Chapter 3

Before I could even fall asleep, I heard Victoria slamming the front door as she left the house.

The divorce papers had been ripped to shreds and tossed into the trash can.

I didn't understand.

If she didn't love me, why wouldn't she just let me go?

Suddenly, my phone buzzed.

It was a Snapchat message from Tristan. It was a photo of Victoria holding him tightly in bed.

[Julian, why is Vicky being so clingy today? Did you guys have a fight again?]

I scrolled up on our chat history.

It was filled with photos he had sent me over the months—photos of Victoria drying his hair, cooking for him, and even putting cute, childish stickers on the passenger seat of her sports car.

He treated my chat like a diary, dumping every intimate moment he shared with my wife onto me.

Another message popped up.

It was a picture of Victoria sleeping beside him. She was wearing the silk pajamas I had bought for her.

Tristan messaged:

[Julian, that will was just Vicky trying to cheer me up. It doesn't have any real legal power. Please don't fight with her because of me.]

[But did you know? Vicky started sponsoring me when I was in middle school. That was way before she even met you.]

[She told me that the first time she saw you, she noticed your dimples looked exactly like mine.]

[I wonder if Vicky’s future baby will inherit those same dimples. She would love that.]

That last sentence made my stomach churn violently.

A wave of intense nausea hit me, and I rushed to the bathroom to throw up.

I clung to the toilet, vomiting until tears ran down my cheeks.

Leaning against the sink, I looked at the faint dimples on my pale face in the mirror.

My heart, which I thought was already numb, felt like it was being repeatedly stabbed.

So that was it.

She chose me back then only because she needed to protect the underage Tristan from her family's rivals.

I was just the perfect, disposable shield who happened to look a bit like him.

My vision blurred. I wiped my face and typed a reply:

"You really love picking up trash, don't you? You're a perfect match for the garbage I'm throwing out."

The next second, Victoria’s call came through.

Months ago, when Tristan had posted an intimate photo with her on Instagram, I had liked the post. She had called me immediately, screaming at me for "harassing" him.

Back then, I had desperately tried to explain myself.

But now, I blocked her number without a second thought.

I blocked Tristan, too.

Once I calmed down, I called a moving company.

I had very few belongings—just some clothes and my design sketchbooks.

I left behind everything else related to her.

Including my wedding ring.

Before leaving, I took one last look at the luxurious mansion.

When I first moved in, I thought it would be the place where we built our happiness.

Now I realized it was nothing but a cold, soulless prison.

But now, I was free.

I packed up, cleaned the small apartment I rented, and by the time I finished, night had fallen.

I planted a few small flowers on the balcony.

It was a tiny apartment, but it felt incredibly warm and safe.

Just as I was about to sleep, my phone rang.

It was Victoria’s personal assistant.

As soon as I answered, Victoria’s icy voice boomed through the speaker.

"Julian, what the hell are you playing at? I’ve told you a thousand times, Tristan is sick."

"Your childish behavior is going to trigger his heart condition!"

"Come home right now, and I’ll overlook this. Focus on your recovery, and I’ll pay for your treatment."

My fingers tightened around the phone.

Even now, after I had packed up and left, her very first concern was still Tristan.

As for my safety, my health, or my feelings? They didn't even cross her mind.

"Julian! Speak to me! Do you hear me?"

"Get back here right—"

I hung up, blocked the assistant's number, and shut off the phone.

I would do exactly as she wanted. I would never trigger Tristan again.

And I would never bother them again.

***