My hands trembled slightly as I placed the divorce papers on the table. "I want a divorce.” Taking a deep breath, I forced the words out, my voice tremble because the of anger and sadness I felt.

He didn't even look up from his phone, his thumb scrolling the screen with ease. "You know you can't do that, Nicole." His dismissal was nonchalant, having no hint of concern.

" I can't do it?" The question shot out before I could stop it, laced with a fury that burned in my gut. "Do you think I can't do it?"

Finally, he looked up, his green eyes meeting mine, but with a chilling nonchalant attitude. "We had an agreement, Nicole," he said, "One year was the deal. This is just six months."

"Yes, and guess what?" I crossed my hands over my chest, as my voice echo through the living room. "The agreement also stated grounds for early termination of agreement, and guess who's met those grounds now?" My voice trembled with barely contained emotion.

"I don't give a damn about some terms and conditions written by your greedy lawyer" he spat, his jaw tightening.

"Well, I give a damn," I countered, my voice rising. "That's why I want a damn divorce!" The final word sounded more like a declaration of war against the life we had built.

I could feel the tension in the room becoming thick with anger, it was enough to choke me. I stood in front of Nicholas, replaying all the things I've been through because of him and his Casanova lifestyle. At this point, I couldn't hold it in any longer.

"What exactly is the problem this time?" Nicholas asked, his voice dripping with false concern. It was like a switch had flipped. Was he really asking me what the problem was when he himself had been the only problem I have.

"You," I spat, my voice tight with frustration. "You are the problem! You are always the problem, Nicholas. And you will always be the problem" Each of my words were laced with venom, they are evidence of the years of the surpressed resentment bubbling up inside me.

He furrowed his brow, playing the ignorance game as usual. "Me? I don't understand what you're saying," he said, his voice smooth as butter.

That's what made it worse. His nonchalant attitude, him forming ignorance, and constantly denying it. "Don't play dumb," I snapped.

"Please, elaborate! Mrs. Nicole Jackwood," he sneered, using my name with his last name. It was a deliberate jab, a way of reminding me that I was still stuck to him legally and there was nothing I could do about it.

A surge of anger coursed through me. "Don't start with me. Don't do that," I warned, making my voice sound low and dangerous. "All these emotional blackmail tactics are enough. They won't work on me anymore."

He threw his head back and laughed, a hollow, mirthless sound. "Emotional blackmail?" He wiped a nonexistent tear from his eye. "You don't even know the meaning of what you are saying."

His dismissal stung me deeply. He walked past me, going towards his room. Circulating the atmosphere with his indifference. "When you're ready to be a grown-up and tell me your actual problem, you know where to find me."

The weight of his words settled on me like an heavy cloak. I knew I wasn't the one creating the problems; he was the one with the problem. Yet, here I was, the one made to feel childish, the one who had to chase him for a conversation, the one overreacting.

In that moment, I won't keep quiet and endure this anymore. Before he could fully retreat into the his room, I chased after him, my voice laced with a desperate tone.

"The problem..." I started, my throat restricting with bitter tears. Swallowing the lump, I forced myself to continue, "You go around flirting with everyone in a skirt. I can't even step foot in the damn fashion house without whispers following me like a bad perfume."

"Is this not Nicolas Jackwood's wife?" I mimicked in a high-pitched, mocking voice, my hands flying to my hips. "Her husband asked me out last week! Can you believe the nerve? And then there was the other one, bragging about the Bottega bag my husband gifted her. My voice dripped with sarcasm, mirroring the whispers that had become a consistent soundtrack in my life.

"I'm tired, Nicholas," I sighed, the fight momentarily draining out of me. "Exhausted of these rumors, of the constant embarrassment they've caused me. How can I hold my head high at work when everyone seems to know about my husband flirting games?”

The tears I've been holding welled in my eyes, blurring the vision of the man I married, the man I'd begged to marry me.

My voice cracked as I spoke, each word was a piece of the broken trust. "I know I was the one who asked for this marriage," I confessed, "but the very least you could do is respect the vows you made, even if it's just until our contract is over."

He scoffed, a wry smile twisting his lips. "Vows?" he echoed, the word dripping with sarcasm. "My dearest wife," he continued, his voice laced with a mockery that sent a fresh wave of hurt through me, "you asked for a good husband in public. And haven't I delivered just that?"

My heart hammered against my ribs. "That's not what I meant, Nicholas!" I cried.

"Oh, but it is," he countered, his eyes gleaming with a cruel amusement. "Talking about vows, are you referring to the fake vow we took in front of the fake priest you hired? You of all people shouldn't be complaining about the performance?"

"How can you still find this funny?" I choked out, the betrayal a bitter pill on my tongue.

"It is funny. In fact, you are funny, my wife," he said, the weight of his words crushing me. He turned to leave, then paused as if struck by a sudden thought. "Get ready tonight," he said over his shoulder, a reminder of our fake relationship. "We have a pomp to attend."

With that, he disappeared into the hallway, leaving me alone with the stark reality reflected in the ignored divorce papers. I came to him to get a divorce, now I'm supposed to go to a pomp with him. How would I survive tonight?

Chapter 2

Ever since I'd married Nicholas Jackwood, he had constantly been messing with my sanity. I thought he would be my chance to escape hell but he apparently became unbearable for me. Now that I thought I could have a peaceful divorce, Nicholas had shut down any possibility of a clean break.

Since I married him, every public appearance, every business meeting, felt shadowed by the news of Nicholas' latest scandal. Rumors, like wildfire, spread through the business industry, threatening to tarnish the carefully created image I'd built.

My name, once identical to elegance and success, now carried a faint smoke of scandal, all thanks to my husband's penchant for public flirting. Defeat and exhaustion washed over me like a cold wave. The weight of it all pressed down on me. I'd poured my heart and soul into my career, and now, it felt like Nicholas' careless actions could destroy it all.

The anger that had prompted my initial confrontation simmered down, replaced by a hopelessness. How much longer could I keep fighting this losing battle? How much longer could I endure it?

Here I am, preparing for the pomp he was invited to. Nicholas and I came to pick a dress for tonight event. This boutique had been where I shop for my wears. It has all types of dresses for all event. I already booked an appointment with my hairstylist and make up artist. Even if I wasn't happy, I had to look happy.

Looking around, I caught a glimpse of Nicholas lounging on a plush velvet armchair, flipping through a fashion magazine with a bored expression. This was our usual pre-pomp ritual. Me, stressed and running a tight schedule, booking appointments with stylists and searching for a dress that would just fit the occasion, and Nicholas, who is always in attendance just to make sure my dress suit his taste.

"Anything catch your eye yet, dearest?" he drawled, barely looking up from the magazine. His voice dripped with an infuriating nonchalance that grated on my nerves.

I forced a smile. "Not yet, but I'd get something soon." That was half truth, the truth is I don't even want to be here I the first place. However, half the dresses here are not even up to his taste. Either the colors were "too loud," or the necklines were "too revealing," and anything remotely interesting was deemed "inappropriate." It felt like he was determined to turn me into a mannequin, a perfect accessory rather than a woman with her own style.

A sigh escaped my lips as one of the saleswoman launched into a description of a gown that shimmered with a thousand silver sequins. It was breathtaking, but I knew before she even finished that Nicholas would dismiss it for being "too flashy."

Nicholas stood up from where he was sitting, he launched his search for a dress. His performance of playing a happy couple in public, was exhausting. But for now, I played my part, flipping through racks of dresses with him, all the while yearning for the day when I wouldn't have to wear whatever he wants again.

The silence between us was awkward, if he can play the happy couple game, I could play along. "The people here are going to think you're the best husband in town," I remarked, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Only I deserve that award, my wife," he countered with a smirk, the kind that never reached his eyes.

I scoffed, tossing the black dress I was holding back on the rack. This whole charade of dress shopping was a game I was growing increasingly tired of playing.

Picking up a fiery red dress, I felt a rebellious spark ignite within me. This dress was daring just by looking at it. I imagine how it will hug my curves in all the right places. I place the dress in front of me, turning to Nicholas as a way of calling his attention.

"I don't like this one," Nicholas finally spoke immediately he saw it, his voice laced with disapproval. "Too revealing."

"Like I care," I retorted, surprising even myself with my newfound defiance.

"You are Nicole Jackwood," he countered, his tone clipped, a reminder that I am still his wife.

"Only on the paper," I shot back, my voice firm. The truth hung heavy in the air, a silent accusation.

He gathered his charm and moved closer to me, his voice dropping to a low murmur that sent shivers down my spine, not of desire, but of apprehension.

"Be a good girl, Nicole," he breathed into my ear, his words laced with a veiled threat. "Pick the other red dress."

The air in the boutique grew thick with tension. This wasn't just about a dress anymore. I moved away from him before his presence choke me. A prickle of unease ran down my spine as I surveyed the rack for the other red dress.

Despite the little arguments and the ever-present shadow of the awkwardness we carried as a couple, we seemed to be the picture-perfect couple in front of others. As I look around to see if anyone caught on with our little argument, heads were already turned towards us in admiration.

Ignoring the stares, I surprised myself by reaching for the red dress. Without a word, I disappeared into the changing room, the red silk cool against my skin.

Stepping out, I took a deep breath, half-expecting his usual “I don't care” attitude. But instead, his silence welcomed me. I stared at my reflection and it stared back giving me a vision of confidence in the red dress. That felt both exciting and strange at the same time.

Then, Nicholas spoke, his voice bringing me back to reality. "You look stunning," he said, his voice low and husky. For a moment, I almost believed him. He held my gaze longer than usual, and a flicker of something unreadable crossed his features. Was it surprise? Or admiration? I can't say.

Before I could dissect his expression further, he moved past me, a hint of impatience in his tone. "Let's get you some matching jewelry and shoes," he said, already heading towards the shoe ranks in the boutique.

The compliment was still ringing in my head. Had I won this small battle? No, that was his usual way of flirting with woman. I shouldn't take it seriously. But, I won't lie, his simple compliment got to me. The red dress felt like a symbol of my victory.

We exited the boutique with bags of the things I got. Nicholas waved off my protests and insisted on paying for everything. It wasn't like I couldn't afford it myself, but he always insist on paying, saying “I'm your husband, I should be responsible for everything you wear for me.”

We walked back to to the parking lot of the boutique in silence. As we reached the sleek black car waiting at the curb, a practiced smile etched on Nicholas's face. He opened the door with a charm, the gesture as empty as the vow we made on our wedding day.

"Thank you," I murmured, slipping into the cool leather interior. The air conditioner felt like it was trying to quench the burning knot of anger and sadness twisted in my gut.

Nicholas leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You should go home.” I gave him a questioning look.

“I have some unfinished business around here," he said, a wink accompanying the words that sent a fresh wave of nausea washing over me.

I knew exactly what "unfinished business" meant. Another one of his flings. A choked laugh escaped my lips, a bitter sound that echoed in the confined space.

"Right," I managed, forcing a smile that felt brittle and strained. "Well, have a productive evening then."

As the car pulled away, leaving Nicholas standing on the curb, a single tear traced a path down my cheek. "We're married just on paper," I whispered, the words a hollow echo in the silence.

Chapter 3

I can feel the weight of tonight's event already settling on me as I stood before the mirror. The red dress which was the symbol of my victory just moments ago, now seemed to mock me. Washing away my makeup, the reflection staring back was now a stranger, a woman with dark circles under her eyes, a proof of the exhaustion that had finally etched itself into my life.

Since forever, I've been fighting tooth and nail for acceptance, first as a girl child, now as a wife. The first battle was kind of over but the second one seemed far from over, and it is like a heavy cloak on my shoulders.

Lifting my hand, I traced the shadows under my eyes, the physical manifestation of my emotional turmoil. A question, that kept coming up a thousand times from the quiet corners of my mind, finally escaped my lips quietly. "Am I not beautiful enough?"

Before I could stop myself, the question came out of my mouth. This time, they weren't a silent plea or a question lost in the business of the world. This time, they were like a painful cry, a demand for an answer, but from who exactly? Nicholas or my ruthless uncle?

"Am I not beautiful enough?" The statement kept echoing in my head as I let the hairstylist do her thing on my head.

A soft voice startled me. "You are beautiful, ma'am," my hairstylist replied, her voice gentle. I'd completely forgotten she was there, standing silently behind me, her gaze not leaving mine.

I turned to face her, a wry smile gracing my lips. It felt polite, the automatic response to a compliment, but it didn't quite reach my eyes. "Thank you," I murmured, the gratitude hollow.

Her gaze held mine for a beat longer than professional courtesy dictated. Perhaps she sensed the trouble bubbling from inside of me, the storm brewing behind my carefully constructed facade. But the moment passed, and she returned to her work, her brush stroke smoothly against my hair.

I turned back to the mirror, but my reflection remained a stranger. The compliment, though kind, felt like a Band-Aid on my gaping wound. It did little job by soothing the aching in my heart. The question lingered in the air, a silent echo in the room. Did it even matter if I was beautiful, when the man I'd married seemed not to see it? Why can't he see me the way the my hairstylist did?

I knew my beauty shouldn't be defined by Nicholas or societal expectations. Yet, their voices, like a relentless chorus, filled my head. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing they could be quiet. For the first time, I craved a different answer, a truth that came from within, not from external validation.

The final touches of lipstick were applied, and I leaned back, surveying my reflection in the mirror. Makeup, as always, worked its magic. It masked the dark circles under my eyes, all the evidence of a sleepless night fueled by worry were now covered with makeup.

All this time, I'd tried to maintain a facade, a strong woman unfazed by his actions and the constant rumors swirling around. But tonight, the mask had begun to slip. The exhaustion, the gnawing sense of worthlessness, it is now obvious even with the carefully painted face of mine staring back at me in the mirror. Despite everything, I look stunning.

"Maybe I should see a therapist," I thought. The thought of talking to someone who wouldn't judge, who might offer a path out of this suffocating situation, felt like a beacon of hope in the darkness.

What I craved was something deeper, a way to heal the wounds constant betrayals had inflicted on me, and more importantly, the ones I'd unknowingly inflicted on myself.

For the first time, I acknowledged the truth. Endurance had its limits. The humiliation, the constant questioning of my self-worth, it was slowly eating away at me. Maybe, a therapist could help me untangle the mess, rebuild my self-esteem, and find the strength to break free from this cage, not just physically, but emotionally as well.

The red dress hugged my curves flawlessly, my hair was done, my face all caked up. I was more than ready physically for the pomp but was I ready mentally? I don't think so.

Hours ticked by but Nicholas was nowhere to be found. The initial anticipation I was feeling about the pomp had changed into a tense silence. I was already frustrated enough, must he always add to it. Even with the whirlwind of emotions, a carefully painted smile was on my face.

Finally, the sound of the front door opening shattered the quiet. I spun around, expecting to see Nicholas unprepared for the event. Instead, he strolled in, fully prepared, adjusting the lapels of his tuxedo. He looked immaculate, every hair in place, but that wasn't the point.

"Where have you been?" My voice was a low rumble, laced with a dangerous mix of anger and hurt.

He met my gaze, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his features. But before he could answer, a practiced smile flickered across his face. "We don't want to be late, my love," he said, his voice smooth as silk. “Let's go. “

He reached for my hand, but I recoiled, the movement sharp and instinctive. "Don't," I spat, the word laced with venom. "Don't touch me."

The smile faltered for a brief moment, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. But quickly, the practiced charm returned. "Is this really the time for a fight, darling?" he drawled, his voice dripping with a false concern.

"Don't you dare call me darling," I shot back, my voice gaining strength with every word. "Where were you, Nicholas? All this time, while I sat here waiting for you?"

He reached out to me, and took my hands, carefully placing it on his. He didn't say anything else, he didn't answer me. His silence was a loud answer, enough to be the confirmation of the suspicions that had gnawed at me for far too long. It was at this moment, I knew I couldn't ignore the truth any longer.

The ballroom sparkles with a thousand glittering lights, a dissonance sound of clinking glasses and polite chatter filled the air as I look around the scene. Here I am, amidst the titans of the business industry, the captains of commerce, and I didn't feel like I was out of place.

The red dress I wore was now a symbol of power and declaration, a declaration that I belonged here in the midst of business elites, not just as Nicholas's Jackwood’s wife, but on my own merit, as Nicole Thomas, the successor of my late father's company.

Yet, despite the outward confidence, a flicker of self-consciousness remained. This was my first pomp event as Nicholas's wife. I've attended once when my father was still alive. This made me over conscious of myself.

Nicholas moved through the room like a shark in familiar waters, a charming smile and a witty remark at the ready for every social encounter. But while his gaze flitted across the room, it lingered a beat too long on a certain young socialite, her laughter tinkling like expensive jewelry.

A familiar pang of jealousy stabbed at me, a bitter reminder of the real reason why Nicholas's returned late from his unfinished business. He wasn't just here for business deals or social niceties; he was here to do what he knows how to do best, which is to indulge in his favorite pastime.

Ignoring the knot of anger tightening in my stomach, I straightened my posture, and embraced the remaining feeling of confidence left in me. Tonight, I wouldn't be a silent bystander in this ballroom. Tonight, I would play my part, hold my head high, and perhaps, I would find my own voice and my healing. Maybe, It was time to stop being a wife who is affected by the actions of her husband and start being a woman who is defined by her own strength and ambition.

If I claim I wasn’t bothered by Nicholas's blatant disregard for me would be a lie. The sight of him flitting from social butterfly to social butterfly, each interaction punctuated by a flash of suggestive smile and lingering touch, sent a fresh wave of anger crashing through me.

But I refused to let him ruin my night. Instead of wallowing in self-pity, I decided to play the game even if I wasn't a match for him in this game. This was, after all, the world I'd married into, a world of carefully constructed appearances and strategic conversations.

Before I knew it, familiar faces began to emerge from nowhere. There was Mr. Thompson, a long-time business associate of my father's, who offered his heartfelt condolences and a warm smile. Julian Bergen, a fellow entrepreneur I'd met at a conference, he praised my recent victory against my conniving uncle, his words laced with admiration. And then there was Mrs Sara Quincy, a potential investor in my upcoming project, who engaged me in a stimulating conversation about the future of the business industry.

As the minutes melted into hours, I found myself captivated by the ebb and flow of conversation. I shared stories to those who asked about my fight for my father's company, my voice gaining strength and confidence with each word. I listened to their insights, their ideas sparking a flicker of inspiration within me. In that whirlwind of conversation, I momentarily forgot about Nicholas and whatever he was doing.

For the first time this night, I felt a sense of purpose, a connection to people, to something bigger than the suffocating cage of my marriage. Perhaps, I mused, there was a way to navigate this world on my own terms. Maybe I should continue to build my network of allies, forge my own path in the business world, a path paved with respect and hard work.

A tug on my elbow pulled me from my thoughts. I turned to see Nicholas, the expression on his face was a mask of forced amusement. But before he could utter a word, a voice cut through the air.

"Nicole! There you are! I was just looking for you," Julian Bergen called out, his smile genuine. I felt a wave of relief wash over me, a welcome escape from the impending confrontation with Nicholas. Tonight, I don't have strength to question him about whatever he was doing. I wouldn't even warn him to be careful about his image in this ballroom. I'd allow him do him, and I'd do me.

Julian and I chatted effortlessly for minutes, he was a good escape for me. As we jumped from one topic to another, I noticed Nicholas staring at me from the other side of the ballroom. If he was bothered, he wouldn't have left in the first place. Julian's presence was needed someone else, so I was left alone again.

Just then, a woman with a cloud of blonde hair and a dress that shines like spilled champagne stood beside me. "You know," she slurred, her voice thick with cocktails, "marriage isn't a bed of roses, but you can add roses to it!" She giggled, the sound like tinkling ice cubes.

To be honest, I had no idea who she was. Maybe a socialite on the arm of a minor investor, or perhaps a plus-one with a penchant for overindulgence. Either way, her words swam in my head, nonsensical and strangely profound at the same time.

"I… I don't understand," I stammered, blinking in confusion.

The woman, oblivious to my bewilderment, continued, "My husband, oh he was a Mr. Ladies' Man back then! Everyone wanted him. But you see, I didn't enter marriage like a battlefield. No weapons, just roses." She finished her pronouncement with a flourish, then teetered away on stiletto heels that defied gravity.

I stared after her, a bewildered smile spreading across my face. Her garbled message, delivered in a tipsy haze, somehow resonated with me. Was she suggesting I fight fire with… flowers?

The absurdity of it made me laugh, a genuine, unrestrained peal that bubbled up from my chest. Maybe there was truth in her nonsensical ramblings. What does it mean to bring roses to a battlefield? I don't even know how to add roses to the bed of my marriage. The absurd idea made me laugh.

The only answer I have now is cultivating my own garden, nurturing my own strength and happiness. I would seek help, a therapist who could guide me through the emotional battlefield I'd been navigating for far too long.

It was time to stop seeking validation from people who couldn't offer it, and start focusing on being a better woman, a strong woman, a woman deserving of love, respect, and a life filled with roses.

Looking back at Nicholas who is busy as usual, his indifference was the contrast of the hope I had felt rekindling within me, I knew I had made a the right choice.

I walked into the dining room, the silence thick enough to cut with a knife. Nicholas sat there, a picture of normalcy as he scrolled through his phone, a half-eaten croissant abandoned on his plate.

The memory of last night flooded my mind, the image of him going from woman to woman, still clear in my mind. But this morning, a strange sense of calm had settled over me.

He gaze shift from his phone, giving me his full attention. "You had a great time last night," Nicholas remarked, his voice laced with sarcasm and veiled accusation.

I met his gaze, "Yes, I can say the same for you," I replied, my voice devoid of its usual deference. "I hope the after-party was good too." The words hung in the air.

"Don't start this morning," he muttered, taking a large gulp of coffee, the clink of the cup against the saucer a jarring sound in the tense silence.

"Don't start what, Nicholas?" I challenged, my voice calm but firm. "Should I talk about the way you were practically glued to every woman in the hall last night?"

He dropped his phone down on the table, a flash of amusement erupting in his eyes. "Those women are business owners, Nicole," he snapped. "They are potential investors."

I think he finds my jealousy amusing. Was I jealous? I don't think so. "I'll keep that in mind," I said coolly, pushing my chair forward and reaching for the croissant.

As I dig into my food, his voice cut through the air. "What are your plans for today?" He asked with something I would have called concern if I didn't know him well.

The question almost made me laugh. Did he truly believe we could return to normalcy after the events of last night? Part of me yearned to rip into him, to tear his carefully constructed facade to shred. I contemplated ignoring him altogether, but the stretched silence bothers me and a part of me decided to play along, for now.

"I have an appointment today," I replied, my tone deliberately flat, omitting the details of my appointment. I don't have plans of telling me about my plans of getting help from a therapist.

"With whom?" he inquired, a flicker of suspicion crossing his features.

A slow smile spread across my face, now was the time to give him a taste of his own medicine. "Dearest husband," I drawled, savoring the way his face contorted in annoyance, "I don't think that's any of your business."

The victory I felt after seeing the look on his face was satisfying. The feeling might be short-lived but strangely, it was satisfying.

“You had never seized to amaze me” he retort, matching my energy.

“Benefits of learning from the best” I pointed at him so he can know he was the one I was referring to. "Enjoy your breakfast, Nicholas," I said, pushing back my chair. "I have a very important appointment to keep." With that, I rose and walked out of the dining room, leaving him speechless behind.

Everything I did felt deliberate as I prepared for the day. The purple pants and the lilac blouse, the bright outfit is a shade of the blossoming hope in me. This therapy appointment, a step towards healing and self-discovery, was just the beginning of better days for me.

I put on my chosen outfit with the knowledge that the road ahead wouldn't be easy, but I was finally ready to walk it, alone if need be, and emerge stronger on the other side.

My reflection stared back, the dark circles beneath my eyes were covered with makeup, a perfect shield I've been using to cover up. But today, I chose to apply a little of it. Both physically and mentally, I was fully prepared to start afresh.

Sliding behind the wheel of my car, the familiar route to an unknown destination unfolded before me. Today is my first day with my therapist, a woman I didn't know, yet to whom I will entrust the most fragile parts of myself.

I reached for the radio, a desperate attempt to fill the silence with a comforting melody. But the universe seemed to have a different plan. The first song, about undying love, grated on my already raw emotions. A quick click on the radio landed on another love song, then another.

“What's with the love songs?” With a sigh, I surrendered. The music, though not what I craved, filled the void with a melancholic beauty. The lyrics, dripping with promises of forever and unwavering devotion, struck a deep chord.

"I really want to relate to this songs," I whispered to myself, the words a confession, a yearning that had been buried deep for far too long. It was a painful truth, a reminder of the feelings I'd craved from Nicholas but I don't think that will ever happen.

But amidst the whirlwind of emotions, and the new realization of being loved. I focused on my appointment, this therapy session wasn't just about fixing my marriage, it was about rediscovering myself, the woman beneath the layers of hurt and disappointment. Maybe, unlocking my happiness is the beginning of the true love I craved.

With a newfound determination, I focused on the road ahead. The therapist's office was a step towards healing, a chance to learn to love and cherish myself, the strongest foundation for any love story waiting to be written. I pulled into the familiar parking lot of the therapist's office. This wasn't the big hospital I imagined, it was small like a converted house with a calming aura. Taking a deep breath, I smoothed out my lilac blouse and stepped inside.

The receptionist, a woman with a warm smile, greeted me. "Hi there, you must be Nicole. Dr. Vic is expecting you." She directed me down a hallway adorned with calming picture frame about impotance of mental health and healthy living.

"Dr. Vic," the sign on the door read. I hesitated for a beat, pushing aside the doubts, I knocked once and pushed the door open. A man, probably in his early thirties with kind eyes framed with well trimmed eyebrows looked up from behind a desk filled with files. He offered a warm welcoming smile.

Confusion washed over me as I saw the man. Was I in the wrong office? My therapist, the person I was entrusting with my deepest vulnerabilities, was supposed to be a woman, I thought. But here, in the office was a clear indication otherwise. “Is Vic not the short form of Victoria? I pondered.

"You must be Nicole. I'm Dr. Vic." He said, his deep voice calling me out of my confused state.

Surprise momentarily stunned me. "I… I thought my therapist was a woman…….. Vic as in Victoria" I stammered, I don't want to sound stereotypical because of his name. Was this some kind of mistake?

Dr. Vic's smile remained gentle. "That must have been a misunderstanding, I'm Vic as in Victor" he said calmly. "Please, have a seat. We can discuss your concerns, and if you're uncomfortable, we can certainly find another therapist who might be a better fit."

“No, there's no need for that. I'm fine with you.” I told him without thinking too much.

But a male therapist? It wasn't what I'd envisioned, but Dr. Vic's warm demeanor was disarming. Maybe, gender wouldn't matter. The important thing was finding someone who could truly listen, someone who could guide me through the emotional maze I'd gotten myself lost in.

Taking a deep breath, I stepped further into the office and settled into the chair across from Dr. Vic. "This might be unconventional," I said, my voice barely a whisper, "but maybe Dr Vic is exactly what I need."