The first crack in our decade-long relationship appeared one night when I found George drunk, leaning on another woman. We had our worst fight—my hysterical questions met his venomous accusations. "Just drunk, nothing happened," he slurred, blocking her number with red-rimmed eyes. I believed him. Ten years was too long to throw away, especially with our wedding approaching. Six months later, I overheard his friend ask: "You’re really marrying her? What about my sister?" That night, I unlocked his phone. My chat was muted; pinned at the top was a kitten avatar—a young girl he replied to eagerly, while my messages vanished into silence. I smiled bitterly. If his care belonged to someone else, then I didn’t want this fiancé anymore. 1 It was three in the morning. The bedroom door opened, and George sat down on the edge of the bed. He just sat there, head bowed, lost in thought. After a long silence, he placed a small box on my nightstand. When I heard the shower start, I opened my eyes and looked at his phone on the pillow beside me. The screen lit up with a new message notification. As if possessed, I reached over and swiped it open. As I scrolled through his chat history, my blood ran cold. Just as I’d suspected, my messages were muted. He had nothing left to say to me, but for this other girl, he had endless words. In just six months, he’d gone from cold indifference to patient replies, which had blossomed into a daily exchange of life's tiny moments. 【Are you asleep? Thanks for driving me home.】 【Let me buy you dinner to say thank you! [cute.jpg]】 【Goodnight, sweet dreams ~】 The mattress dipped beside me. The phone's light cast flickering shadows across the room. He was silent for a moment before he turned and wrapped his arm around me. "You're awake?" "I'm sorry," he murmured into my hair. "Something came up today. I couldn't make it to the wedding dress fitting." "My partner had an emergency, so he asked me to drive his sister to the next city for a dance troupe audition. He said it was a huge deal for her future… I really thought I'd make it back in time." His excuses felt flimsy, a transparent attempt to cover his tracks. My hand clenched into a fist, but there was no strength in my fingers. It felt like trying to hold onto sand, watching helplessly as it slipped away. The bitterness was a physical ache in my chest. My eyes stung, and a tear slid down my cheek, landing on the back of his hand. He flinched as if burned. He sighed, pulling me closer and burying his face in my neck. His voice was a hoarse whisper. "I'll be more careful from now on. I'm sorry." "We'll reschedule the dress fitting. And once this project is done, how about we go abroad for our wedding photos?" His breath was warm against my skin as he peppered my neck with soft kisses, the temperature in the room slowly rising. But my next words shattered the fragile intimacy. "George, do you even want to marry me anymore?" 2 I met George when I was eighteen. After graduating high school, I felt like I’d finally won a victory for my mother. I had outshone the child from her failed first marriage—my half-sister, the ghost who had haunted my entire childhood. It seemed the only way to earn a sliver of my mother’s attention was to be better, smarter, more successful than the daughter of the man who had hurt her. But I always seemed to disappoint her. In my junior year, a short story I wrote was adapted for the school play. Watching my classmates bring my words to life on stage planted a seed in my heart. As I went through the motions—practicing the violin I didn't love, learning skills I didn't care for—an idea began to sprout. I wanted to choose something for myself. Just once. I didn't apply to the respectable, stable career paths my mother had laid out for me. For the first time in my life, I defied her. The price was being thrown out of the house. I had less than a hundred dollars to my name. She was sure this would break me, that I would come crawling back, ready to follow her script for my life. If it wasn't for my best friend, I probably would have ended up on the streets, just as she’d predicted. To pay for tuition and rent, I slept four hours a night and worked every other waking moment. Early mornings at a breakfast diner, afternoons at a boba tea shop, late nights at an internet café. It was exhausting, but I’d never felt so free. Then, on an ordinary afternoon, he appeared. The summer air was thick with the drone of cicadas, shadows danced under the trees, and a wind chime tinkled softly. A boy, bright and intense as the summer heat, burst into my life. 3 When I woke the next morning, his side of the bed was empty. Staring out at the sunlit street, my mind replayed last night’s scene. After my question, there had been a long, heavy silence from George. Then, his lips were on mine, hot and insistent, swallowing the words caught in my throat. His eyes were dark, unreadable pools. The unspoken question died between us. I rubbed my throbbing temples. A flash of light caught my eye. Sometime during the night, he had slipped the contents of the box onto my ring finger. The diamond glittered, catching the morning sun and refracting it into a blinding star. Maybe the light was just too bright. It made my eyes water. … George seemed determined to put my mind at ease. No matter how busy he was, he came home for dinner every night. We’d curl up on the sofa and watch cheesy primetime dramas. On weekends, he took me to plays and late-night movie premieres, and we’d walk home under the stars. For a little while, it felt like we had traveled back in time. Back to a long, long time ago. My mother once told me I probably couldn't even bake a cake properly, unlike my sister, who excelled at everything she tried. Our tenth anniversary was just a few days away. I suddenly had the urge to bake a cake for George with my own hands. That night, after he was sound asleep, I snuck into the kitchen and pulled out the ingredients I’d bought. Following a tutorial video, I carefully measured and mixed, step by step. Slowly, a cake took shape under my hands. It turned out I wasn't completely useless after all. 4 The morning of our anniversary, as I was reminding George to take the wedding invitations with him, I glanced at his phone and saw a restaurant reservation confirmation. My heart gave a little flutter of anticipation. The sun was perfect. I hummed to myself as I pruned the dead leaves from the jasmine on the windowsill and gave it some water. I dressed with care, picked up the cake box, and headed to his office. Since the company had taken off, George had become impossibly busy. I hadn’t visited him at work in a long time. So long, in fact, that the new receptionist stopped me at the door. "Hi, I'm here to see George." "Do you have an appointment with Mr. Hayes?" she asked, her expression odd, her tone subtly shifting. I shook my head. Her brow furrowed as she glanced at the cake box in my hand. "If you don't have an appointment, you'll have to leave." I was taken aback by her baseless hostility. Frowning, I pulled out my phone to call George. No answer. She rolled her eyes and started texting someone. When she saw me trying to call again, her voice sharpened. "Please leave. You're disrupting our work environment." Suddenly, George's best friend, Ryan, stepped out of the elevator behind me. The receptionist's face lit up. "Hey, Ryan!" Ryan smiled back, then his eyes landed on me. He stopped short, a flicker of surprise on his face. "Chloe? What are you doing here?" "Am I not allowed?" I asked, forcing a smile. He seemed to realize how his question sounded and gave an awkward laugh. "Of course, you are. I just haven't seen you here in ages. Why are you waiting out here?" His eyes darted between me and the receptionist. "Come on, let's go in." "Ryan!" the receptionist protested. "She doesn't have an appointment…" Ryan’s face darkened. "This is George's fiancée. She doesn't need an appointment." The receptionist's eyes widened in shock. I gave her a quizzical look and followed Ryan inside, faintly hearing her making a frantic phone call behind us. In the hallway, I asked casually, "When did she start? Is she someone's relative or something?" "A friend asked me to give her a job," he said, rubbing his nose. "She's new. Don't mind her." 5 As we entered the main office area, a sweet, sugary scent hung in the air. On nearly every desk sat an exquisitely decorated dessert. Two women in the corner were whispering. "This is amazing! Did Chris's sister make these?" "Yeah, this is the second time this month, right?" "Don't forget the cookies she brought last week." I turned and walked into George's office. It was empty. On his desk sat a half-eaten slice of cake and a bag of almond cookies. My fingers tightened on the ribbon of my cake box. "You're here." George looked surprised to see me, a strange emotion flashing in his eyes. "Why didn't you call?" "I did. You didn't answer," I said flatly. He patted his pockets, finding them empty. He walked over, took my hand, and led me to the small sofa. "Sorry, I was in Chris’s office. I left my phone on my desk." His gaze fell on the cake box. Just as he was about to speak, a bright, cheerful voice came from the doorway. "George! Time for lunch! When are we leaving?" Without waiting for an answer, a young woman with a beaming smile pushed the door open. When she saw me, she froze, the smile stuck on her face. I looked her over. Fair skin, a pure, pretty face, and an infectious, youthful energy. "And who is this?" I asked, turning to George, though I already knew the answer. He squeezed my hand, his eyes downcast. "This is Chris's sister, Ivy," he mumbled. I stared at him for a long moment, a cold laugh bubbling in my throat. I turned my attention to the girl, who was now looking flustered. "You must be Chloe," she said, forcing a smile. "It's nice to finally meet you. George talks about you all the time—" I cut her off with a sharp smile of my own. "And where are you two going?" Ivy looked at George in a panic. George stood up, pulling me with him. "Just grabbing lunch. You haven't eaten, right? Join us." Ivy took a half-step forward as if to protest, but then her eyes fell on our joined hands. Her shoulders slumped, and she forced another smile, her disappointment poorly hidden. 6 In the parking garage, George opened the passenger door for me. As he did, his eyes instinctively flickered toward Ivy. My feet felt rooted to the spot. It was as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped over my head, extinguishing the last embers of the fantasy I'd been living in. My throat felt tight, clogged with cotton. The car ride was suffocatingly silent. The three of us were trapped in our own thoughts. A sad, soulful song played on the radio. I found myself wondering… who was the real third wheel in this relationship? … The restaurant was a new, trendy fusion place. It was so popular you had to book a table weeks in advance. We knew each other so well; a single glance was enough to read the other's mind. As he held the door for me, he didn't even spare Ivy a glance. "Welcome. Do you have a reservation?" the host asked. George showed him the text from that morning. It felt like a cruel joke, mocking my hopeful gesture with the cake. The host smiled and led us to a private room. Almost every dish on the table was garnished with almonds. Neither George nor I liked almonds. It was painfully obvious who did. My heart sank, stone by heavy stone. Dropping all pretense, I leaned forward, resting my chin on my clasped hands, and looked directly at Ivy. "Do you two have lunch together every day?" Ivy stammered, completely flustered. "Uh, I… I just graduated, and I haven't found a job yet. My brother's been busy at lunchtime, so…" George cut in, his brow furrowed. "Her brother has a new girlfriend he's been seeing at lunch, so he asked me to look after her. I saw she was alone at the office, so we just started eating together." Ivy nodded eagerly. "Chloe, please don't misunderstand—" "Do you know he has a fiancée?" I interrupted, my voice dangerously calm. "Do you think it's appropriate to have lunch every single day with an engaged man?" She fell silent, her head bowed. George's face turned thunderous. Before he could speak, I fixed my eyes on him. "And you, George," I said, each word a carefully aimed dart. "Have you forgotten you have a fiancée?" His face went dark, a nerve twitching in his jaw. "Can you stop overthinking everything?" he snapped. "Is it a problem for me to have lunch with anyone now?" "Of course it's a problem!" My voice rose, the anger finally breaking through. "You're an engaged man, spending every day with another girl! How is that normal?! You promised me!" Ivy tried to defend him. "It's just that George felt sorry for me—" Suddenly, her phone rang, shattering the tense standoff. She quickly excused herself to take the call. A moment later, she burst back into the room, clutching her phone so tightly her knuckles were white. Her eyes were red-rimmed with panic. "George! The dance troupe just called. There's a mistake on my application, and I have to get the corrected forms to them by five o'clock today! It's the deadline! Can you please, please drive me home to get them? I won't make it in time!" Her voice trembled with desperation. George shot up from his chair and went to her, completely forgetting I was even there. "Don't worry, I'll take you right now." I grabbed his wrist, my grip like iron. "You can't go."
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