Category: English

The moment I found out I was pregnant, I couldn’t wait to share the news with my Special Forces husband, Ethan Walker. But as soon as the call connected, he told me he’d received an urgent mission and had to leave immediately for preliminary reconnaissance. And just like that, he vanished without a trace. Two years later, Ethan’s mother begged me through her tears to remarry. But I firmly believed he was still alive. I raised our son Lucas alone, waiting for him to come home. Ten years later, I was called to the school by my son’s teacher, Miss Smith. At the office door, I saw a familiar silhouette. He was gently comforting a crying little girl in his arms. “Don’t cry, Zoe. Daddy already taught that bad boy Lucas a lesson.” But the girl pouted and pounded her little fists against his chest in protest. “You’re a bad daddy! You didn’t even scold him, and you won’t let me cry!” So Ethan Walker was really alive after all! He just had a new family now. Miss Smith heard the commotion and walked over, intimately linking her arm through his as she smiled at me. “Serena, this is my husband, Professor Walker.” I looked up and met Ethan Walker’s shocked, stunned eyes.

Ten years—time had been exceptionally kind to him. Except for the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, he was still the tall, handsome man I remembered. Only now, from head to toe, there was no trace of the man who used to be covered in mud, wearing camouflage fatigues. The way he looked at me—shocked, flustered, even frightened. My stomach churned, and the familiar taste of rust flooded my throat. I dug my nails hard into the web of my hand to keep myself from losing control on the spot. Ten years ago, it had been an afternoon just like this. Holding the pregnancy test with its two red lines, I’d been so excited that I immediately called Ethan. His voice had sounded tired but still gentle. “What’s wrong, baby?” I took a deep breath, about to speak, when the sharp sound of an assembly whistle came through his end. “I’ve got an urgent mission. I have to leave right now for preliminary reconnaissance.” “I might lose contact for a while. Wait for me to come back.” *Wait for me to come back.* Those words became my only comfort through ten long years of waiting. But what I got instead was a death notification two years later. Ethan’s mother cried and begged me to remarry while I was still young, to find a good man. But I didn’t believe it. I refused to believe that the man who promised to stay with me forever would be willing to leave me behind. I even wondered if maybe he didn’t know about the pregnancy, if that regret was what kept him from returning. So I stubbornly gave birth to our son and named him Lucas. Day after day, night after night, I thought of him and longed for him. I believed that as long as I waited, he would eventually come back. Now, he was back. With a woman who shared an intimate bond with him, and an adorable daughter. “Serena?” My son’s teacher, Jennifer Smith, smiled warmly, though there was a hint of showing off in her expression. “What’s wrong? Are you feeling unwell?” Her hand on Ethan’s arm tightened, as if asserting her ownership. Ethan glanced at Jennifer’s hand on his arm, then looked at me. The little girl in his arms—the one called Zoe—was staring at me curiously with eyes that were identical to his. My chest felt unbearably tight. I forced myself to calm down and smiled slightly. “No, just a bit of low blood sugar.” “Oh, you should really take care of yourself,” Jennifer said with concern, then changed the subject. “Actually, I called you in today because Lucas got into a fight with our Zoe.” “Kids will be kids, but Lucas pushed Zoe down and she hit her forehead. That’s not a small matter.”

I looked at the little girl. There was indeed a cartoon Band-Aid on her forehead. “If Lucas was wrong, I apologize on his behalf. The medical expenses—” “No need for medical expenses.” Ethan finally spoke. He avoided my gaze, looking elsewhere. “Kids roughhousing, it happens.” His defense was for his daughter. But what about my son? My Lucas had a bruise on his lip too. I looked away awkwardly, unable to stay any longer. “Miss Smith, I’ll take Lucas home now. I’ll make sure to discipline him properly.” As soon as I finished speaking, I turned and fled. Behind me, Jennifer’s gentle voice rang out again: “Ethan, let’s take Zoe out for her favorite Italian food tonight. Consider it making it up to her.” My steps faltered. Italian food. When we were dating, Italian food was my favorite. Back then, Ethan had taken me to every Italian restaurant in the city, just to let me taste the freshest clams. He had once said: “When this mission is over, I’ll take you to Tuscany and let you eat to your heart’s content.” So his promises hadn’t gone unfulfilled—he’d just fulfilled them for someone else. As I left the building, my phone buzzed. The name “Sebastian White” flashed on the screen. I answered, and his warm voice came through. “Serena, don’t forget your follow-up appointment tomorrow.” When I got home, Lucas sat sullenly on the couch, the bruise on his lip looking even more obvious. I knelt down and dabbed ointment on it with a cotton swab. He hissed in pain but still looked up at me with his small face, watching me carefully. “Mom, that man today looked just like Dad in the photo.” My hand froze. In the photo, Ethan wore his uniform, standing tall and handsome with a smile in his eyes. Lucas had been calling that picture “Daddy” since he was little. I swallowed the bitter ache in my heart, ruffled his hair, and said softly: “Silly boy, people can look alike. There are plenty of people in the world who resemble each other.” He nodded as if he understood, then muttered quietly: “Mom, do I not have a dad?” Children speak without filters, yet every word pierced my heart. I pulled him tightly into my arms, my chin resting on his soft hair, my voice choked: “You do. Your dad is a hero. He’s in a faraway place protecting us.” This was the lie I’d been telling him for nine years. Before, I had truly believed it. Now, it seemed more like a joke. After settling Lucas to sleep, I dragged my exhausted body into the bathroom. I closed the door, turned on the shower, and let the water pour over me, soaking through my clothes. I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I crouched down. Ten years of suppressed grief and pain exploded in that moment. I bit down on my arm to muffle my sobs. Why? Ethan Walker, why did you do this to me? Do you know what those ten years were like for me? For the first two years after you disappeared, I frantically searched for any information about you. I begged everyone I could contact, and the answer was always “no news.” The little life growing inside me was my only hope. When I was six months pregnant, I was diagnosed with cervical cancer. The doctor urged me to terminate the pregnancy and begin treatment immediately. I refused. This was the only connection left between you and me. I couldn’t bear to let go. I hid it from everyone and stubbornly chose the most conservative treatment plan, just so he could be born safely.

The day of my C-section, I hemorrhaged and nearly died. The doctor said it was a miracle I survived. After surgery, I began a long course of chemotherapy. My hair fell out in clumps. I vomited until I thought my bile would come up. Every single time, I wanted to give up. But thinking of Lucas, thinking that you might still be alive somewhere in this world, I gritted my teeth and held on. Until that death notification arrived. I completely fell apart. It was Sebastian. My attending physician, and also my senior from college, who had quietly stayed by my side all along. He connected me with the best specialists and designed the most suitable treatment plan for me. He even secretly paid my medical bills when I was at my most desperate. He played the role of a father in Lucas’s life. He said: “Serena, you have to live. For Lucas, and for yourself.” I lived. With a body full of illness, I raised our son alone. I thought suffering would eventually pass. But you delivered the most devastating blow. You were alive. So what was that death notification about? Or was it all deliberate? If it was the latter, what did my ten years of waiting and devotion mean? I was like a clown, performing a solo act for ten long years. The next day, after dropping Lucas off at school, I went straight to the hospital. Sebastian looked grave as he held my latest test results. “Serena, it’s not looking good.” He pushed his gold-rimmed glasses up and sighed. “The cancer cells in your body are spreading faster. The previous medications can’t control it anymore.” I had expected this result. The increasingly frequent pain had been warning me. The time bomb buried in my body was about to explode. I asked calmly: “How long do I have?” Sebastian was silent for a moment before forcing out the words: “If we don’t switch to a more aggressive chemotherapy regimen, at most… six months.” Six months. My life had only six months left. “Then let’s switch.” I looked at him and forced a smile. “Sebastian, thank you for everything these years.” He looked at me with pain in his eyes, reaching out as if to pat my shoulder, but his hand froze in midair. “Serena, you—” He wanted to say something, but was interrupted by an abrupt female voice. “Serena?” I turned around to see Jennifer Smith standing at the office door. “Yes, Miss Smith.” I responded flatly. Sebastian sensed something was wrong and frowned. “And this is?” “I’m Lucas’s homeroom teacher.” “Ethan Walker’s current wife.” I added that last part. “Serena, there’s something I think you should know.” Jennifer pulled me out of the office. We sat down on a bench in a quiet corner. Sebastian stayed at a distance, worried. “Ethan and I were each other’s first loves. We separated for a while, but when we met again ten years ago, we quickly got back together.” “The day he told you about the mission, I told him I was pregnant.” “My father pulled strings and arranged everything for him. All he had to do in return was abandon you.” My brain went blank with a buzz. So that’s how it was. “Why would you do this?” I looked at her in disbelief. “Because I love him. Love means doing whatever it takes, doesn’t it?” “Besides, I was just taking back what was rightfully mine.” “And the facts prove he made the right choice, don’t they?” Jennifer’s smile deepened as she looked at my ashen face.

So I was just someone to fill the void during his heartbreak. So that day, he became a father to two children. So when it came to pregnancy, I was the one who could be abandoned, while she was naturally the one to be protected. I laughed out loud. I stood up shakily. Warm liquid rapidly flowed from my nose. “Serena!” Sebastian cried out and rushed over, holding me and pressing against my nose. He glared furiously at Jennifer. “Miss, please stop provoking her and leave immediately!” Jennifer looked frightened by the situation, repeating over and over: “This has nothing to do with me, nothing to do with me.” Then she turned and left, her heels clicking. The blood wouldn’t stop. It flowed through my fingers, staining Sebastian’s sleeve red. When I left the hospital, I walked home in a daze. Jennifer’s words kept echoing in my mind. “My father pulled strings and arranged everything for him.” “All he had to do was abandon you.” So by throwing me away, he could live the life he wanted. Clearly, for these ten years, I was the one who was discarded. Yet here I was, waiting so desperately. My life was a joke. When I reached the entrance to my apartment complex, a familiar figure blocked my path. It was Ethan Walker. He looked like he’d been waiting for a long time, with several cigarette butts scattered at his feet. Seeing me, he immediately stubbed out the cigarette in his hand. He quickly walked up, his voice sounding guilty. “Serena, we need to talk.” I looked at this well-dressed university professor before me. He gradually overlapped with the man in military uniform from my memory, then slowly separated again. “What is there left for us to talk about?” “I know you hate me, that you blame me. But Serena, please let me explain.” He took a deep breath. “Back then, Jennifer really was pregnant. Her father came to me and gave me two choices.” “One was to continue my original life, risking death on any mission, and he had plenty of ways to make us live in fear forever.” “The other was to accept his arrangement and have a stable future.” He stepped forward, trying to grab my hand, pleading: “Serena, I struggled for a long time.” “I thought I was protecting you. I didn’t want you to live in constant fear with me.” “I sent money home every month. I told them to let you find a good man and start a new life.” So his parents had known all along. I could only say their performance had been all too convincing. “As for Jennifer, we’re only together for the child. All these years, I’ve only felt responsibility toward her.” His explanation sounded even more laughable. “Only responsibility?” “You enjoy the life she’s given you while saying it’s only for the child, only responsibility?” “When you were heartbroken, you seamlessly moved on to me, and not long after we got married, you rekindled things with your first love.” Ethan’s face turned deathly pale. “Do you know that the day I called you, I had just found out I was pregnant!” “I didn’t even get the chance to tell you. And you? For the sake of your bright future, you decisively abandoned me.” “Your parents never gave me a single penny. I was kicked out!”

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My husband Ethan insisted he had a serious illness and needed money for surgery—$200,000 short. I got a job as a singer at a nightclub, performing until 2 AM every night. One day I was called to sing in the VIP suite on the top floor. I pushed the door open to find a circle of people through the smoke. Ethan had his arm around a woman’s waist, head thrown back in laughter. The second his laughter stopped, he saw me standing in the doorway. He released Luna, the cigarette frozen between his fingers. “What are you doing here?” “I’m here singing to earn money. Money for your treatment.” The corner of Ethan’s mouth twitched. He didn’t respond. Luna spoke up first: “Didn’t Ethan divorce you ages ago? I heard you’re a terrible singer. Where do you get the confidence to sell your voice here?” The people in the room laughed. He didn’t stop them. Luna stood up and walked over to me, lowering her voice: “Actually, half the money you earn singing gets transferred to my account. I’m pregnant with his child. Consider this money your gift to the baby.” I nodded and picked up the microphone. “What song would you like?”

“One hundred per song. Charged by the song.” My voice was so steady even I found it unfamiliar. Someone jeered and requested a love song. I opened my mouth and sang, not missing a single note. Ethan raised his glass to his lips but never actually drank. Luna leaned against his shoulder, smiling as she spoke. “Not bad. Though singing love songs in a place like this is kind of pathetic.” I finished the last song, set down the microphone, and headed for the door. In the hallway, my coworker Fiona handed me six hundred dollars. “Mr. Reed’s table didn’t settle the tab.” I counted it and put it in my pocket. Fiona saw my expression and handed me a bottle of water. “Melody, if you can’t handle this, don’t force yourself.” I twisted open the cap and took a sip. “I can handle it.” Ethan came after me, grabbing my wrist. “You don’t need to work in a place like this.” His tone was condescending, irritating. I looked down at his hand, tightly circling my wrist. “Don’t you need $30,000 a day for hospital fees? I haven’t saved enough yet.” His pupils contracted. I was too calm. So calm that all his prepared lines fell flat. He ground out through clenched teeth: “I’m not sick. You must know that by now.” I looked up at him. “Yes, I know.” This calmness provoked his anger, his voice dropping lower and harder. “Luna is pregnant with my child. Either you accept her moving in, or you sign the divorce papers. Give me your answer within a week.” I slowly pulled my wrist from his grip, the movement gentle. “Okay, I’ll think about it.” I turned and walked away, my pace neither fast nor slow. In the backstage changing room, my fingers started to tremble. I shoved my hands into my pockets and clenched them into fists to hide the shaking. I remembered the day I gave Ethan the antique bracelet my grandmother left me. I slid the bracelet off my wrist and placed it in his hand. My hand had trembled that time too. Not from heartache, but from fear he’d notice how reluctant I was and feel guilty about it. Later he told me the secondhand shop only gave him eighty thousand. Now I knew—Ethan had given it to the woman pregnant with his child. I got home at 2 AM. Sitting on the edge of the bed eating pasta, I looked down and saw the silver ring on my ring finger stuck at the knuckle, unable to come off. I twisted it a few times. It wouldn’t budge. I went to the bathroom and ran it under cold water. The ring finally slipped off, dropping into the sink with a soft clink. I fished it out, dried it, and put it in a drawer. No hesitation. No second look. My phone lit up. Ethan sent a message: Stop working at the nightclub. I stared at it for a long time. Stop working at the nightclub—not because he felt bad for me, but because he found it embarrassing. I locked the screen without replying. The next day I went to the dance center as usual to teach children piano. A five-year-old girl hit a wrong note and looked up at me timidly. I bent down and smiled, saying it was okay, take your time. I maintained that smile until the bell rang and the last parent picked up their child. The second I stepped out of the classroom, every expression vanished from my face. I saw Luna. She stood at the entrance of the dance studio, holding a bag of fruit. “Miss Harper, Ethan said you’ve been working hard lately. I came to check on you.” She casually glanced at my coat, her lips curving slightly. I didn’t take the fruit. Her eyes immediately reddened, her voice fragile enough to be scattered by the wind. “Don’t blame me. He pursued me. I refused many times, but…” She touched her lower abdomen. “The child is innocent.”

I didn’t look at her stomach. My gaze fell on her right wrist. A bracelet. The one my grandmother passed down to me. I thought Ethan had sold it for treatment money. Now it rested securely around another woman’s wrist. Luna followed my gaze and unhurriedly touched the bracelet. “Oh, this? Ethan gave it to me. He said it’s an antique and told me to be careful with it.” I stared at the bracelet for three seconds. “He’s right. It is an antique. Be careful not to break it.” I turned and left. I rented a small apartment and moved out of what used to be my home that very night. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I opened my phone’s photo album. I touched his smiling face on the screen with my thumb, then placed the phone face-down on the bed. Something cracked open in my chest. I pressed my hand against it, not letting any sound escape my throat. On the third day, Ethan asked me to meet at a coffee shop. When he walked in, I was already sitting in the corner, the Americano in front of me untouched. He sat down and pushed a document toward me. “Sign it. You get five hundred thousand. That’s enough.” I laughed coldly. “I sold my family heirlooms and gave you $600,000 total. You’re dismissing me with five hundred thousand.” He frowned. “Those old things of yours were appraised and aren’t worth that much…” “Grandma’s bracelet—you had Luna wear it on her wrist. And my mother’s ring too.” His fingers tapped the table twice. For a moment he avoided my eyes. He glanced out the window, then quickly looked back. “The past is past. Sign. I’m not shortchanging you.” I didn’t sign. As I stood to leave, I left the untouched Americano behind. “I’ll think about it some more.” He called out behind me. “Melody Harper, are you reluctant to let go of this marriage, or just your pride? People already know you’re singing at nightclubs. Your students’ parents will hear about it sooner or later. When that happens, you won’t even be able to teach. Have you thought about the consequences?” I stopped, my back to him. “Are you threatening me?” Two seconds of silence. He didn’t answer. I pushed the door open and left. That night Fiona booked five rooms. By the third room my voice was already hoarse. I sipped some honey water and continued. Fiona leaned against the backstage doorframe watching me. “If you don’t rest that voice, you won’t even be able to speak clearly, let alone sing.” “Fiona, how many more rooms today?” The fourth room was full of Ethan’s friends. Someone recognized me. They raised their glass halfway, then stopped, whispering to the person next to them. Then came a knowing laugh. I gripped the microphone tighter and finished the entire song. As I left the room, my knees buckled. I braced myself against the hallway wall. Fiona caught up and squeezed the bulging veins on the back of my hand. “When was the last time you ate a proper meal?” “I ate at lunch.” “You only had two pieces of toast.” She handed me a sandwich. When I got back to the apartment in the early morning, there was a takeout bag by the door. Inside was a burger and mushroom soup, still warm. This was from the place Ethan always ordered from. I picked up the mushroom soup and took a sip. The warm liquid rolled into my stomach, wrapping the hollow space with a layer of warmth. My eyes suddenly stung unbearably. I set the bowl down abruptly and pressed the back of my hand hard against my eyes, holding it there for over ten seconds. The heat subsided. I picked up the bowl again and finished it sip by sip. This was his cruelest trait. When he hurt me, he was decisive and cold. But then he’d casually offer a little warmth, leaving me unable to tell which version was really him.

On the fourth day I went to the bank to withdraw money. The balance on the ATM screen froze at $347. I stood in front of the machine staring at those numbers. Nothing left. Walking out of the bank, I received a call from an unknown number. The caller claimed to be Luna’s best friend. “There are some things you should hear.” At the coffee shop, the woman who called herself Nina wore designer clothes, coffee cup in hand. “Melody, do you think Ethan just made a momentary mistake?” She pulled out her phone and pushed a screenshot of a chat log toward me. Ethan told Luna: “Give me a little more time. I’ll handle her.” The date was three months ago, even earlier than when he told me he was sick. I finished reading the screenshot without saying anything. She put her phone away. “Luna told me that Ethan stopped loving you a long time ago. Marrying you was just an impulse. After meeting Luna, he finally understood what real love feels like.” She lowered her voice, her fingernail tapping the table. “Stop dragging this out. It’s better for everyone.” I stood up. “Thank you for telling me.” Walking out of the coffee shop, I stood by a lamppost for a long time. Three months ago, he said he’d get me a proper ring for my birthday this year. On the fifth day, I went to find Marcus Smith. He was helping in the kitchen of his new restaurant. When he saw me come in, he froze. “Melody? How did you… you’ve lost so much weight.” No small talk. I asked directly. “Ethan faking his illness—how much do you know?” Marcus dropped the cloth in his hand. As he bent to pick it up, he avoided my eyes. “…Who told you?” I didn’t answer, just looked at him. He wouldn’t say much, but his mouth moved faster than his brain, mumbling out: “Ethan didn’t come up with this idea himself. That woman Luna…” Before he could finish, his phone rang. Ethan’s name popped up. Marcus answered the call. His expression changed. He glanced at me and hung up hastily. “Melody, go home. Stay out of this.” Not his own idea. If someone pushed him into it, why didn’t he tell me? Didn’t I even deserve to be treated honestly? On the sixth day, one day before the deadline, Ethan sent a message: Tonight at 7, the usual place. Bring your answer. The usual place was a Japanese restaurant we frequented. When I arrived, he was already seated. “You still remember I love salmon.” His tone was flat, revealing no emotion. Always the same trick—offering a knife with one hand and candy with the other, leaving me unable to tell if he had a heart or not. “I don’t agree to the divorce. You faked illness and deceived me for three months, spending all my savings. What you owe me can’t be settled with a piece of paper and five hundred thousand.” My attitude was firm. His face darkened, his voice dropping to a low rumble. “You think dragging this out benefits you? Everyone knows you’re singing at nightclubs now. Your students’ parents will find out any minute. Have you thought about the consequences?” This sentence struck my softest spot. The restaurant door opened. Luna walked in with two of Ethan’s friends, her tone perfectly surprised. “Oh my, Ethan, you’re here? We were passing by and saw your car.” Her gaze swept to me, immediately switching to anxiety and retreat. She turned to Ethan, eyes brimming with tears, voice so delicate it was nauseating. “Didn’t you say you were working late tonight? I even brought you some pastries at the office…” The two friends’ gazes bounced between Ethan and me. Ethan paused for a moment. He looked at me, then at Luna. He stood up, walked to Luna’s side, and draped his coat over her shoulders. “It’s cold outside. Go home first.” He protected her in front of everyone, then turned to me and said: “I’ve said everything I needed to say. Let me know when you’ve decided.” Then he walked out supporting Luna. Through the closing door, I heard her say softly outside: “Ethan, I really didn’t mean to come here. Don’t be angry…” His response was just two words. “It’s fine.”

Early on the seventh day, I went to the dance center to teach as usual. When I opened the piano room door, the director was already inside waiting. “Miss Harper, three parents called yesterday to complain, saying you work at nightclubs. This is a children’s training center. The parents have concerns. Take some time off.” My fingers tightened on the edge of my lesson plan. I nodded. I pulled my teaching materials from under the piano bench and took out a box of candy the children had given me last week from the drawer. Walking out of the piano room, a parent in the hallway who was dropping off their child pulled the child’s hand and deliberately went around me. I knew how the complaints came about. But too many people had handed over knives. I couldn’t tell who was who anymore, and I didn’t want to. My last financial pillar had collapsed. I went to three places looking for work. The supermarket cashier position wasn’t hiring. The restaurant kitchen had me try out that day. I washed dishes for five hours until my hands were so waterlogged you couldn’t see the fingerprints. The housekeeping company said I could train first, but I had to pay a three-hundred-dollar deposit. My entire net worth: three hundred forty-seven dollars. When I left the restaurant, it was raining. I didn’t have an umbrella, so I stood under an awning waiting. A black sedan stopped by the roadside. The window lowered halfway. Ethan looked at my swollen, pale hands and rain-dampened hair. His brow furrowed. “Get in the car.” I didn’t move. He got out and held the umbrella over me. “Melody Harper, why put yourself through this? Sign the papers, take the money, and move on. You don’t have to suffer like this.” He didn’t feel bad about me suffering. He just found my suffering an eyesore. I walked out from under his umbrella into the rain. “Ethan, you faked illness for three months and made me earn money for you.” “I sold all my heirlooms, and you gave them to another woman.” “And now you’re telling me I don’t have to suffer like this?” Rain ran down my eyelashes. I couldn’t tell if it was rain or something else. But my voice made him take half a step back. “You didn’t choose the rules. But if you want to end this, fine. Except this time, I set the terms.” He reached out to pull me back. I stepped aside to avoid him. His hand froze in midair for two seconds, then slowly lowered. That night, Professor Helen Wade called. “Melody, check online right now. Someone posted a video of you singing at the nightclub.” I opened the link. A secretly filmed video: Award-winning piano teacher reduced to nightclub singer—the truth behind the story is heartbreaking. The comments section exploded. Some cursed me for having no self-respect, some mocked the pianist turned hostess, some dug up my old award photos and put them side by side with current footage for comparison. I read all the comments and turned off my phone. My body was trembling, but my face showed no expression. Fiona sent a message: “Melody, the video wasn’t leaked by anyone from our club. I’m investigating. Don’t come to work. Lay low for a while.” My last source of income was gone too. Early the next morning, Luna sent me a message. “Melody, those comments online are too harsh. I already had Ethan take care of it. Don’t take it to heart. Do you want to come stay at the house? I prepared the guest room for you.” The house. She was talking about what used to be my home. Guest room. I was being invited to stay in the guest room of my own house. I put down my phone and walked into the bathroom to look at myself in the mirror. I’d lost nearly twenty pounds. I barely recognized the person in the mirror. Ethan called, his voice unusually urgent. “I had the video deleted. Are you okay?” “Ethan, did you have someone post it?” Three seconds of silence on the other end. I waited for those three seconds. “Whether it was you or not, thank you for deleting it.” I hung up. Those three seconds of silence were the answer. He probably didn’t post it, but he didn’t stop it either. That night I opened my phone’s photo album and scrolled from the first picture to the last. All photos related to Ethan. Photos of us together, him secretly photographing me playing piano, me photographing him sleeping, selfies of us toasting at a small restaurant. Over two hundred photos. Select all. Delete. The photos disappeared one by one. After clearing my phone, the screen was so clean there wasn’t a trace left. I opened my messages and sent Ethan one final text. “I agree to the divorce.” I also took out the silver ring from the drawer and left a note: “Returning this to you!”

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I bought a pair of novelty handcuffs. While trying them on, the key fell into the crack of the bed, and I had no choice but to call 91 The door was forced open, and fully equipped firefighters burst into my bedroom. The captain leading them turned out to be my ex-boyfriend, whom I had dumped. He saw me wearing a lace dress with pitifully little fabric, my hands locked to the headboard with pink fluffy handcuffs, in an extremely suggestive position. The young team member beside him blushed, stammering: “C-Captain, this requires hydraulic cutters…” My ex raised his hand to stop him, his gaze scraping across my exposed skin like a blade. He walked to the bedside, looking down at me from above, his chest heaving violently, his voice so cold it could freeze: “Quite the games you play, Ares. Where’s the bastard? Did he handcuff you here and run off after pulling up his pants?” 1. I felt like I’d been struck by lightning. My hands cuffed to the headboard instinctively clenched, the metal core of the pink fluffy handcuffs digging viciously into my wrist bones. It hurt. But nowhere near as much as the shock of seeing Gustavo’s face. He stood there looking down at me, his firefighting combat gear still covered with wood splinters from breaking down the door, his helmet tucked under his arm, his whole body carrying the cold wind from outside. His features still had that devastating quality. Sharp brows, high nose bridge, a jawline sharp enough to cut your finger. Only those eyes—three years ago when he looked at me, they held entire galaxies. Now they contained only murderous ice. “C-Captain, these handcuffs are novelty ones, there’s no keyhole, we need hydraulic cutters…” Behind him, young team member Kane, blushing to the roots of his neck, held a toolbox, his voice shaking like a sieve. His gaze clearly didn’t know where to land. Well, anyone would be stunned to see a woman wearing a black lace slip dress, hands locked to an iron headboard with pink fluffy handcuffs, positioned like a sacrificial lamb. Especially when that woman was their captain’s ex-girlfriend. Gustavo didn’t turn around. He reached out, snatched the hydraulic cutters from Kane’s hand, then slowly turned back. That look made my spine run cold. It wasn’t the look you give a person. It was the look you give prey. “Everyone out.” His voice wasn’t loud, but it was like a knife stabbing into cotton—muffled and vicious. Kane froze: “Captain, this isn’t really regulation…” “I said, everyone out.” Gustavo didn’t raise his voice the second time, but his tone carried an additional layer of unquestionable coldness. The team members behind him exchanged glances, but ultimately left with their heads down. The bedroom door slammed shut, cutting off all sound. The entire world shrank to this space of a few square meters, leaving only him and me. I heard my own heartbeat, racing like it would explode. Gustavo set the hydraulic cutters on the nightstand. He didn’t immediately unlock me. He turned and knelt on the bed with one knee. The mattress sank sharply under his weight, and I slid uncontrollably toward his side. The strap of my lace slip dress slipped off my left shoulder. I bit down hard, desperately trying to pull it up with my cuffed hands, but couldn’t reach it. Gustavo’s gaze slowly moved down from my exposed collarbone, sliding past what the slip dress barely covered, finally settling on my legs that I was trying to press together. He reached out. Five fingers, one by one, closed around my ankle. His palm was burning hot, his knuckles rough—calluses earned from years of gripping fire hoses and climbing ladders. Goosebumps exploded across my entire body. “Gustavo, what are you doing!” He didn’t answer. He just brought his face close to my ear, his burning breath washing over it. His voice was so hoarse it was like sandpaper scraping glass: “This guy’s got no guts.” “Ties you up like this, then pulls up his pants and runs?” “Doesn’t even clean up after himself?” Each word carried the hatred of a dull knife cutting flesh. My eyes instantly stung and swelled. Not from fear, but from guilt. Guilt so profound my organs were trembling. This man—three years ago, I had pushed him away with my own hands.

Gustavo raised the hydraulic cutters, the cold metal blade touching the skin on the inside of my wrist. I hissed—not from pain, but from the extreme cold that made my scalp tingle. His hand was steady. A fire captain’s hand had held up collapsed beams in burning buildings, had single-handedly pulled jumpers from seventeenth-floor window ledges. It never shook. But I could see the muscles in his jaw clenched tight. His masseter muscles pulsing, like he was about to shatter his teeth. “I asked you a question.” His voice pressed down from above, heavy as lead. “Did you use protection.” My brain instantly crashed. What? What protection? What was he talking about? I opened my mouth, and in my panic, without thinking, blurted out two words: “Didn’t.” I meant the handcuffs didn’t have a spare key. But those two words, to Gustavo’s ears, clearly meant something else entirely. His whole body jerked like he’d been electrocuted, his right hand gripping the hydraulic cutters suddenly tightening. The veins on the back of his hand bulged one by one, like snakes crawling under his skin. Click. The sound of metal breaking, crisp and vicious—the handcuff chain snapped. The moment the chain broke, a flying metal fragment cut across the back of Gustavo’s hand. A gash immediately opened, blood flowing down between his fingers, dripping onto my white sheets. One drop, two drops, three drops—shocking to see. “Your hand—” “Don’t worry about it.” He threw the hydraulic cutters on the floor with a dull thud. My newly freed hands immediately grabbed the blanket, wrapping myself from feet to chin, wishing I could bundle myself into a dumpling. “You can leave now.” My voice was shaking terribly, but I tried to maintain the last shred of dignity. “Thank you, Captain Gustavo, for responding. Sorry for the trouble, goodbye.” Gustavo didn’t move. He stood up, turned his back to me, and began unbuckling his firefighting combat gear. One buckle, two buckles, three buckles. The heavy flame-retardant jacket slid from his shoulders, revealing the sweat-soaked black compression shirt underneath. The fabric clung tightly to him, outlining every muscle on his back. My throat tightened. I looked away. The next second, I saw Gustavo grab the chair by the bedroom door— With a bang, he jammed it against the door. Then he turned around, sat down heavily on the chair, legs spread, elbows on his knees. His injured right hand hung down, still dripping blood. He didn’t even glance at it. He just raised his head, staring at me with those bloodshot eyes. “I need to write an incident report.” He said. His voice cold as poison: “Ares, I need you to cooperate.” “Give me a detailed account of what happened.” “When it started, how long it lasted, when the other person left.” “Speak clearly.” I gripped the blanket tightly, my nails digging into my palms. He was settling personal scores. Using the most legitimate excuse to inflict the most extreme humiliation on me. Three years. This was the hatred he’d been holding for three years. Blood flowed from the back of his hand to his fingertips, then dripped from his fingertips onto my bedroom floor. He didn’t wipe it, didn’t bandage it, didn’t even furrow his brow—as if it was someone else’s hand. As if all his attention, all his hatred, all his madness, was focused on me. I couldn’t take it anymore. “What’s wrong with you, Gustavo!” I sprang up from the bed, wrapped in the blanket, and shouted at him: “There’s no man! No one! Just leave!” “This is my house! What right do you have to stay here!” Gustavo squinted slightly at my outburst, but he didn’t move. His lips even curved into a smile so cold it chilled to the bone. “No one?” “So you’re playing with handcuffs by yourself?” “Tying yourself up?” “Dressed like that to tie yourself up?” Each rhetorical question was like a hammer pounding on my skull. I stood there open-mouthed, unable to say a word. Because—everything he said was true.

Gustavo didn’t give me a chance to breathe. He stood up from the chair and began searching through my bedroom like an enraged beast patrolling its territory. He yanked open the closet, hangers clattering. He glanced down—no men’s clothes. He kicked open the space under the bed—storage boxes with a few shoes, an old suitcase. He crouched down, looked for three seconds, stood up. He jerked open the balcony curtains—empty, just a few pieces of underwear on the drying rack swaying gently in the evening breeze. Gustavo scanned each item, his brow furrowed tight enough to pinch a fly. No trace of a man. Not a single trace. This bedroom was as clean as a sealed tomb, inhabited by only one person. I huddled on the bed, clutching the blanket, feeling like a rabbit cornered against a wall. Watching helplessly as he searched through my closet, under my bed, my balcony. Finally— His gaze landed on the vanity. My heart skipped a beat. Don’t go there. Please, don’t go there. But he was already moving. I sprang from the bed like a released spring. The blanket fell and I didn’t even care. I rushed over, blocking the vanity before he could reach it, spreading my arms. “You can’t search here!” My voice had already changed pitch, sharp and thin, with a crying tone. Gustavo looked down at me. He was a full head taller than me. Right now, blocking his path, I looked like a kitten baring its teeth and claws while trembling all over. “Move.” “No!” He didn’t say it a second time. One hand wrapped around my waist, lifting me away from the vanity like picking up a cat, pressing me against the nearby wall. His other hand—the one still bleeding—pulled open the bottom drawer of the vanity. Inside the drawer was nothing belonging to a man. Not even a single strand of male hair. Just a delivery box. Already opened, then resealed with tape. The seal was crooked, as if it had been repeatedly opened and resealed. Gustavo frowned, peeling back the tape with one hand. The box opened with a rustle, its contents spilling out. A photo slid to the floor. In the photo were two people—him and me. Three years ago, summer, in front of the fire station. He wore his training uniform, I stood on tiptoe holding a water bottle over his head. Both of us grinning carelessly. Next to the photo was a dark green hardcover notebook. The cover was worn and fraying at the edges, like it had been opened countless times. Gustavo bent down and picked up the photo, his fingertips slowly sliding across my face in the image. Then he picked up the notebook. All the blood in my body froze. “Don’t look!” I lunged at him like a madwoman. My fingers caught the corner of the notebook, desperately pulling it back. Gustavo restrained me with one hand. He held the notebook high over his head. I couldn’t reach it. I jumped. He stepped back. I jumped again. He stepped back again. Finally I stepped on one of the scattered photos on the floor, my foot slipped, and I pitched forward. Gustavo caught me around the waist with quick reflexes, but his other hand never lowered the notebook. He sat me down on the edge of the bed, then stepped back two paces, lowered his head, and opened the notebook. The first page. The first day after we broke up. His pupils trembled slightly. Silence. I saw his Adam’s apple bob sharply. He turned to the second page. It had dried, wrinkled water stains. His fingertips began to shake. The third page. He closed his eyes briefly, the corners reddening quickly. The fourth page. His lashes held fragments of the bedroom’s warm yellow light, glistening with moisture. Then—he turned to the last page. The last page was dated yesterday. Gustavo spoke. His voice sounded like each word was being ground out from his chest, hoarse to the point of distortion. He read—

“Day one thousand and twenty-three since the breakup.” “The fire station downstairs changed their siren sound.” “It took me three days to get used to it.” “Before, when that sound went off, I knew he was going on a call.” “I’d lean out the window and watch the fire truck leave.” “Then count the seconds until it came back.” He paused, his Adam’s apple rolling violently. He continued reading. “Today I passed the mall and smelled cigarette smoke on a man.” “It was Camel brand. He used to smoke those too.” “I stood there in a daze for a long time.” “Everyone around me was staring.” “I pretended to be waiting for someone, but really I was waiting for the tears to go back inside.” At the last sentence, Gustavo’s voice completely shattered, like a piece of glass violently smashed on the ground. “One thousand days since the breakup. Why does the smell of smoke still make me want to cry?” The notebook hung limply from his hand. He didn’t close it. Just held it there halfway, knuckles white, the blood on the back of his hand already congealed into a dark brown scab. His eyes were red—not just slightly bloodshot, but the entire whites burned crimson. The bedroom was quiet as a tomb. Gustavo lowered his head, his gaze moving from the notebook, slowly, slowly, settling on the cut pink fluffy handcuffs on the floor. Then—I saw his expression change. The anger was gone, the mockery was gone, that bone-deep hatred was gone too. In its place was something I’d never seen on his face before. That thing was called—heartbreak. He understood everything now. No other man, no hookup, no one who pulled up their pants and ran. Just a woman he’d left behind, holding his old photos and a diary full of his name through one thousand and twenty-three nights after the breakup, rotting alone. Even buying novelty handcuffs—she was playing alone. I crouched by the bed, burying my face in my knees. My shoulders shook like leaves in the wind. Utterly humiliated. Ares, oh Ares, look at yourself now. Wearing a lace dress, cornered in your bedroom by your ex-boyfriend. He read your diary, recited your most pathetic thoughts, saw your ugliest secrets. In front of him, even your last shred of dignity has been stripped away. Tears fell heavily onto my knees, spreading dark stains. I raised my head and forced a smile at him, uglier than crying. “Satisfied now, Captain Gustavo?” “Now you know.” “Ares is just this pathetic.” “Three years broken up, can’t forget you.” “Are you happy? Can you put this in your incident report?” I roughly wiped my face with the back of my hand, stood up, and pointed at the bedroom door. The final order to leave. “If you’ve seen enough, get out.” “Please.” “Leave me… just a little bit of dignity.” My voice broke in my throat. The bedroom fell into a long, dead silence. Gustavo stood motionless. I thought he would leave. He should leave. Three years ago, I was the one who broke up with him. I was the one who said “I don’t love you anymore.” I was the one who packed his things in a box and left it at the door. I was the one who changed my phone number and moved, cutting ties completely. He had ten thousand reasons to hate me. He should laugh coldly, slam the door, and leave—that would be the normal script. But he didn’t. I heard the notebook fall to the floor with a dull, soft thud. Then footsteps. One step, two steps, three steps, getting closer. Close enough that I could smell the smoke from his fire gear, mixed with sweat and the metallic scent of blood. A hand covered in wounds and dried blood cupped my face. His palm was rough enough to scrape skin, but his fingertips were trembling badly. I was forced to lift my head, meeting his eyes. Red, moist, like a wounded beast with its heart gouged out but refusing to fall. Gustavo knelt on one knee before me. This man who had pried open twisted car doors with his bare hands in fires. This man who had carried two children down from the fifteenth floor through thick smoke. This man I had pushed away with my own hands and then abandoned. He knelt before me, cradling my face. His voice so hoarse it sounded like he was speaking through broken glass. “Since you miss me so much—” His thumb wiped across the tear tracks on my face, the pressure so light it was like touching something fragile. But the emotion churning in his eyes was fierce enough to make your legs weak. He unbuckled his tactical belt, the metal clasps clanging in the silent bedroom. Gustavo pressed his forehead against mine, nose tip to nose tip, breath intertwining. “—why use some cheap toy? Use me.”

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On the night of our eighth anniversary, my boyfriend Fernando suddenly went off the grid when he was supposed to be with me. I called him countless times. No one answered. The next morning, just as I was about to call the police, Fernando called back: “Last night my coworker Ellis’s mother-in-law suddenly passed away. I went to help out. Left my phone in the car, didn’t notice.” I breathed a sigh of relief, but something felt off. After hanging up, I sent Ellis a message: “I heard your mother-in-law passed away. My condolences. Is there anything I can help with?” Three minutes later, Ellis called: “Hello, Juliet, did you send that to the wrong person? My mother-in-law is alive and well!” I quickly apologized to Ellis. After the call ended, my heart felt a sharp pain. This man who had loved me for eight years had lied to me. I opened my chat history with Fernando. The last message was from me, at 4:12 AM: [Where are you? I’m really worried about you.] Scrolling up, there was yesterday’s conversation. When I got home, I’d sent him a photo of the cinnamon cookies my mom made for me. He replied with a “so jealous” emoji. Below that was a video call from him. He was curled up on the couch, the camera shaking around. Mom had called me to help with something, interrupting the video call. After I hung up, he sent a message. He said he missed me. He said this Christmas we’d go back together and ask my mom for permission to marry me. Eight years ago today, he confessed his feelings to me. He said that if he ever deceived me in this lifetime, he’d be hit by a car the moment he stepped outside. Fernando valued his life. Not long after we got together, he spiked a fever of 102 degrees. When the doctor went to draw blood, he held me and cried secretly. He said he’d looked it up online and was afraid he might have leukemia. Choking up, he said he hadn’t lived enough yet, but he needed to settle his affairs. He said his $80,000 in savings should be split—half to his parents, half to me. He said if he was diagnosed, I shouldn’t wait for him. I stroked his head, wiping away his tears, laughing at him for acting like a child. But I also thought to myself that someone so afraid of death who dared to make such a vow would surely keep his word. But we hadn’t even reached a lifetime yet—nowhere near it—and he’d already lied to me. Fernando was extremely superstitious. For him to risk his life fabricating this lie, that person must be very important. My phone suddenly vibrated. I hesitated for a moment but still answered. Let me hear it. Just in case. “You sent Ellis a message?!” Fernando’s voice was low but couldn’t contain his anger. “Yeah.” “What do you mean by that?” “You said her mother-in-law died, so I went to comfort her. Is there a problem?” There was two seconds of silence on the other end. “Juliet, you’re checking up on me.” “I’m not.” “Not? Then why did you send Ellis a message?” Fernando’s voice suddenly rose. “No one in Ellis’s family died at all. I was too tired and said the wrong thing. You rushing to send that message—if word gets out, how am I supposed to face people at the company?!” I gripped my phone, my fingers growing cold. Clearly he was the one who lied, but every sentence seemed to tell me I was the one in the wrong. A heavy sigh came from Fernando’s end. His voice suddenly softened. “Juliet, I know you’re worried about me, but what you did really embarrassed me. Ellis is my supervisor. What will she think of me after this? Will she still think of me when opportunities come up?” “Juliet, we’ve been together eight years. Do you really not trust me?” My nose suddenly stung. Eight years. Fernando knew exactly how to make me feel guilty. “Alright, Juliet, I got too emotional. I’m sorry.” Probably because I hadn’t spoken for so long, Fernando’s tone completely softened. “The family emergency was Enzo from Ellis’s office. You added Enzo on Twitter at the last company dinner. If you don’t believe me, go ask.” After hanging up, I hesitated for a long time but finally found Enzo’s Twitter. I clicked in and sent “Enzo.” But what I received was a notification that I’d been blocked. Blocked. I could still see Enzo’s Twitter updates this morning. Fernando was closest to Enzo at the company. He told me to verify it, and Enzo blocked me.

After the call ended, Fernando sent no more messages. For our eighth anniversary, we’d originally planned to go to Disneyland together. But he said he had to work overtime. He said we were close to saving enough for a house down payment, and he wanted to work overtime to earn more money. So these past days, when Fernando’s messages were few, I never thought much of it. But now… After dinner, I posted a Twitter update with a photo of the pasta my mom made. [The holiday is almost over. I’ll miss my mom’s cooking.] I set it so only Fernando could see it. After posting, I began to wait. One hour, two hours, three hours, four hours—no response. Eight years. Fernando had liked every single one of my Twitter posts. I once asked him, you’re so busy with work, how can you always notice my Twitter posts right away? He stroked my hair and smiled. Because I care, I pay attention all the time. My fingertips rubbed against my palm. My finger accidentally swept across my phone screen. The page switched to Fernando’s Instagram. Just one minute ago, he’d updated his story. The photo was of the evening sky, with a location tag near our house at that little park. The caption read: [Busy day done. Finally can catch my breath.] There was only one comment: [You worked hard today. Next time, my treat~] Fernando replied almost instantly: [It’s a deal. No backing out.] I clicked on the profile of the person who replied to him. It was a young woman with chestnut-colored hair. At Fernando’s last company dinner, she wasn’t there. At 1:45 AM, Fernando liked my Twitter post. Then he sent me messages, still in an exhausted tone: “Juliet, I’m literally dying of exhaustion. Didn’t expect overtime on our eighth anniversary would be this busy.” “At least in two more days you’ll be back. Remember to send me your train ticket. I’ll pick you up.” “You must be asleep, right?” “Good night. I miss you so much.” I stared at these sentences from Fernando for a long time. Then I changed my train ticket.

Mom didn’t expect me to come back two days early. All morning she hurriedly stuffed things into my bag. “Juliet, when you get back, treat Fernando well. That boy came from nothing. It wasn’t easy for him to get where he is today.” “Tell him for me, thank him for the money transfer, but I can’t accept it.” My hands stopped packing. “When did he send you money?” “Just now. Didn’t he tell you?” “When exactly?” Mom put her phone in my hand. “See for yourself.” I opened Mom’s phone. It was at 7 AM. He’d transferred $2,000 to Mom and sent a message: [Auntie, I have to work overtime this time and couldn’t go back with Juliet to see you. Please accept this money. This Christmas I’ll definitely go back with Juliet and call you Mom.] Thinking about how I hadn’t replied to Fernando’s messages from last night until now, my hands suddenly went weak. Fernando really knew how to manipulate my emotions. I forced myself to calm down, stuffed the phone back to Mom, and smiled. “Not taking it is right. After all, who knows what will happen in the future.” “Don’t talk nonsense!” Mom smiled and touched my face. “Your dad said yesterday, boys as sincere as Fernando are hard to find these days. You need to treasure him.” “I know, I know.” I cut off Mom’s nagging. “By the way, don’t tell Fernando about me coming back. I want to surprise him.” Mom laughed. “Alright, I know.” At 3 PM, I arrived at the apartment Fernando and I rented. Fernando wasn’t home. After entering, I put down my suitcase and looked around. Everything seemed normal. I immediately checked the home surveillance footage. But three days ago—the night I left—the surveillance had been turned off. I went to the kitchen. It looked the same as when I left. But in the trash can lay a receipt from the supermarket. From yesterday. It was mostly daily necessities, but at the end were three boxes of condoms. The brand Fernando had begged me to try multiple times. I thought the flavored ones were weird and never agreed. I clutched the receipt and headed straight to the bedroom, pulling open the nightstand drawer. The condoms Fernando and I regularly used were still there. Of those three new boxes, only one remained. I opened the closet. In the most accessible spot, Fernando’s pajamas were neatly folded. Fernando never folded clothes, especially not pajamas. Every time, I followed behind him organizing things. But those pajamas—I didn’t fold them. I yanked the folded pajamas out of the closet. I immediately saw the chestnut-colored long hair on the pajamas. With trembling hands, I took out my phone. I found Fernando’s Instagram, clicked on the profile of the girl who replied to him. I stared at her chestnut-colored long hair, frozen in place. The color—the same. The length—the same. I suddenly pulled back the pillows on the bed. Under my pillow were some overlooked, unprocessed chestnut-colored long hairs. I stumbled into the bathroom. Near the shower drain, I saw more of that chestnut-colored hair. My stomach suddenly began to convulse. I leaned over the toilet and dry heaved. I sat limply on the floor. My fingers accidentally scrolled through that girl’s profile. Three years ago, she posted a photo of intertwined fingers. The caption: [Tonight, I bloom for you.] I recognized it immediately—that hand crumpling the bedsheets was Fernando’s. Three years ago. I scrolled down frantically. Finally, four years ago, in a large group photo from Fernando’s company, I saw that girl. She was his coworker. But in all these years, I’d never seen her at any of Fernando’s company dinners. For him, she was willing to hide herself like this. I forced down the nausea churning in my stomach and sent Fernando a message: [I’m back. I know everything.]

An hour later, hurried footsteps came from outside, along with a tearful female voice: “Fernando, it’s my fault. Let me in. I’ll explain to her.” “No!” Fernando deliberately lowered his voice, but you could still hear the dominance and protectiveness in his words. The Fernando outside the door seemed like a different person from the one I knew. When he was with me, he was gentle and easygoing. But the current him was decisive, firm yet tender. I couldn’t control myself—I got up and walked toward the door. I really wanted to see the Fernando outside that door, and that chestnut-haired girl. I gripped the door handle. The people outside were still arguing. I yanked hard! The door opened. That chestnut-haired girl was curled up in Fernando’s arms, crying. Fernando’s hand kept stroking her long hair, his eyes full of heartache. Watching Fernando’s hand linger on that chestnut-colored hair, in an instant, the hairs from under the pillow and from the bathroom seemed to extend out and wrap tightly around me. The people outside clearly saw me too. Fernando abruptly released his hold on the girl. The girl wiped her tears and stepped forward. “I’m sorry, Juliet. This is all my fault.” “Slap!” I couldn’t hold back. I raised my arm and slapped the girl across the face. As my hand swung toward Fernando, he suddenly rushed forward from behind and shoved me away hard, fiercely protecting that rabbit-like girl behind him. “Juliet, what are you doing?!” Resentment and fury surged in Fernando’s eyes. But my gaze fell on the girl’s ring finger. On her ring finger was a large engagement diamond ring. It was the exact model Fernando bought when he proposed to me three months ago. My nails dug hard into my palm. I turned abruptly and rushed toward the bedroom, yanking open the left drawer of the vanity. I opened the ring box. The ring was gone. I ran out like a madwoman and grabbed the girl’s wrist. I forcibly removed the ring from her finger. Under the dim hallway light, I looked at it. The engraving on the ring’s band wasn’t “Juliet.” That ring was this year’s limited edition. When Fernando and I went to buy it, it was the last one. I shoved the ring in Fernando’s face. “Is this ring mine? Or did you buy two from the start?!” “I begged Fernando to buy it!” The girl stepped in front of Fernando first. “Juliet, I’m sorry. It’s all my fault. I know I’m not worthy of Fernando. I just wanted to secretly walk part of the road with him.” I looked past the girl’s head, staring hard at Fernando. “So you bought two from the beginning?!” No wonder the sales associate who sold the ring wouldn’t let us sign that one-of-a-kind true love agreement. No wonder on the day we bought the ring, he said he forgot his ID card and used his father’s to purchase it. No wonder that day the sales associate saw him and said, “You’re here again.” So Fernando took her to buy it first. So that true love agreement—he signed it with her first. These past days, that girl came to the house, saw the identical ring in the drawer, and must have gotten angry. So Fernando threw mine away. Perhaps he also promised her daily that he’d marry her soon. Perhaps this very morning, he spoke to her mother the same way he spoke to mine. My heart felt like it was stuffed with a soaked towel—dull, painfully suffocating. “Juliet, let me explain.” “Juliet!” Before Fernando could finish speaking, the girl suddenly dropped to her knees at my feet with a thud. “I’m sorry. I promise I’ll break things off with Fernando immediately!” “But I’m begging you, can you please give me back the ring?” I shifted my gaze back to the ring in my hand, glanced at the girl, pulled a cold smile, and extended my hand out the window. “Don’t.” The girl suddenly sprang up and lunged at me. I was originally standing near the staircase. She charged at me, and her whole body slammed into mine. We rolled down the stairs together. The violent collision tore open the girl’s dress. I looked at the special petal-shaped scar on the girl’s shoulder and froze. The first year Fernando and I were together, he told me his father had an affair when he was younger and brought a woman home. That woman had a little girl with her. The little girl had a petal-shaped scar on her shoulder. Because of that woman, his mother committed suicide. After his mother died, his father kicked that woman and child out of the house. I heard that woman had a miserable life afterward. I suddenly looked at Fernando. “Fernando, so it’s her.”

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