Chapter 3

Adrian changed into his slippers, walked over, sat down beside me, and asked, "What's wrong?"

I threw my phone at him.

He scrolled through the post, then looked up.

"Yeah, I let Jessie stay in the apartment. But I didn't know you'd set all that up inside."

Jessie.

That was awfully intimate.

"Her full name?"

Adrian paused for a few seconds, then answered honestly.

"Jessica Carter."

"When did she start at the company?"

"Last month."

"What position?"

"Marketing."

"Why didn't you tell me beforehand?"

Adrian looked confused. "Tell you what?"

"About this girl," I said.

"You always used to tell me—about the others."

Adrian gave a short laugh.

He got up, walked into the bedroom, and came back holding several cards.

"The others—you mean the women you hired?"

He fanned them out.

Every card bore the work information of those girls.

Adrian sat back on the sofa. The light was dim; I couldn't make out his expression.

It wasn't happy, that much was clear.

"Nancy, we've been married a long time. Life's been harmonious enough, hasn't it?"

"Why do you need to know whether I love you?"

"Does it matter?"

These six years, Adrian had been good to me.

He bought me a house, a car, gave me shares in his company. He'd come home from work with a bouquet of flowers, like any ordinary husband.

We traveled together.

Went on weekend picnics.

He'd ride a bicycle and I'd sit behind him, my cheek resting lightly against his back.

The breeze would blow past.

Carrying not just the smell of the lake, but his own cedarwood scent.

In moments like those, I'd think: Adrian must like me, right?

His gaze seemed tender.

He tolerated my little temper. He took meticulous care of me.

So he loved me. Didn't he?

My expectations would creep higher, lifting me to the clouds, until I finally dared to reach for the sun—

Crash—

I'd plummet, bloodied and broken.

Over and over, the same cycle.

After enough pain, you go numb. I thought I could spend the rest of my life in this limbo of hoping and doubting.

Then I realized.

No.

I couldn't.

When you're hurt enough, the wounds turn into ugly scar tissue.

Visible, tangible, always with me—a constant reminder of how small I'd made myself in this relationship for six years.

When the pain of love outweighs the joy—

I think it's time to let go.

If even I don't love myself, who ever will?

"Adrian, love matters to me. Deeply."

I looked him straight in the eye.

"If there's no emotional foundation between us, then let's end it."

"And never see each other again."