Chapter 1

“Ms. Sanders, what are you doing? Your engagement party with Mr. Foster is about to start. The guests are all waiting!”

I pushed the makeup artist's hand away, staring at my paper-pale reflection in the mirror as a wave of nausea washed over me. She was still babbling, “Look at this wedding dress, Ms. Sanders. It's so beautiful. Mr. Foster had it custom-made in Paris—”

“Throw it away,” I interrupted her, standing up and picking up my suitcase.

“What?”

I turned around just in time to see Julian Foster push open the door and walk in. Dressed in a sharp, tailored suit, his brow instantly furrowed at the sight of my casual clothes. “Scarlett Sanders, what kind of scene are you making now?”

I smiled faintly, walked over to him, and pulled the engagement ring—stained with years of humiliation—out of my pocket. I slipped it gently into his suit breast pocket.

“Julian,” I said. “The 999th test. You may consider yourself the victor.”

Then, I walked around his stiffened body and out the door without looking back.

Behind me, his furious roar echoed through the room: “Scarlett! If you leave, don't you dare come back!”

I didn't look back. Because I knew that this time, I would never go back.

Scarlett Sanders' POV

The Sanders family villa, the study.

Smoke curled in the air. My father, Arthur Sanders, sat behind his desk. He stared at me standing straight before him, his brow furrowed as his fingers, holding a cigar, trembled slightly.

“Scarlett, tell me the truth. What ridiculous reason did Julian use to call off the engagement this time?” Arthur's voice carried a mix of suppressed rage and heartache.

I lowered my eyes, my long lashes veiling the emotions swirling in my gaze. My voice was calm, completely devoid of feeling. “Dad, it wasn't him this time. I was the one who called it off.”

At those words, Arthur bolted upright. The cigar slipped from his fingers onto the edge of the ashtray, burning a pungent trail of smoke. He stared at me in shock, his lips parting and closing for several seconds before he could construct a coherent sentence.

It was no wonder he was so startled.

In all of New York's high society, everyone knew that Scarlett Sanders, the heiress of the Sanders family, was the one person Julian Foster could never shake off. Some media outlets had even used phrases like “though born into a wealthy family, she cannot change her submissive nature” to describe me.

Because Julian had already called off our engagement publicly three times.

The first time, Julian complained that my gown was too bright, calling me attention-seeking, and canceled the engagement banquet on the spot. The second time, using the excuse that I had exchanged a few extra words with another man, he called me shameless and threw the engagement ring into the ocean. The third time, he didn't even bother giving a reason; he simply didn't show up on the day of the engagement, leaving me alone to face the ridicule of a room full of guests.

Yet every single time, as long as Julian crooked his finger, I would brush off every hurt, swallow my humiliation and cling to him once more. my eyes filled with nothing but love.

Looking at my father's shocked face, a dull ache throbbed deep in my chest, but it quickly faded into dead silence.

The only reason I had tirelessly endured Julian's humiliation wasn't that I lacked self-respect. It was because on that freezing, rainy winter day, right after my mother died and I felt my entire world collapsing, a sixteen-year-old Julian had held a black umbrella over me and draped his warm coat over my trembling shoulders.

That was the darkest moment of my life, and Julian was the only light that filtered in. Because of that companionship, I viewed him as my salvation, my god. I was willing to throw away my dignity time and again for him, even trampling my own pride into the dirt.

But as it turned out, even a god could drive a person to the brink of despair.

“Scarlett, have you really thought this through?” Arthur walked over, placing his hands on my shoulders, his voice strained. “Are you truly... ready to let him go?”

“I have.” I looked up, my eyes clear and free of any hesitation.

How could I not have?

My mind involuntarily drifted back to the scene at Julian's birthday party three days ago.

That day, filled with joy, I had brought some homemade cream of mushroom soup to the Foster villa to find him. But when I pushed open the door, there was none of the lively celebration I had anticipated.

In the spacious living room, Julian sat on the sofa. Right beside him sat Chloe Summers, the girl-next-door type he kept around, wearing an oversized men's dress shirt.

When he saw me walk in, Julian didn't even raise an eyebrow. He merely tossed a crumpled white bedsheet, stained with a pungent, musky scent, to my feet.

“You came at the perfect time,” Julian's voice was as cold as ice shards. “Chloe was a virgin, and she bled last night. This sheet is highly meaningful, and I don't trust anyone else to wash it. Clean it, by hand.”

At that moment, the thermos in my hands crashed to the floor. The scalding soup splashed onto my feet, but I couldn't feel the burn.

I stared at the jarring sheet, then at the prominent hickeys on Chloe's neck, and finally at the almost sick anticipation in Julian's eyes as he waited for me to lose my mind and break down.

And in that exact second, the temple of worship I had built for Julian in my heart crumbled to dust.

Faced with such absolute disgust, any lingering love was thoroughly eroded.

“It's good that you've realized. It's good!” Arthur looked at my calm expression, his eyes welling with tears as he nodded repeatedly. “I'll arrange for you to go abroad right away, to leave this place. We won't stay in New York anymore. Go abroad and start fresh!”

“Okay.” I stood up, holding my father's trembling hands. “Give me a month. I'll leave in a month. I need to handle all my personal affairs here myself before I go.”