Chapter 1

My iCloud suddenly popped up a notification: "Five Years Ago Today."

In the photo, Julian was carrying me on his back by the beach, laughing with pure, wild joy. The caption below read: "Even when we're old and grey, I'll still spoil you like my favorite little princess."

I stared at the screen expressionless, then locked my phone and looked over at the man sitting on the living room sofa.

The old refrigerator in the kitchen had a cracked pipe, and dirty water was leaking all over the floor.

I was on my knees, wiping it up with a rag, when a sharp piece of rusted metal sliced deep into my palm.

I gasped at the sudden, sharp pain. "Julian, the fridge is leaking really badly. Can you give me a hand?"

His eyes remained glued to the TV screen, where he was intensely playing a console game. He didn’t even bother to look at me.

"If it’s leaking, call a repairman. What do you want me to do about it? I come home from work just to hear you complain about this trivial crap every single day. Do you actively try to ruin my peace of mind?"

I looked at the blood dripping from my fingertips onto the tiles. I didn’t argue. I didn’t scream.

There was no physical cheating, no dramatic betrayal. It was just that seven years was too long. Long enough to turn the boy who once looked at me with pure devotion into a cold, dismissive stranger.

"Can't you wipe up that blood on the floor? Once it gets into the grout, it’ll never come out."

Julian finally glanced at me during a loading screen.

I wrapped the rag tightly around my palm with one hand. The rust-stained cut stretched from the base of my index finger all the way to my wrist, throbbing with pain.

The doorbell rang twice.

"Get that," he ordered, firing another shot on screen.

The delivery courier stood at the door, holding a box as tall as a person. When I scanned the QR code to sign for it, my eyes caught the price on the invoice—$1,200.

The side of the box bore the logo of a high-end gaming brand.

Last week, when I said the fridge needed fixing, he snapped, "It’s a hundred and fifty bucks, call someone yourself." He had emphasized "yourself," as if asking him to find a repairman was a personal insult to his existence.

The moment I pushed the heavy box into the living room, he finally put down his controller.

"Oh, it's here! Don't touch it—you've got blood all over your hands. If you ruin the leather, who’s going to pay for it?"

He knelt on the floor, unboxing, screwing in parts, adjusting the armrests, and tilting the backrest. He examined every single piece with absolute care, comparing them to the manual.

It took him forty minutes.

I couldn't remember the last time I had seen that level of focus and care on his face.

Once the chair was assembled, he sank into it, leaning back with a long, satisfied sigh.

Then, his phone buzzed.

The moment he picked up, his voice went up an octave, practically vibrating with excitement.

"Marcus! Yeah! I saw the sales numbers last night—a million copies! Next Friday? The National Book Gala? An award? Are you serious? Yes, absolutely. I’ll buy a new suit tomorrow, and I’ll write the speech tonight—"

He jumped up from the gaming chair and paced the living room, practically glowing. His smile was dazzling, almost blinding. He looked like a completely different person.

But he was smiling at his phone, not at me.

After hanging up, he finally looked at me.

"Next Friday is the National Book Gala. *The Whispering Wind* just hit one million copies, and I’m getting the Emerging Writer Award. Double celebration."

"Can I come with you?"

His smile vanished faster than his game characters died.

"Chloe, look in the mirror. The venue will be packed with publishers, critics, and media. What would you even wear? What would you talk about? You’d just stand there looking awkward like some useless prop."

*Chloe*. Whenever he used my full name, it meant I had crossed a line.

"Besides, I only have one guest pass. Lily from downstairs spent the last two weeks running my social media campaign for free. She’s a professional PR strategist. It’s only fair I give the ticket to her."

"You gave your guest pass to another woman?"

"She’s not just 'another woman.' She did my promo work for free. What about you? For the past six months, what have you done besides sit at home and hoard old scrap paper?"

The living room lights were blindingly bright. He sat in his $1,200 gaming chair, the smell of new leather blending with the metallic tang of rust from the kitchen.

My hand, wrapped in the bloody rag, hung limp at my side. The blood had already dried.

"Fine. I won't go."

He put his headset back on, shutting me out of his world instantly.

The water in the kitchen was still seeping out.

I shut the kitchen door and knelt beside the sink. I opened the cabinet beneath the pipes and reached into the very back, feeling a sealed manila envelope.

I touched the seal. It was dry and untouched.

I put it back.

When I stood up, my knees popped. From the living room, I heard him laugh out loud. He must have won another round.

My phone buzzed in my apron pocket. It was an unsaved number, containing only one sentence:

*“Documents received.”*

With damp fingers, I typed two words: *“Thank you.”*

Then, I deleted the entire conversation history.

As I walked through the living room, Julian pulled off one ear of his headphones.

"Do you even understand the blurb on my acceptance speech draft? Never mind. Why do I even ask."

I didn’t stop.

"I'm going to find some Band-Aids."