Donovan was in the center of the ballroom, locked in a slow, intimate dance with his secretary, Sierra Vaughn, when my asthma attack started. Even as I began to gasp, drooling, struggling to breathe, the man I was supposed to marry kept his arms around her, their heads close, sharing a private joke. On the ride home, I found a diamond ring box tucked into the glove compartment. Before I could say a word, Donovan frowned, snatched it up, and said, his voice cold as ice: “It’s not for you.” I simply nodded. Then, I pointed toward the bridal boutique coming up on the next block. “Pull over, please.” The bespoke gown I’d ordered felt like a relic from a different lifetime. It was time to cancel the fitting. 1 I’d barely made it through the door of the boutique before Donovan followed me, slamming a woman’s coat into my face. “Amelia,” he clipped, “for God’s sake, get rid of this awful habit of leaving your trash everywhere.” Donovan had a phobia of clutter. He never allowed a single one of my personal items to remain in his luxury sedan. I glanced at the coat on the floor. “It’s not mine.” At that, his expression softened. He picked up the discarded garment without a hint of disgust and carefully folded it. I knew the coat belonged to Sierra. Every other time Sierra “accidentally” left an item behind, it led to a spectacular, screaming fight between Donovan and me. This time, however, I had nothing to say. No fight left in me. I turned back to the attendant and quietly gave her my phone number. The young woman smiled brightly. “You’ve come at the perfect time! Your custom gown and his tuxedo are both finished. You can try them on now.” Before I could refuse the fitting, the man who had just snapped at me walked into the men’s changing room with a sigh of irritation. Ten minutes later, I stood before Donovan in the white gown. He pulled his mouth into a sneer. “Tacky.” I didn’t argue. Instead, I asked the attendant to take a photo of me. Donovan’s expression was impatient. He was about to put an arm around me for a forced couple’s photo when his phone rang. It was Sierra’s personalized ringtone. The girl on the other end was sobbing, complaining that her favorite jacket was missing. She declared that whoever was kind enough to return it would be rewarded with her undying, eternal devotion. Donovan hung up, didn’t bother to change out of his suit, and strode out of the store. Listening to the sound of his car speeding away, I picked up the shears used for alterations and, without a single moment of hesitation, shredded my wedding dress. It was half past one in the morning. I was cleaning out my personal items when a message popped up. It was from Donovan: [Out drinking] In eight years together, the man had rarely bothered to check in. I glanced at the cleaning gloves on my hands and didn’t reply. After taking out the trash, I had a hot shower and slept a deep, dreamless sleep. Donovan came home the next day just as I was heading out to the trash chute. His eyes narrowed in confusion. “Is your phone broken?” I shook my head. His brow immediately furrowed in that familiar sign of annoyance. I knew why he was asking. In the past, whenever he stayed out late, I would barrage him with texts and calls. But last night, his phone had been eerily silent. As I reached the door, he called out, “Amelia, where are the photos from the living room wall?” I looked down at the garbage bag in my hands. I was about to tell him the truth when his phone buzzed. He bumped my shoulder, walked past me, and pressed the voice-recording button as he headed further inside. “Hold tight, kiddo. I’ll bring it over the minute it’s ready.” Hearing the water running in the bathroom, I continued downstairs to dump the trash. Climbing back up, I felt the familiar dizzying chill of low blood sugar. Sweating and shaky, I stumbled back into the kitchen, grabbed the half-eaten plate of fried eggs and toast from the counter, and took a bite. That’s when I heard Donovan’s voice, thick with resentment: “Amelia, are you a starved stray?” I watched him pick up the plate with my half-bitten toast and drop the entire thing into the kitchen trash. I stared at him, my vision blurring. “I made your food for eight years. When my blood sugar crashes, do I not even deserve to eat a piece of the breakfast you made?” Donovan’s eyes were hard and cold. “Stealing is stealing, regardless of your emergency. Have some manners.” He put on his suit jacket and slammed the door shut behind him. Facing this fresh wave of silent treatment, I automatically grabbed my phone and opened his messaging app. He’d changed his background photo. It was a selfie of Sierra with a goofy cat-ear filter. I tapped the ‘like’ button—a final act of irony—and then unpinned his conversation from the top of my list. 2 Around lunchtime at the office, I was heading into the elevator to meet with my realtor when I ran right into Donovan and Sierra. Sierra’s long hair was a mess, and Donovan was gently pulling it into a ponytail for her. Seeing me, Sierra immediately put her hands on her hips, pouted, and complained: “Amie, you’re just in time. Look at Donovan. He keeps tugging my hair like a little boy. He’s so annoying.” Before I could speak, Donovan affectionately pinched the tip of her nose. “Little one, your nose will grow long if you tell fibs.” After teasing her until she blushed, he finally, reluctantly, looked at me. “Amelia, what a coincidence. Join us for lunch.” We had worked in the same corporate high-rise for five years. Donovan had never once asked me to lunch during a workday. Meanwhile, Sierra posted daily photos of every meal he shared with her on social media. The memory made me smile sadly. “You two go on. I have an appointment.” My refusal caught him off guard. His face darkened just as the elevator jerked violently, plunging us into darkness. I turned on my phone’s flashlight. Donovan was immediately wrapping his arms around Sierra, whispering reassurances. A moment later, the elevator lights flickered back on, and we reached the lobby. Donovan offered to drop me off wherever I was going. Before I could reply, Sierra suddenly collapsed. Donovan shoved me aside without a second thought, hoisted Sierra onto his back, and rushed toward the nearest hospital. I silently picked up my cracked-screen phone, hailed a ride, and went to look at apartments. That evening, Donovan personally delivered a box of pastries to my desk. I had seen Sierra’s new social media post half an hour earlier: [Loving him is like feeding a flower. My baby bought me too many treats, I can't possibly finish them all!] The photo showed an entire table laden with expensive French desserts. I thanked him but didn't open the box. A flicker of confusion crossed Donovan’s eyes. “Amelia, why are you being so formal with me?” I didn’t answer directly. “If there’s nothing else, I need to go print some documents.” When I returned from the printer, holding my resignation letter, Donovan was gone. He’d left a sticky note telling me to come to his office upstairs when I was finished. I tore the note off, crumpled it up with the box of pastries, and tossed them both into the recycling bin. I walked into my boss’s office and handed in my notice. He tried to talk me out of it for a long time, but seeing my resolve, he finally accepted it. I just had to finish out the week. At ten that night, Donovan called me while I was having dinner with some colleagues. A male co-worker accidentally picked up the phone. When I finally took the call, Donovan’s voice was terrifyingly cold. “Amelia, where are you this late?” “Out,” I replied. “Send me your location. I’m coming to get you now.” He hung up without waiting for my response. I sent the location and stayed until the restaurant closed. Donovan never showed. I opened Sierra’s social media feed and, sure enough, found a post about her being sick and getting an IV drip at the hospital. I took a cab home, showered, and went to bed. At half-past three in the morning, a travel-worn Donovan violently shook me awake. He said, his voice flat and demanding: “Amelia, I’m starving. Make me a bowl of homemade chicken noodle soup.” He hated chicken noodle soup. He never ate it. I knew who was asking for it: Sierra. I tried to pull my arm away, but my fingers brushed against the scar on his hand. Years ago, the school auditorium had caught fire. Without Donovan, I would have been one of the casualties. A bowl of soup for a life saved—I was still coming out ahead. Seeing me quietly put on a robe to head to the kitchen, Donovan grabbed my arm again. For once, his voice held a trace of uncertainty. “Maybe wait until morning, it doesn’t matter right now...” I cut him off, asking softly, “Besides the soup, is there anything else she wants to eat?” After a moment of silence, Donovan slowly released my arm. “No,” he said. “That’s all.” 3 Before sunrise, Donovan stood at the door with a thermal food carrier in his hand. “Amelia,” he said, “I have to go abroad next week. I’ll make time this Saturday to meet your parents for dinner so we can discuss the wedding details…” I cut him off before he could finish. “There’s no need.” Donovan visibly froze. “What are you talking about?” I smiled, making up a smooth lie. “They’re traveling out of state. They won’t be back for a while.” He stared at me, as if he had more to say, but his phone rang—a priority call, I assumed, as he quickly turned and shut the door behind him. Friday, my last day at work. As soon as I walked out of the building, Donovan grabbed me and pulled me into his car. In the exclusive restaurant, Donovan cut my steak for me while asking, “What wine do you want to drink?” I distractedly scrolled on my phone. “You choose.” My inattention made his handsome face tighten. “Who are you texting?” “No one.” Despite my answer, he snatched the phone out of my hand. After scrolling for a minute, his eyes, dark and unreadable, landed on the screen. “When did you change your wallpaper?” For all the years we had been together, my wallpaper had always been a photo of us. Now, it was a picture of my parents’ ridiculously fluffy poodle. Too weary to answer, I simply stood up to go to the restroom. When I returned, Donovan was gone. Suddenly, the restaurant lights dimmed. A server wheeled a cart piled with flowers and a cake slowly toward me. The cart stopped at the table next to mine. At that moment, my phone lit up. It was an automated text: Happy Birthday, Amie. I walked out of the restaurant, passing a familiar, sickeningly sweet female voice: “Whoa! Donovan, you’re so strong! Push me higher, higher!” It was Sierra, shrieking with delight on a swing set outside, begging Donovan to push her higher. Her eagerness was her undoing; she lost her balance and tumbled right into his arms. They stared at each other, eyes locked, smiling, holding each other for a long moment before they noticed me. A flash of unmistakable disappointment crossed Donovan’s face. He looked at me blankly. “Oh, Amie!” Sierra chirped. “This swing is so fun! You should try it…” Halfway through the sentence, she blushed crimson and intentionally dropped her arms from around Donovan’s neck. “Don’t get the wrong idea, Amie. Donovan only hugged me to save me from falling…” Donovan gently ruffled her dark hair, his gaze utterly tender. “Silly girl. You don’t owe her an explanation. All that matters is that you’re not hurt.” After soothing Sierra, he withdrew all the tenderness and looked at me, detached. “All finished eating?” I didn’t answer him. I started walking toward the Ferris wheel nearby. I’d heard a silly rumor that if you made a wish on a Ferris wheel on your birthday, it would come true. Seeing my back, a flash of mockery crossed Sierra’s eyes. She quickly grabbed Donovan and dragged him along. “Ooh, a Ferris wheel! Donovan, I want to ride it, too…” The attendant announced only two seats were left. Donovan didn’t spare me a glance. He took Sierra’s hand and they rushed into the cabin. Twenty minutes later, the ride over, Donovan searched the entire plaza but couldn’t find me anywhere. Eight o’clock that evening. I walked out of the bedroom, carrying a suitcase. I placed a slip of paper with the single word [BREAKUP] written on it under the house keys. And I walked out, not looking back. 4 At eleven o’clock that night, my phone rang. It was Donovan. I was in the living room talking to my parents and didn’t see it. An hour later, he called again. I dimmed the screen, powered off the phone, and went to bed. I slept until noon the next day. When I rebooted my phone, I was surprised to see a dozen missed calls. Feeling a strange pull, I opened my messages. Donovan, who was usually so emotionally closed off, had uncharacteristically sent a string of texts: [What is the key and that note supposed to mean?] [So I missed your birthday? Not answering, not returning texts—are you playing games? Is this fun for you?] [Amelia, I’m giving you one hour to get your ass back here, or don’t bother coming back at all.] The last message was sent three hours ago. A deep sigh of relief left my lungs. I slowly moved my fingers, highlighted his name, and selected Delete & Block. A knock came at my door. After I called out, my mother brought in a mug of warm milk. “Amie, your stomach is delicate. Drink this while it’s hot.” I had shown up on their doorstep last night with a suitcase, and they hadn’t asked a single question, just showered me with their usual care. I hugged my mother’s arm, my nose stinging. “Mom, I found an apartment I like. It’s small, but it’s enough to keep me safe and sound.” My mother smiled. “Then buy it. How much do you need? Your father and I will cover it.” Even though I shook my head, insisting I had the funds, my mother immediately wired me twenty thousand dollars. She said a woman with her own home and savings has real backbone. I immediately called the landlord and scheduled the signing for Monday. That night, my father cooked a feast and bought a buttercream cake to celebrate my belated birthday. Facing the lit candles, I clasped my hands together, making a simple, earnest wish. I wished for my parents’ continued health and happiness. However, moments after I blew out the candles, my phone buzzed with unexpected news. Dozens of messages, all from different people, yet expressing the same thing: [OMG, Amie, congrats on the long-haul win! I’m flying back for the wedding and bringing a giant gift!] [Amelia, wishing you and Donovan a lifetime of happiness!] ... As I stared at the flurry of congratulations, a notification popped up: Donovan Reed requests to be your friend. [Amelia, I announced our engagement on social media. You’ve achieved what you wanted. You’ve had your little tantrum.] The word “tantrum” made me laugh, a sharp, bitter sound. Who, exactly, was throwing a tantrum now? I recalled that my mother had once asked me to introduce her to Donovan online, but he had always ignored the request. Now, I was grateful for his disregard. If this farce reached her, she’d be up all night worrying. Calmly, I replied to all the well-wishers, informing them I had broken up with Donovan. Then, I posted a new public update on my long-neglected social media feed: [Single and ready to mingle. Rumors are false. I have no boyfriend.] Donovan called less than two minutes after the post went up. I ignored it. He called relentlessly. I finally pulled up his contact and hit Block Number. The world went quiet. I lay on the soft, comfortable bedding, put on my headphones, and closed my eyes to listen to music. Monday arrived. After eating my mother’s loving brunch, I was on time at the property management center. Just as the landlord and I were about to sign the contract, the older man’s phone rang unexpectedly. A few seconds into the call, the landlord looked at me with confusion and hesitantly handed me his phone. “Ms. Stone, this person is asking for you.” I knew Donovan was well-connected, but I never imagined the usually detached, rational man would extend his reach this far just to force me to take his call. I found a quiet corner and spoke, irritation finally breaking through my calm. “Donovan, don’t you ever stop?” My cold, impatient tone startled him into silence. After a pause, he asked in a low voice: “Amelia, why are you telling people you’re single?” “Because it’s true.” Donovan scoffed. “Leaving a key and a ridiculous note makes you single? Amelia, I’m begging you. You’re almost thirty. Can you act like an adult? We’re engaged. We’ll be married soon, just like you always wanted. If you keep acting like this, how are people supposed to show up for our wedding?” I pressed my fingers to my forehead to suppress a laugh. “There won’t be a wedding.” “What does that even mean?” Donovan let out a cold snort. “You’re not seriously going through with the breakup, are you?” I looked down and replied with absolute finality: “Yes. We are breaking up.” He fell silent. I could hear the background noise on his end—I knew he was at the airport, about to board a flight. 5 I glanced at the landlord nearby, who was anxiously watching, afraid the deal might fall through. I was about to hang up when Donovan’s tone suddenly softened. “Amelia, I know you’re furious because I forgot your birthday. I admit it was my fault. When I get back from taking Sierra abroad for her treatment, I promise I’ll make it up to you.” I listened to him finish, then replied blandly: “You’ve misunderstood. I’m not angry, and I don’t need compensation. You just need to know this: you and I are already over.” I hung up, returned the phone to the landlord, and told him to block the number if it called again. After signing the purchase agreement and completing the paperwork, I soon received the deed to my new home. I took a photo for posterity, then immediately left to meet a friend. I had a pleasant evening and arrived home around ten. I volunteered to take the dog out for his last walk of the night. As I pushed open the glass door to the lobby, a tall, familiar figure blocked my path. It was a travel-worn Donovan. “Amelia…” I tightened the dog’s leash and took a small step back, my face rigid. “Don’t come any closer.” Pained by my coldness, Donovan ignored my request and frowned, closing the distance. He started to speak, but our little dog went into full attack mode, snarling and snapping at him. Donovan didn’t seem to notice. He kept pressing forward, backing me into a corner. Standing against the lobby light, he stared at me, his gaze cold and unwavering. He said, “We need to talk this through. I don’t want any misunderstandings between us.” I frowned. “There’s nothing to talk about.” He put his fist on the wall, trapping me completely. “Amelia, have you forgotten we’re getting married? You think you can dismiss eight years with a flimsy breakup note? What do you take me for?” His furious, grinding tone left me utterly speechless. I tried twice to push him away, but he didn’t budge. The dog’s frantic barking was now loud enough to turn on the lights on several floors of the stairwell. Unwilling to alarm my parents, I finally conceded. Half an hour later. At a nearby twenty-four-hour coffee shop, Donovan ordered two black Americanos. He slid one, unsweetened and extra ice, toward me. “See, Amelia? I remember what you like.” I blinked, suppressing a bitter smile. Everyone who knew me, from my parents to my friends, knew I couldn’t stand bitterness. We only kept black coffee in the house because he liked it. The extra ice was simply my way of watering it down to make it palatable. In less than two days, the man had become surprisingly talkative. Before I could reply, he continued to ramble. “I apologize again for your birthday. I was swamped with work and mixed up the dates. I thought it was next month. But I already bought you the perfect gift.” He pulled a small, velvet box from his suit pocket. Seeing I made no move to open it, he pursed his lips and opened the box himself, revealing a pair of dazzling, expensive crystal drop earrings.
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