I waited for ten hours at the Registrar’s Office again, until the screen above the window went completely dark. I spoke calmly into my phone. “Ethan, the Registrar’s Office is closed again.” This was the third time he’d left me to become a joke on the day we were supposed to sign our marriage license. Each time, the excuse was identical. Chloe, the girl next door, was so helpless, she couldn’t even turn on a gas stove. He said she was all alone and so clumsy, and he was just lending a hand. Once, I bought into his grand excuses. I let her tag along on every date. I got used to him being called away mid-movie. Even when people openly mocked me for being too invested, I held my head high and endured it. But my patience only brought out his entitlement. Finally, there was a stir from the earpiece. He clearly heard me say the Registrar’s Office was closed again, yet he couldn’t even be bothered with a perfunctory apology. On the other end of the line, he deliberately lowered his voice, coaxing her with extreme patience. “Don’t worry, it’s just a scratch from a broken nail. Leave it, I’ll put a band-aid on it right away.” Meanwhile, the marriage license application form in my hand was being swept into the trash like garbage by the cleaning lady. It was never just “helping out.” He simply couldn’t bear for her to face even the slightest setback. And this ten-year-long, dead-end relationship? I didn’t want it anymore.
I walked out of the Registrar’s Office and took a cab back to my apartment building. The elevator ascended to the seventeenth floor. I stood at my door and pressed my thumb to the fingerprint scanner. The screen flashed red: “Fingerprint not recognized.” I tried again, red letters again. I typed in the code, my birthday — a six-digit number I’d used for ten years. “Incorrect password.” I tried his birthday. “Incorrect password. Two attempts remaining.” I pulled my finger back. He’d missed our wedding registration, but he remembered to change the lock code. The hallway was silent, the lock’s blue indicator light blinking. I leaned against the wall, a cold dread creeping up my back, vertebra by vertebra. The elevator chimed. Ethan stepped out, Chloe walking half a step behind him. Her left index finger had a pink Hello Kitty band-aid, but her manicure was perfectly intact. “Where have you been?” Ethan’s first words weren’t an apology when he saw me. “I called you six times. You didn’t answer a single one.” He frowned. “Do you know how worried I was?” Chloe peeked out from behind him, her voice light and soft. “Ethan, is Summer mad… It’s all my fault, I shouldn’t have asked you for help…” The finger with the band-aid fluttered in front of his eyes. Ethan immediately turned back. “It’s not your fault, Chloe.” He turned to me, his tone softening. “She’s so clumsy, she scratched her finger with a broken nail. I just helped put a band-aid on it. It’s just a small thing.” I didn’t respond. I sidestepped between him and Chloe, walking straight to the lock. “What’s the code?” “…352716.” The door opened. I walked straight to the liquor cabinet. On the top shelf, a bottle of whiskey, its label yellowed and curling at the edges. He’d bought it ten years ago, saying we’d open it on our wedding day. I took it down. “What are you doing with that?” Ethan followed me into the living room. “You said we’d drink it on our wedding day.” “Right, so put it back,” he said. I inverted the bottle. The amber liquid splattered onto the carpet, soaking in fast, leaving a large, dark stain. The entire living room filled with the dull, sour smell of fermentation, clinging to my nostrils. “Summer!” He rushed over to snatch the bottle, but it was already empty. The last few drops fell from the neck, landing on his shoe. “What’s wrong with you?” “Ethan, this is the third time we’ve scheduled to get married.” “I explained, Chloe hurt her hand.” “We won’t make it to that day.” I placed the empty bottle on the coffee table. His face flushed, a vein pulsed at his temple. “Unbelievable.” He spat out the words and turned toward the entryway. Chloe stood there, unmoving, her fingers tugging at her sleeve, her gaze flickering toward me. “Chloe, go inside and rest. Don’t mind her.” He put an arm around Chloe’s shoulder, and they both went into the master bedroom. The door closed, leaving only the wine stain and the sour smell in the living room. I went to the study and pulled open the drawer. My driver’s license, passport, copies of the apartment deed. I took each item out, one by one, and put them into a canvas tote bag. My phone vibrated. Chloe’s new post on Instagram. A photo of the master bedroom’s king-sized bed, with a dark gray suit sleeve draped over a chair in the top right corner of the frame. It was captioned with a sun emoji and a smile. Posted three minutes ago. I opened my contacts. Ethan. Swiped left. Delete. Opened our chat, then blocked him completely. The screen jumped back to my contacts list, his profile picture gone. I zipped up my canvas tote bag and placed my phone face down on the desk. The drawer was empty. The liquor cabinet was empty. My contacts list, empty too.
At seven the next morning, the moving truck pulled up downstairs. Two movers came up with me. I used yesterday’s code to open the door and told them to start with the study. As I passed the master bedroom, the door was ajar. I pushed it open. Chloe stood in front of the full-length mirror, wearing my wedding dress. A white satin haute couture gown. Custom-made in Paris last year. The fabric alone cost eighty thousand. She was turning sideways, admiring the curve of the skirt, but when she heard the door, the smile on her face froze instantly. “Sum-Summer… I was just trying it on…” She took a step back, her heel caught the hem, tearing a slit in the lace. I pulled out my phone and snapped two photos of her and the tear in the dress. Footsteps echoed on the stairs. Ethan rushed down, first stunned at the movers, then saw me standing at the master bedroom door. “What are you doing?” “Moving my things,” I said. “Is this really necessary?” He blocked the doorframe, his tone softened, trying to concede. “Cool down. I’ll take you to get married tomorrow, okay?” Chloe said softly from inside, “Ethan, I didn’t mean to wear it…” “Chloe, it’s okay. Go change back.” Ethan turned to soothe her, then lowered his voice toward me. “Tomorrow. I promise.” I didn’t look at him. I pulled out my phone, opened the calculator, and turned the screen toward his face. “This gown’s fabric alone cost eighty thousand, labor another one hundred twenty thousand, plus custom fees, the total was two hundred thirty-six thousand. She tore the hem. With depreciation and damage, I’m charging you one hundred fifty thousand.” Ethan’s expression froze for a second. “What are you talking about?” “Payment.” “She’s just a kid.” “One hundred fifty thousand. Bank transfer or cash.” He stared at me, his mouth twitching. “Fine.” He pulled out his phone and flashed his bank account balance at me. One hundred sixty-three thousand, one hundred. In ten years, I’d put far more than that into this home. That was all he had left in his account. Before he could transfer the money, his phone rang. The caller ID flashed: Mom. I put it on speakerphone, and his mother’s voice boomed out. “Summer. Ethan told me you’re causing a scene again? Chloe’s just a young girl, she doesn’t know any better. You’re older, you should be more understanding. It’s just a dress.” I reached out and hung up the phone. Ethan’s mouth opened. “You…” I turned and walked into the master bedroom, stopping in front of Chloe. She had already half-undressed, the white satin piled at her feet. I bent down, picked up the wedding dress, and grabbed the scissors from the coffee table. One snip, and the ripping sound of lace echoed in the room. “Summer!” The cold glint of the scissors flashed across the satin, and pieces of white fabric fell onto the floor. Chloe clapped a hand over her mouth and retreated to the corner. By the time Ethan rushed in, the last piece of the skirt hem tore away in my hands. The fragments fell in front of his feet. “Two hundred thirty-six thousand.” I put down the scissors. “She wore it, and your mom said I was petty. So no one gets it.” I turned and walked into the living room. On the coffee table was the bill I’d painstakingly compiled last night: ten years of transactions, every date, amount, and purpose, printed on three pages. “Take your time looking.” My canvas tote bag slung over my shoulder, I took my suitcase from the movers. Ethan stood amidst the wreckage, his mouth open, no sound coming out. The scissors lay at his feet, their metal surface reflecting the fluorescent light, cold and stark. I walked to the door. The door slammed shut, the loud bang echoing back from the hallway, making my feet tingle. The elevator doors were open, the movers deferentially stepping aside. I dragged my suitcase in and pressed the ground floor button. In the last second before the doors closed, I heard the sound of a door pulling open from the end of the hallway. But the elevator was already descending.
In the hotel lobby, the manager recognized me immediately. He blocked the entrance to the banquet hall, a look of distress on his face. “Ms. Summer, the venue has been changed.” “Changed to what?” “Chloe’s birthday party.” My fingers tightened around my bag strap. I had personally booked this venue six months ago. The deposit, the floral arrangements, the lighting — every single payment came out of my personal account. Ethan hadn’t said a word to me. “Show me the receipt,” I said coldly. The manager wrung his hands, trying to bluff his way out. “Ethan instructed…” “I want to see the receipt,” I interrupted him. He couldn’t argue, so he pulled out the booking contract. In the “Payer” column, my name, in stark black and white. I snapped a photo of the contract and dialed hotel security. When the banquet hall doors swung open, it was a lively scene inside. Chloe sat at the head table, wearing a pink poofy dress, surrounded by seven or eight of Ethan’s relatives. Someone handed her a gift, others held up phones to take photos. A three-tiered champagne tower stood tall, the top glass still fizzing with fine bubbles. When she saw me, she froze for a beat. Then she smiled. That perfectly practiced curve of fragility, innocence, and panic. “Sum-Summer?” She instinctively recoiled half a step into the crowd. I didn’t look at her. I walked straight to the sound control panel, and yanked out the power cord. The music stopped abruptly. The moment the current died, the speakers emitted a sharp, screeching static. Someone’s hand trembled, knocking over a champagne glass. The entire hall fell silent. Ethan rose from the back row and strode to me, his face ashen. “What are you doing?” “Canceling the venue.” “There are elders here…” “You used my money,” I cut him off. “To host her birthday party?” He froze. I realized he clearly thought the company had covered the cost. He probably hadn’t even checked the payment records. “Admin booked it,” he said, a hint of guilt in his voice. I slapped the contract onto a table. The paper landed on the red tablecloth, covering Chloe’s unopened gift box. “See for yourself who paid.” He looked down, his Adam’s apple bobbed. People in the hall began to whisper. One of Ethan’s aunts frowned and spoke up. “Ethan, what’s going on?” He didn’t answer. Chloe’s eyes, on cue, began to well up. She clutched the sleeve of an aunt next to her, her voice quivering perfectly. “I didn’t know… I really didn’t know it was Summer’s venue…” Her nose was red, her lashes glistening with tears. I didn’t spare her a glance, turning to the manager. “The contract is here, I’m the payer. Clear the hall.” The manager hesitated for two seconds. He looked at the contract, then at Ethan, before finally nodding to security. Waiters began clearing tables. Someone didn’t stabilize the champagne tower while moving it, and the bottom glasses clattered against the table edge. The crisp sound of shattering glass echoed, and spilled wine pooled across the table. Balloons were deflated one by one, collapsing onto the carpet. Chloe finally ran out, covering her face. Several relatives scrambled after her. Ethan stood amidst the wreckage. His hands clenched into fists, silent. I retrieved the contract and turned to leave. Behind me, he spoke, his voice low. “Are you satisfied?” I didn’t stop. “I’ll remember this. At next week’s project meeting, you’d better have a clear head.” I pushed open the lobby’s glass doors. The sunlight outside was intense, making me squint. I stood on the steps and pulled out my phone. Mr. Davis’s business card from the rival company was still tucked into my phone case. Before dialing, my throat tightened slightly, but my hand was perfectly steady. It connected after two rings. “Mr. Davis, this is Summer.” “Regarding the proposal we discussed last time, I’d like to schedule a meeting.”
Monday’s project meeting lasted forty minutes. Ethan announced Chloe would be taking over the core project I was leading. No one in the conference room made a sound. He asked if I had any objections. “None,” I replied calmly. Throughout the afternoon, I meticulously organized three years’ worth of project documents and personally handed them to Chloe’s desk. She accepted them, smiling as she said, “Thank you, Summer.” I nodded, returned to my desk, placed the voice recorder behind the pen holder and pressed record. Four days after Chloe took over, the core database crashed. That night, the client sent a letter of accountability. I counted the zeros after the loss amount three times. Ethan called me into his office. His tie was loosened halfway, his forehead slick with sweat. “You go deal with the client.” “Ethan, this isn’t my project anymore.” “But you know the process.” “Chloe knows it too. You put her in charge.” He slammed his palm on the desk. “You don’t know what’s going on?” I knew perfectly well. The voice recorder was put there precisely for this day. Every incompetent instruction Chloe gave, every wrong call she made over those four days, all of it was recorded. “You want me to take the fall?” He didn’t speak. His silence was an admission. I stood up. “Fine. I’ll handle it.” He leaned back in his chair, his shoulders visibly slumping in relief. I left his office, but I didn’t go to the client. I opened my phone and went into the company-wide WhatsApp chat group. Two hundred thirty-seven people. I dragged the compressed files into the chat window: recordings, screenshots, original client communication logs. Each file was timestamped and identified by the operator. My finger hovered over the send button, a cold prickle running through it. A second later, I pressed it. Phones across the entire floor vibrated simultaneously. The group chat was silent for a few seconds, then messages flooded in rapidly. Someone tagged Ethan, someone tagged Chloe, others just typed a string of ellipses. Chloe sprang up from her desk, frantically tapping her screen. She tried to recall them. Thirty-seven files. The recall window had long since closed. By the time Ethan burst out of his office, I was already standing in the center of the hallway, holding two items. One was my resignation letter. The other, a collective resignation statement from the core team, with eight signatures, not a single one missing. His steps skidded to a halt in front of me. “Summer, are you insane?” “No.” I handed him my resignation letter. He snatched it directly. In front of everyone in the hallway, he tore it in half with both hands. The paper ripped into fragments, white confetti fluttering onto the dark gray floor. “You think you can survive without this?” His voice was already ragged. “What about the client? What about the channels?” The sound of leather shoes on floor tiles echoed from the end of the hallway. The receptionist led a man in a sharp suit down the hallway. The cover of the folder in his hand bore the major client’s corporate logo. In the bottom right corner, a red official stamp was stark against the paper. “Mr. Ethan Hayes?” “…Yes.” “This is a legal notice from our firm.” The man’s tone was all business. “Regarding Ms. Summer’s departure as your company’s core project lead, per Article 17 of our contract, our firm officially terminates all ongoing collaborations with your company.” “All further matters will be handled directly with Ms. Summer’s team.” Ethan’s hand trembled as he reached for it. I turned and walked toward the elevator. My heels crunched over the scattered paper fragments, each step a faint whisper. The elevator doors opened. I stepped inside and pressed the basement floor button. In the last sliver of space before the doors closed, Ethan was still frozen in place, not moving an inch. The legal notice dangled from his hand. The resignation letter he had so carelessly torn now lay in fragments, being scattered by the hallway’s draft, drifting toward his feet. And the elevator doors in front of me had already closed completely.
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