Chapter 3

The next morning, Marcus was up by six.

He picked up his phone, seamlessly replied to a message on the "Dr. Carter" chat, and then locked it.

The entire sequence of movements was so smooth, done without a single second of hesitation. He didn't even glance my way.

He didn't need to check if I was asleep.

He knew that even if I saw him on his phone, I wouldn't think twice about it.

After that, Marcus went to the bathroom, and then to the kitchen.

The sound of eggs cracking, the sizzle of the pan, the hum of the toaster, the whirring of the exhaust fan.

I lay in bed, smelling the food, but my stomach was tied in tight knots.

He walked in carrying a tray, placing the breakfast on my nightstand. He leaned down and patted my shoulder.

"Rise and shine. I made your favorite sunny-side-up eggs."

After I got up, Marcus did what he had done for the last seven years.

He folded the blankets, made the bed perfectly, fluffed the pillows, and tucked in the corners.

I took two bites but had absolutely no appetite. I stood up and started organizing the closet instead.

Marcus had to go to the office today. His suit was hanging on the outermost rack.

I took it down, casually checking the pockets.

Inside the right inner pocket, there was a small paper receipt. I opened it.

It was a receipt from a boutique hotel. The date: March 17th.

My birthday.

That day, he told me he had an urgent meeting with a client and had to cancel our birthday dinner. He had even sent me a video to prove it.

In a VIP private dining room, he had held up a glass to the camera, smiling warmly.

“Happy birthday, Chloe. I’m so sorry I can't be with you tonight. I'll make it up to you as soon as I get back.”

I had eaten dinner alone that night, watching that video over and over, telling myself that he couldn't help it because of work.

But now, holding that tiny receipt, my fingers started to tremble.

I stood before the closet, clutching the paper in my fist, while the sound of Marcus sipping his coffee echoed behind me.

Everything felt so normal. So normal that it felt like a perfectly crafted lie.

I hung the suit back up, turned around, and forced my face into a neutral expression.

"Hey, I was scrolling through Instagram last night and saw this cute boutique hotel. It looks really nice. Maybe we should go there for a weekend getaway sometime."

He looked up from his mug.

"Oh, yeah, that place is super popular. A few guys at the office recommended it. They said the brunch is amazing, but parking is a nightmare."

He paused, then added, "If you like it, we should go. But we’ll have to book well in advance."

I nodded. He put his head back down, focusing on his phone.

I stared at the side of his face, a cold chill running down my spine.

No hesitation. No stuttering. His eyes didn't even flicker.

He told that lie faster than I could even process it.

After Marcus left for work, I looked around the apartment we had so lovingly decorated together.

Suddenly, the tears came crashing down.

I had learned to numb myself to crying at a very young age.

For as long as I could remember, my parents did nothing but scream at each other. Over money, over chores, over any little thing that could trigger a fight.

I used to try and pull them apart, but I quickly realized it was pointless. Eventually, I stopped trying.

I would lock myself in my bedroom, sitting on the cold floor, listening to the muffled screaming outside.

When it finally went quiet, I never knew if they had fallen asleep or just walked away.

No one ever opened my door to check on me.

No one cared if I was crying, sleeping, or just staring into the dark.

I learned early on that screaming your feelings out doesn't work if no one is listening. It’s better to keep it all inside.

Since then, I always dreamed of having my own home. A home with someone who would actually notice me.

Marcus had entered my life like a savior. For seven years, he had taken care of me with absolute perfection.

Like the time I got severe gastroenteritis and ran a dangerously high fever in the middle of the night.

He had called an Uber at 3 AM, stayed up with me at the hospital all night, and never closed his eyes once.

He checked my temperature every hour, wiped my sweat, and made a fresh batch of chicken soup before dawn, feeding me spoonful by spoonful.

Lying in that hospital bed, looking at his tired face, I had thought:

This is it. He’s the one. I’m going to marry this man.

So, I started proposing. Once, twice, five times, ten times, twenty-six times.

Every time he rejected me, I told myself it just wasn't the right time.

That he had financial worries, that he needed more time—not that he didn't love me.

In seven years, the thought of him cheating had never once crossed my mind.

But now, the truth stared me in the face. He had never actually chosen me.