Chapter 1

My boyfriend, Ethan, was universally known as a "good guy." He didn’t smoke, didn’t party, and always came straight home after work.

When I came down with a severe flu and my fever spiked to 102°F, he immediately took charge of the kitchen and ordered me to stay in bed and rest.

Yet, in the span of just thirty minutes, he called my phone five times.

"Chloe, where is the garlic?"

"Do I need to boil the steak first? How do I even do that?"

When I finally dragged my weak, shivering body into the kitchen, I found the countertop flooded with water and covered in discarded vegetable leaves.

Ethan was standing there, holding a plate with a half-raw, bloody steak, looking at me like a puppy begging for a treat.

"Babe, aren't I amazing?"

At that moment, I didn't feel loved or cared for.

I only felt a deep, suffocating sense of despair and exhaustion, realizing this was what the rest of my life would look like.

I looked at Ethan, who was still grinning like an idiot, and a wave of pure exhaustion washed over me. I spat out a single word: "Useless."

Honestly, if he had just ordered a decent takeout, I wouldn’t have seen his weaponized incompetence as a slap in the face to our three-year relationship.

The smile instantly vanished from Ethan’s face. He set down the dripping, bloody steak and stared at me in disbelief.

"Chloe, why are you being so mean?"

He slammed the plate onto the grease-stained counter and muttered under his breath, "I didn't even have a sip of water after work. I literally got straight into the kitchen just because you’re sick."

"If you don't appreciate it, fine. But what right do you have to call me useless?"

When I didn't reply, his eyes actually welled up with tears.

Standing in that ruined kitchen, he looked as if he was the victim—as if he was the one with a 102°F fever being forced to do hard labor.

I looked around. Puddles on the floor, rotten celery stalks on the counter, and a box of half-empty pasta thrown carelessly next to the sink.

Then there was the pot of soggy, overcooked rice, and right next to it, my expensive Le Creuset Dutch oven, its bottom completely charred black.

I felt terrible. My head was pounding like it was about to split open.

That Dutch oven was a birthday gift from my best friend, Harper, last year.

It was a premium imported pot. I always babied it, never even letting a metal utensil touch its surface.

Now, it was completely ruined.

Ethan was always like this. Doing stupid things under the guise of "doing it for my own good."

And the moment I called him out on it, he would play the victim.

Three months ago, I casually mentioned wanting home-made pasta.

Ethan volunteered to make it from scratch. He ended up getting flour all over the kitchen—on the counters, the stove, the range hood. It looked like a snowstorm had hit.

In the end, the pasta dough was as hard as a rock. Even after boiling it for twenty minutes, the inside was still raw.

I had to clean up the sticky dough from the floor tiles for two whole hours on an empty stomach.

Back then, he stood there just like this, holding his flour-covered hands out with an innocent look, and said, "I'm so clumsy, but I just wanted to make you happy."

"You should cook next time. Your food tastes way better anyway."

And so, "next time" turned into every single time.

When he did the laundry, he would always mix my silk blouses with his bleeding dark jeans, turning my white summer dresses a dingy gray. Eventually, I had to take over all the laundry.

When he mopped the floor, he would only wipe the very center of the living room, leaving thick layers of dust under the sofa, the bed, and in the corners. I always ended up re-mopping.

When he washed the dishes, he never got them clean. Greasy residue would dry into hard yellow crusts on the bottom of the plates, forcing me to rewash everything.

Every single time, he would say in a whiny, pleading voice, "I really don't know how. Can you teach me?"

I did teach him. More than once.

I showed him how to cook, how to sort laundry, how to vacuum, and how to wash dishes properly.

But at the end of every lesson, he would just say, "It's too complicated, I can't remember."

Then he would mess up again the next time. The time and emotional energy it took to teach him far exceeded the effort of just doing it myself.

Over time, I naturally took over ninety percent of the housework.

And I had to endure him bragging to his friends at dinners, saying, "My girl is so capable!" as if my exhaustion was some trophy for him to show off.

Meanwhile, in the eyes of our friends, he remained the "perfect boyfriend who goes straight home to be with his girl after work."

I averted my eyes and turned back toward the bedroom.

"Aren't you going to eat?" he yelled after me.

I shut the bedroom door and locked it.

My throat was parched, my joints ached, and my temples throbbed like someone was hitting them with a hammer.

Leaning against the headboard, I pulled out my phone and ordered some pasta on UberEats.

Outside the door, I heard Ethan pacing.

He was watching TV in the living room, the volume turned up high. The obnoxious laughter from a comedy show pierced through the door, making my head hurt even worse.

A while later, the delivery guy knocked.

I heard Ethan open the door, and then he came to my bedroom, rattling the doorknob.

"Why is the door locked? Chloe, your delivery is here. Why didn't you order some for me? I haven't eaten either."

His voice carried a childish pout, as if my eating without him was some unforgivable sin.

I got out of bed and opened the door.

I snatched the bag from his hand and slammed the door right in his face.

It missed his nose by an inch.

"Chloe! What is your problem? I already told you I don't know how to cook. Can't you just talk to me nicely since you're sick?"

Ethan’s voice grew louder outside, his tone shifting from whiny to angry.

I ignored him, opened the container, and slowly began to eat.

The hot pasta warmed my stomach, and I finally felt a bit of relief.

After finishing, I took some Tylenol and closed my eyes.

The TV outside didn’t stop blaring until midnight.

I tossed and turned, wrapping the blanket tighter around myself.

There was not a single text from Ethan on my phone.

This was the man I had been dating for three years. This was the man I had planned to take home to meet my parents next month.