my luggage. He hadn't even waited for me to pack; he had cleared my existence out of his room like it was trash day.
I grabbed the handle of my suitcase, the wheels clicking loudly against the marble floor.
I didn't look back.
“Goodbye, Patrick,” I whispered.
The lumps I'd been trying to swallow finally escaped as I felt a tear roll down my cheek.
“Our story ends here. and from this moment on... I’ll stop loving you.”
