The stomach pain hit me like a fist, and that was when Isabelle kicked me out of the car. My crime? My agony was interrupting the witty banter between her and her childhood friend, Nate. She ignored my pleas, the tinted window gliding up with a soft hum. "So dramatic," she sighed, her voice a cold whisper before the engine purred and she drove away, leaving me hunched over on the curb. I ended up in the hospital with a perforated stomach. I called her over a dozen times, each call instantly rejected. The next thing I saw was her, the woman I’d loved for eight years, nestled intimately in another man’s arms in the hospital corridor, waiting for an OB-GYN appointment. Isabelle, who had been adamant about us being child-free for our entire relationship, was gazing at him with a syrupy sweetness I hadn’t seen in years. “Nate,” she murmured, “if it’s what you want, of course I’ll have this baby for you.” 1 Later, after I was discharged, I spent a week alone, healing my body and soul at Azure Peak. When I came back, my phone, which had been silent for nearly two weeks, was blowing up with frantic calls from her. “Ethan, are you forgetting to keep tabs on me?!” I finally answered the thirty-ninth call on my way out of the airport. “Ethan, your location shows you’re out of state! Where the hell did you go?” The question was an accusation, sharp and immediate. I didn’t answer, my face calm as I stepped out into the crisp air. When Isabelle pulled up to the curb, she snatched my suitcase without a word, a cold, mocking smirk playing on her lips. “I almost thought you were trying to pull a dramatic little runaway act. But look at you, crawling back with your tail between your legs after just a few days.” She lit a cigarette, the smoke instantly filling the car. “Our wedding is just around the corner. I’m swamped, so I don’t have time to babysit you. Just stay put and don’t cause any more trouble.” I winced, cracking the window. The cold wind was a relief. “We need to stop by the wedding planner’s,” I said, my voice flat. The invitations should be ready by now. She scoffed, hitting the accelerator and peeling out onto the street. When we arrived, she refused to go in, leaning against the car door and scrolling through her phone, a private little smile gracing her lips as she smoked. Inside, the consultant beamed, presenting a stack of elegant boxes. “Mr. Grant, Ms. Vance, your invitations are all ready.” Isabelle glanced over, her eyes landing on the crimson-and-gold cards. “So tacky,” she muttered. “Only you would pick something so garishly red. Zero creativity.” I didn’t argue. I just counted the invitations and pulled out my phone to pay the invoice. Just as I was about to speak, her phone rang. She answered it instantly, and a saccharine, theatrical voice poured from the speaker. “Babe, it’s time for my check-up again! I’ll be on my best behavior if my princess comes to pick me up!” Isabelle hung up, grabbing her keys from her pocket and tossing a single, cold sentence over her shoulder. “You can handle this. I have to go.” It wasn’t a question. It was a declaration. She never doubted for a second that I would simply obey. She was gone before I could even reply. I turned back to the consultant. “These are all paid for,” I said, my voice steady. “You can throw them away. And please, cancel everything else. We won’t be needing your services anymore.” The consultant’s smile faltered. “But, sir… we’re already halfway through the design process. If you cancel now, the deposit is non-refundable…” “Keep it.” As I walked out, it occurred to me that the custom-designed wedding attire I’d paid a fortune for should probably be canceled, too. After handling it all, I walked into a small ramen shop, ordered my favorite spicy broth, and started composing a post for my Instagram feed. The scenery at Azure Peak had been breathtaking. I chose nine of the best photos, a grid of snow-capped mountains and crystal-clear lakes. The caption was just two words: "As promised." The likes started rolling in. Friends, family… and one from Nate. A moment later, a new post from him popped up on my feed. It was a candid shot of Isabelle, her face soft and focused as she looked at him. The caption read: “A lifetime of promises starts now. A huge thanks to my princess for agreeing to be my surrogate and carry our child!” A flood of "congrats!" and "999" comments filled the space below. I tapped the heart icon, put my phone down, and focused on my noodles. A few minutes later, it started ringing. It was Isabelle. 2 I declined the call, but she was persistent. On the second try, I sighed and answered. “Ethan, you went to Azure Peak alone?” Her voice was low, but laced with a simmering anger. “Didn’t we agree we’d go together after the wedding? A place that romantic… for you to go by yourself, are you trying to embarrass me?” The background was noisy. I could hear the faint, tinny sound of a PA system calling out names, the tell-tale murmur of a hospital waiting room. “It wasn’t about you,” I said calmly. “I just needed to go.” Her outrage, which once would have twisted my gut, now felt like a distant echo. For eight years, I had suggested a trip to Azure Peak. It was my mother’s dying wish for me to see it. But every single time, Isabelle had an excuse. “Ethan, I’m just too busy right now. We’ll go when things calm down.” “Something came up with my family. Maybe next year.” “No time!” Last year, when I brought it up, she didn't even bother with an excuse. Just a flat, annoyed refusal. I was done waiting. “If that’s all, I’m hanging up.” I didn’t wait for her to reply, just tapped the red icon and felt a wave of relief wash over me. That night, I was working on my laptop in the study when a piece of clothing hit me in the face. “Ethan, can you please pick up after yourself?” Isabelle snapped. “Your clothes are all over the place.” A sharp, metallic decoration on the fabric scratched my cheek, a thin line of stinging pain. “I found this under the sofa. Get your things organized. I don’t want to see it again.” I looked down at the ridiculously skimpy flight attendant costume. “It’s not mine,” I said, my voice cold. Isabelle’s face paled. A flicker of panic crossed her eyes as she snatched the costume off the floor, hiding it behind her back. “Oh, it must be Nate’s. He must have left it here by accident last time he stayed over. I’ll give it back to him.” I said nothing, turning my attention back to my screen. But Isabelle, now consumed with guilt, fumbled in a drawer and pulled out an old, faded cartoon band-aid. She sat beside me, her touch hesitant. “I’m sorry, Ethan. I shouldn’t have thrown that at you. I didn’t see it had… sharp bits.” The sickly sweet smell of the old adhesive made my stomach turn. I pulled away. “It’s fine.” I closed my laptop and headed for the spare bedroom. Isabelle was left frozen in the middle of the room, staring after me long after I had gone. 3 “Ethan, you haven’t been keeping tabs on me lately,” Isabelle said, pushing the door to the study open. She was fresh from the shower, a cloud of steam still clinging to her. As she towel-dried her hair, she added, almost as an afterthought, “And… you feel different. Like you’re avoiding me.” My fingers paused on the keyboard. I thought back. For eight years, we had been in constant contact. Texting, calling, sharing every little detail of our days. Even on the busiest of days, we never broke contact. I had built my life around her. But to her, it was always "keeping tabs." Now, looking at our message history, our last conversation was over two weeks ago. This distance, this freedom, was exactly what she’d always claimed she wanted. And yet, here she was, complaining. I managed a small smile. “You’re overthinking it. I’ve been busy, that’s all. Didn’t want to bother you.” “Get some sleep,” I added, closing my laptop and picking up my pillow. We had been together for eight years, but we’d been sleeping in separate rooms for the last six months. I hated the smell of smoke. She had actually quit for me once, for three whole years. But the moment Nate came back from overseas, all that effort went up in smoke, literally. Nate was her childhood friend, the one who’d always held a piece of her heart. They thought nothing of sleeping in the same bed, claiming it was something they’d done since they were kids. When I was sick with a fever, desperate for her care, a single phone call from Nate was enough to pull her away. At first, I was consumed by a bitter, helpless jealousy. Why was my girlfriend so entangled with another man? But now? Now, there was nothing. A calm, quiet emptiness. The fact that she was carrying his child barely registered. I had already decided to leave. As I walked towards the door, a flicker of panic crossed her face. “Ethan!” she called out, her voice suddenly fragile. “Tonight… I used mouthwash. The smoke smell is all gone. Can we… can we sleep together?” I didn’t move. She rushed forward, wrapping her arms around me from behind. “Ethan, we’re getting married in two weeks. Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted? A home? A family?” A home. My eyes burned. Yes. For eight years, that’s all I ever wanted. My mother died when I was young, and I’d spent my whole life searching for that sense of security, of belonging. I had been so desperate to build that little world with Isabelle. But I finally understood. Isabelle’s life was a whirlwind of chaos, and Nate would always be at its center. If the rest of my life was going to be this exhausting, this painful… I’d rather have no home at all. I gently pried her hands off me. “We’ll talk about it later.” Then I walked out and closed the door behind me. 4 I submitted my resignation letter first thing in the morning. My boss, who had mentored me for years and guided me up the corporate ladder, called me into his office, confused. “Ethan, is something wrong? Why the sudden resignation?” I smiled. “Just feel like it’s time for a change of scenery. A new city.” He was kind enough not to press. He approved it on the spot. After work, a few colleagues I was close with insisted on a farewell dinner. As we stepped out of the building, a sudden downpour had soaked the streets. We were waiting for a ride when a voice cut through the rain. “Ethan!” A black Audi was parked by the curb. The window rolled down, and Isabelle’s gaze fell on my rain-slicked hair. She frowned. “Get in. I came to pick you up.” I didn’t move. From the passenger seat, a light chuckle. “See, Ethan? I told you she loves you,” Nate said, his voice oozing with false sincerity. “Coming to get you in this weather? I’m so jealous!” He noticed my flat stare and offered a practiced, innocent smile. “Oh, I didn’t have an umbrella today, and I was with her for the check-up, so she insisted on giving me a ride. You don’t mind, right?” I let out a soft, humorless laugh. “I don’t mind.” But I made no move to get in the car. Isabelle’s patience wore thin. Just as she was about to snap, my colleague’s Uber arrived. We both climbed in. As I shut the door, I heard her voice, sharp with urgency. “Ethan, I came all this way for you! Where are you going?” I looked back at her, my expression unreadable. “I have plans. My colleague is heading the same way. I’ll see you later.” I closed the door, and the car pulled away, leaving her in my rearview mirror. During dinner, my phone buzzed incessantly with her calls. I silenced it, flipped it face down on the table, and went back to laughing with my friends. After the meal, my colleague’s wife came to pick him up. “Hey man, need a ride home?” he offered. I shook my head. “No, I’m good. You guys go on ahead.” I stayed in the hot pot restaurant, slowly eating from the bubbling, spicy broth. When Isabelle finally found me, she was soaked to the bone, her hair plastered to her face. Nate was nowhere in sight. She looked lost and pathetic. The moment she walked in, her eyes locked on the crimson, oil-slicked pot, and her nose wrinkled in disapproval. “Ethan, you know you can’t handle spicy food. You’re going to be sick.” I didn’t stop, just lifted a piece of tender meat to my lips. The heat made my eyes water, but I smiled through it. Eight years together, and she still didn’t know that I loved spicy food. She was the one who couldn’t handle it; it gave her mouth sores. So, to make her comfortable, I’d all but given it up, only indulging when I was out alone or with colleagues. Besides, the one who got sick from spicy food was Nate.
? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "MotoNovel" app ? search for "393240", and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel