Seven Years of Love Seven Minutes of Truth novel Chapter 45

Chapter 14 

I didn’t see Alex for a long time after that. 

But that promised wish remained like an invisible thread, always connecting us. 

He didn’t come to claim it, I didn’t fulfill it – as if keeping this connection meant there could still be an 

outcome. 

During this waiting period, I met with Victoria once. 

Surprisingly, she had divorced. 

“Unexpected, right?” She sat across from me, expression mild. “I never doubted he loved me. But his love for me didn’t stop him from loving others.” 

“Everyone advised me to turn a blind eye, saying keeping power was what mattered.” 

“Those affairs were just men’s entertainment, they said. Every man in that circle has one or two.” 

“But I, Victoria Bennett, couldn’t do it. I couldn’t tolerate it. I couldn’t have even a grain of sand in my eye.” 

She said she’d taken half the assets, enough for a comfortable life. 

But in that world, how could someone who hadn’t truly loved be so intolerant of imperfection? 

Time passed until autumn painted the world, when I finally received Alex’s message. 

I remembered those years, how he rarely made birthday wishes. 

He’d always push the cake to me, letting me wish instead. I’d usually announce my wish loudly. 

Like: “I wish Alex and Emma will stay together forever, never apart.” 

He’d always been without desires – nothing in this world he needed to wish for. 

So I couldn’t guess what he wanted me to fulfill. 

Until I entered that rental apartment again. 

Everything unchanged, even the angle of sunlight falling the same way. 

Dishes on the table, sounds of cooking from the kitchen. 

Chapter 14 

Muscle memory led me to lean against the doorframe, watching him. 

Without turning, just like before, he said: “One more dish, then we can eat.” 

Alex wasn’t actually a good cook, just better than me. 

I tried each dish while he watched without eating. 

Like any ordinary day from those years, now tinged with farewell’s finality. 

“Did you always know how to cook?” I asked a long–standing question. 

“No,” he shook his head. “Mrs. Thompson – my childhood nanny – taught me. When I told her I wanted to learn cooking, she felt my forehead for fever.” 

“Your cooking actually isn’t very good.” 

“But you always ate happily.” 

The room darkened, neither of us turning on lights, sitting in a corner of the carpet. 

“I should go,” I said. 

“Emma, not everything was pretense these years.” 

I crouched down, tracing his features: “Would we ever marry?” 

We wouldn’t, so you remain silent, unable to promise.