I sat in the corner of the bar, staring at the blurred faces under the dim, smoky light, and felt like the biggest fool in Veridian City. All it took was one hushed line: "The real reason the Pete-Davies wedding was postponed? Pete’s ex got kidnapped. He dropped everything—even his wedding—to save her." And I actually flew here, to this grimy, neon-lit corner of New Orleans, just to see if it was true. Pete Hawthorne. The city’s golden boy. The kind of man who belonged on the cover of Forbes, the kind of philanthropist who gave measured, eloquent speeches at charity galas. How could he possibly be found in a place like this? I was preparing to leave, my glass half-empty, when— “Bang!” A gunshot ripped through the music. … The bar door slammed open. Two men covered in blood stumbled in, collapsing onto the sticky floor. “Pete!” one of them yelled, clutching his arm. “You went clean a decade ago! You break your vow for a woman today? Don’t you fear divine retribution?” Pete stood in the doorway. He looked down at the mess, his voice low and utterly cold. “I do fear it,” he admitted. “I swore I’d stay out of the blood and shadows. I was going to be a legitimate businessman.” He took a step into the light. “But you knew Quinn was mine, and you still touched her. Did you really think I wouldn’t come for you?” The man standing there was utterly foreign to me. The bar had gone silent, yet a ringing started in my ears, drowning out the sudden, dreadful quiet. “Quinn doesn’t play by the rules! She shut down three of our operations!” The leader spat the words out, fierce with pain. “Pete, you’re helping a criminal! Causing all this chaos for that woman! Aren’t you afraid your journalist fiancée will hear about this?” Pete gave no answer. He simply raised a hand. His security detail surged forward. A few dull thuds, and the confrontation was over. “Send these three to Quinn,” he ordered to the man beside him. As he turned to leave, his gaze swept across the room and paused momentarily near my dark corner. I thought, for a desperate second, that he saw me. But then a man rushed up to him, reporting urgently: “Quinn’s awake, sir, but she’s hysterical. She’s got a piece of broken glass and is threatening to hurt herself.” Pete’s eyes instantly moved away. He didn't look back as he strode quickly out the door. The music stuttered back on. The dancers in the center of the room began to sway again. Only I remained rooted to my spot, watching the doorway where Pete had vanished, an absolute chill settling over me. “Miss, are you alright?” the bartender asked kindly. I shook my head silently. The bartender chuckled, wiping down a glass. “First time here? It’s normal to be shocked. Haven’t seen the boss—Pete, I mean—make that kind of entrance in years. We all thought the story was over between him and Quinn. Guess not.” My fingers tightened around my empty glass. “The story?” “Yeah, them.” He sighed. “Quinn and Pete. They were practically inseparable in the old days, fought their way through the worst of the city's underworld together. He went straight because of her, they shared the whole territory. Only problem is, they were too damn proud. Had a huge fight, nobody backed down, and he left and never came back. Now she’s in trouble, and he blows off his society wedding to come save her.” My throat felt constricted. The bartender leaned down, rummaging under the counter, and pulled out a faded, dog-eared photo. “See? We still have this. It was taken the night he proposed. Perfect match, right?” In the center of the photograph, Pete knelt on one knee. He wore a simple black T-shirt, but the confidence and recklessness of his youth still radiated from the image. He was looking up at Quinn, his smile wide, untamed, and utterly defiant. He was a world away from the “Mr. Hawthorne” I knew—the one whose shirt buttons were always secured to the top, whose cuffs were never wrinkled, whose smile was measured and brief. I looked at the woman’s face... I snatched my gaze away, my hand trembling as I held the glass. The bartender’s eyes flickered between my face and the photo. “You know, you and Quinn look a little alike, actually. But the vibe is completely different. She’s all edge and fire. You look like a professor.” I sat there all night, nearly self-destructively, listening to the bartender recount the legendary history of Pete and Quinn. Only then did the awful realization hit me: this is how he loves. Wildly, possessively, all in. Not like he loved me—politely, gently, and never, ever from the heart. Daylight was just breaking as I left the back alley. My phone vibrated. It was my father, Mr. Davies. The instant I answered, his furious interrogation assaulted me. “How could you be so useless?! You chase a man for three years, and on the day of your wedding, you let him abandon you? You’ve made a fool of the Davies name!” “Get Pete back and complete this wedding, or I swear, I’ll disown you!” “I’m not doing it.” I hung up, cutting off his torrent of curses. As I crossed the street, I saw a corner diner. Through the window, Pete and Quinn sat by the glass. Quinn’s dark hair was loose, and she was sipping slowly from a bowl. Pete was meticulously tearing up a beignet—the New Orleans version of you tiao—into small, manageable pieces on her plate, then pushing it toward her. It was the easy, thoughtless intimacy of years. I suddenly remembered when I had a terrible flu last year. I called Pete, miserable, and got only a cool, professional instruction to rest. His assistant brought the soup and medication later. I had defended him then: He’s focused on his career; I should be the understanding one. I landed in Veridian City and went straight to the newspaper’s office. “Al, I’ve finished collating the final draft on the Hawthorne Group’s suspected profit manipulation.” “Calla?” Al looked up from his computer. “Weren’t you on a week’s wedding leave? It’s only day two…” “Work first.” I handed him another document and slid it across his desk. “This is a fellowship application. Headquarters has an exchange program with the LSE in London. I want to go.” Al’s gaze moved from the application to my left hand resting on the table’s edge. My ring finger was bare. The platinum wedding band was gone. He understood instantly, and signed the form without a word. “The company already wanted you to go. With your talent, expanding your horizons will solidify your place in investigative journalism.” I managed a faint smile. “Thank you.” I buried myself in the mountainous pile of documents all day, not surfacing until the ache in my lower back finally broke my concentration. My phone screen was a tapestry of unread messages. A string of increasingly angry texts and missed calls from my father. Worried queries from friends. And one brief message from Pete. I locked the screen and left the building, turning into the familiar alleyway beside the office. The Crescent City Diner’s neon sign glowed a warm yellow. “Miss Davies! You’re here!” The owner, a sweet, middle-aged woman, smiled. “Just you today? Mr. Hawthorne isn’t joining?” “He’s busy.” I walked to our usual booth. “The usual, please.” The diner was quiet. Soon, a large bowl of seafood gumbo was placed before me. The white steam rushed upward, blurring my vision. For a moment, I imagined Pete sitting across from me, just as he had on our first official date. That night, my elaborate plan to impress him had fallen apart. I’d missed our reservation at the city’s fanciest rooftop restaurant because I was chasing a breaking story until midnight. Defeated, I pulled out my phone, and his message popped up first: Done working? Send me your location. He was still waiting. The only place open was this late-night diner. Our perfect first date ended here, imperfectly. Later, it became our spot. I used to think that a man of his stature, sitting on a plastic chair in a late-night diner for me, must have some feeling. Now I knew the truth was written on the menu: the gumbo recipe was an exact duplicate of a legendary, decades-old New Orleans spot—the one he and Quinn used to frequent when they were younger. It was a memory of another person, not a courtesy to me. My stomach turned. I forced myself to eat a few spoonfuls. The wooden door was kicked open. A blast of cold air, followed by a few thuggish-looking men, entered. The one in front had bleached-blond hair. “Old man, you’re the only one on this block who hasn’t paid, right?” The few remaining customers fled. In a blink, I was the only patron left. Seeing the place empty, the blond man smirked. “Smash it up.” Tables flipped, dishes shattered. The owner and the chef were shoved aside, and the men closed in, ready to strike. “Stop.” I stood up and pulled out my press credentials. “I’m a journalist. If you continue, your photos will be on tomorrow’s front page.” “Another brave one, huh?” The blond man narrowed his eyes, walking slowly toward me, his gaze slimy. “Pretty face. But before you get involved, you should worry about saving yourself.” “Stay away from me.” My voice was ice. “Feisty, too.” He reached out to touch me. I violently slapped his hand away. “Crack!” The sharp sound echoed through the wreckage. The shop went silent. The man stood there, his face stinging, a red print blooming on his cheek. “Dammit, you asked for this!” He snarled, raising his hand high, ready to slap me back. “That’s enough.” A deep, measured voice came from the doorway. Simultaneously, the blond man’s arm was seized and twisted behind his back. Two men in suits appeared, flanking a third man in a dark overcoat: Pete. He surveyed the chaos, his gaze finally resting on me, pausing for a brief, unsettling moment. The situation instantly reversed. The blond man and his thugs were handed over to the police. The owners, tearful, thanked Pete and me profusely. Pete’s expression was remote. “Send them to the hospital for a check-up,” he ordered his assistant. The diner fell silent again. The late-night breeze made me shiver, and I instinctively wrapped my arms around myself. An overcoat, still warm, draped gently over my shoulders. Pete stood beside me, his voice softer than before. “Let me take you home.” I stayed still, staring at the shattered ceramic pieces on the floor. “Are you angry?” Pete asked quietly. “The wedding… it was my fault.” “I’m not angry.” I cut him off, finally preparing to say the words that had been churning in my throat. But a cold, sharp female voice intervened. “Pete, you rushed all the way back just to see her?” I turned around. It was the first time I met Quinn. Pete’s brow furrowed. “Why aren’t you resting your injuries?” “Mind your own business.” Quinn scoffed. “You obviously don’t care. You’re too busy playing the hero here.” He walked two steps toward her, speaking gently, persuasively. “Don’t be difficult. You’re not well. I’m having someone take you back.” That gentle, real tenderness was a spark of the man I never knew. I said nothing, turning and walking away alone. The next morning, the wedding planner called. “Miss Davies, I’m sorry to bother you. The valuable items for your and Mr. Hawthorne’s wedding are still in the hotel vault. Do you have a moment to collect them?” I rubbed my temple. “Could you please mail them?” Her tone was difficult. “Miss Davies, the value is quite high. Hotel policy requires the couple to confirm and collect these types of items personally.” I paused. “Fine. I’ll come.” The manager, a young woman, greeted me with a professional, sympathetic smile. “Miss Davies, please follow me.” In the vault, the centerpiece was the pair of diamond rings. They flashed under the light. Pete had bought the pink diamond at auction, saying the color suited my sophisticated elegance. I had secretly rejoiced for weeks over the gesture. Next to them were the two gowns. The train of my dress was hand-embroidered with complex French Lily-of-the-Valley patterns. Pete had them flown in from Paris. I actually preferred Baby’s Breath. The matching jewelry, the veil… everything was immensely valuable. The manager spoke with genuine pity, but I merely stared at the items. “Oh, and this, too.” The manager copied a video file onto a tablet and handed it to me. “This is the ‘How Well Do You Know Your Partner’ video we recorded. The planner said it was wonderful and was going to be played during the warm-up.” I stared blankly, just remembering the segment. The planner had asked us five questions to test our synchronicity, the answers to be revealed at the reception. “Thank you.” I reached for it. But someone bumped the tablet, and the large screen immediately lit up. The video began to play. Pete appeared on the screen. He sat in a warmly decorated interview room, wearing a simple white T-shirt—a rare, casual look for him. The planner’s lively voice filled the room: “Mr. Hawthorne, ready? Question one: When was the very first moment you fell for Miss Davies?” Pete seemed to pause. “That’s a question Calla and I might answer differently. Because she didn’t see me that time.” “Oh?” the planner pressed. “Can you tell us? Was she incredibly beautiful? Love at first sight?” Pete gave a light, dismissive laugh. He shook his head. “No, she didn’t look beautiful at all. She was actually a bit of a mess. Her hair was tangled, and she had a nasty bruise on her face.” The planner was confused. “Then why?” “She’d been ambushed and cornered by the people she was investigating. They were telling her what to write and what not to write. But Calla?” Pete’s smile deepened slightly. “She just looked at them, gave a small, faint smile, and said, ‘If I wrote it, it was worth writing.’” “I just thought… how could a woman in that situation look so utterly scrappy and cool?” The planner gasped. “Wow, Miss Davies seems so gentle, I wouldn’t have guessed she had that spirit.” The video kept playing, but I couldn’t hear it anymore. The ringing in my ears returned, overlaid with another sound, muffled by the bar’s chaotic music: the bartender’s lazy drawl. “Don’t let the sharp suit fool you. When Pete talks about Quinn, he’s poetic. Once, at a game of truth or dare, someone asked why he liked Quinn, since her temper was so explosive.” “Pete said it was because she had a defiant spirit no one else did.” “The time she was tied up, to humiliate Pete, they demanded he kneel. But Quinn wouldn’t let him. She shouted at him, ‘It’s just life or death, who cares?’ and started cutting the ropes herself.” “Pete said then, he realized: when completely isolated and helpless, she could still say the most defiant, coolly contemptuous things.” The two voices, separated by time and context, slammed together in my mind. I finally had to admit the crushing truth: in Pete’s eyes, I was merely a stand-in. Even the memory of our first moment of affection was a cheap, one-to-one copy of his feelings for Quinn. A suffocating feeling filled my chest. I had nowhere to put it. My phone vibrated. It was my mother, Joyce. “Calla, come home for dinner tonight? Come and apologize properly to your father. He’s just worried and his temper got the better of him.” Hearing my mother’s perpetually timid and placating tone, my chest tightened. I thought of the woman who had spent her entire life under my father’s thumb. I sighed. Okay. I could ignore Mr. Davies’s rage, but I couldn’t ignore the one person who had tried her best to give me warmth. I pushed open the door to the house, carrying a gift bag, and immediately heard Mr. Davies’s angry shout: “Who told you you could come back!” My mother, carrying a dish fresh from the kitchen, emerged, giving an anxious, forced smile. “She’s just in time. Wash your hands, dinner’s ready.” The comment redirected my father’s rage. He lashed out, knocking the dish from my mother’s hand. “It’s your fault! I shouldn’t have brought you two back in the first place! All you do is embarrass me!” I watched the hot sauce splatter all over my mother’s clothes. She stood there, head bowed, helpless and ashamed. My breathing seized with rage. I stepped forward, putting myself between them. My mother immediately pulled at my arm, shaking her head in silent plea. “What are you doing? Let her speak!” The veins in my father’s forehead pulsed. “She ruined everything! And she thinks she’s right?!” I met his rage-contorted face. “We are less embarrassing than you are.” “Ignoring your first wife and daughter for over a decade, taking your mistress to Europe to live the high life. Only when she leaves you, do you remember you have a long-suffering family waiting here. So you deign to bring us back as an act of charity!” “The Davies name? You tore that up and threw it away the moment you abandoned us!” “You insolent girl!” My father trembled with fury. He raised his hand, ready to strike my face. The force of his approaching palm rushed toward me. I did not flinch. “Father-in-law.” A familiar, steady baritone cut through the air. I froze. Pete stood in the entryway. His expression was clear and composed, though his eyes were cool. Only when he pulled me securely to his side did his face soften slightly. “The wedding delay was my fault,” he said smoothly. “Calla and I agreed to come back tonight to apologize to you both. I detoured to pick up gifts for you, which is why Calla arrived ahead of me.” He paused, his eyes sweeping over the scattered mess. “Is there a misunderstanding between you and Calla, Father-in-law?” The two mentions of “Father-in-law” made Mr. Davies’s smile bloom. “Misunderstanding? Between family? None at all! Come in, come in.” “That’s good. This is a small gesture of goodwill.” Pete nodded. His assistant stepped forward and handed over a legal folder. Mr. Davies’s eyes lit up when he opened it—it was the title to a highly contested piece of prime downtown real estate, one he had been coveting but couldn't finance. The Hawthornes, of course, were too rich to care. I lowered my eyes. He had saved me, again. It seemed whenever I was in a difficult situation, he would appear and solve my problems with a flick of his wrist. An inappropriate memory flashed through my mind: Pete said I didn’t see him the first time he fell for me. Actually, I did. When those thugs attacked me, I thought I was finished. Then someone burst in and saved me. As I was rushed out, I saw the retreating back of the man who had done it. A firm hand on my waist pulled me back to the present. Pete whispered in my ear: “Let’s eat.” With Pete there, dinner was smooth and cordial. My father was satisfied. My mother was grateful. For me, the food tasted like ash. Afterward, as we walked out, I stopped. I turned back, examining him under the glow of the streetlamp. This was the Pete Hawthorne I had known for three years, the man I had once believed I would spend my life with. I gave a light, almost imperceptible smile, and took a step back. “Mr. Hawthorne, thank you for rescuing me tonight. But as for the wedding rescheduling we discussed at dinner… Let’s forget it.” Pete frowned, as if he didn't understand. The news report on the Hawthorne Group’s capital maneuvering caused a massive public outcry. The interest was so high that a mysterious venture capital firm sent me an invitation, requesting a “friendly dialogue about some details in the reporting.” A waiter led me down a carpeted, sound-dampened corridor and stopped before a heavy walnut door. The private room was furnished in a classic, refined style. A woman stood inside. I looked at her face and momentarily lost the ability to think. Quinn. “Ms. Davies, the famous journalist. A pleasure.” Quinn walked forward, extending her hand. “Allow me to introduce myself. Quinn, CEO of Sentry Capital.” I forced myself to raise my hand for a brief, cold clasp. “Why… are you here?” I asked. Quinn was elegant and composed. “Why the pretense of surprise? Didn’t you know all along that Pete was the true owner of Sentry Capital? Approaching him, publicly chasing him, and trying to marry him—wasn’t it all just to investigate him and get your firsthand evidence?” The insulting conjecture made me involuntarily clench my fist, using the pain in my palm to retrieve my senses. “I never had any such intention.” “It doesn’t matter.” Quinn didn’t care. “I just find you slightly pathetic. Giving up all your self-respect to chase a man, only to be tossed aside like trash on your wedding day.” Quinn’s lips curved into a slight smirk. “Girls need to retain some decorum. When Pete realized he loved me, he pursued me. Every confession, every proposal, came from him. Because he said a man should take the lead on such things. He would never let the woman he loves do the chasing.” I had heard countless variations of this sentiment from various people since I began pursuing Pete. I should have been immune, but hearing it from Quinn made the shame and heartbreak sharper than ever. I quickly regained my composure, meeting her gaze steadily. “I never believed that loving someone and bravely pursuing them was anything to be mocked,” I said, my voice steady despite the subtle tremor in it. “As for you,” I met her eyes, “meddling in another couple’s relationship—what position do you have to mock my sincerity?” Quinn’s eyes flashed with anger, then she laughed. “The famous journalist has excellent composure.” She rose, walking toward the other side of the room. “Let’s see if you can keep it up now.” She pressed a button on the wall. A panel of dark wood silently slid open, revealing a much larger private room behind a one-way glass window. The voices from the other room filtered through the glass. “Pete is still Pete. He stays clean for a decade, but when he makes a move, he changes the entire leadership of the underworld. No one here can match that ruthlessness.” A familiar male voice teased. “I heard that Miss Davies sold all the wedding jewelry and gowns secondhand. Your running out on the wedding must have infuriated her. Are you even going through with it?” This was the voice of a socialite. A short silence followed, broken by Pete’s voice. “Yes. We’ll reschedule.” “Still rescheduling?” The socialite’s tone was clearly disapproving. “Pete, honestly, just call it off. You only care about Quinn, anyway. You should just cut ties with the Davies family. Your grandfather might dislike Quinn, but if you’re firm, he’ll relent eventually. Why drag Calla into this? She’s a good girl, a simple journalist. She’s not one of us.” My fingers started to feel numb. I watched Quinn's cool, composed profile and finally understood the purpose of this trap. “She is a very suitable person to marry,” Pete’s voice came through the panel, cool and rational. “Good family background, gentle, knows boundaries. She can manage the role of Mrs. Hawthorne. She has feelings for me, and besides.” He paused. “I don’t want marriage to restrain Quinn. She should be free.” Boom. A deafening roar filled my ears. My vision tunneled, and I nearly lost my balance. Every illusion I had ever held was crushed by that one careless, rational sentence. I couldn’t stay another moment. I fled, staggering out of the private club. The hallway remained quiet. I didn't stop until I reached the main exit. My eyes felt burning and swollen, yet I could not shed a single tear. Just then, my phone vibrated madly inside my purse. I answered mechanically. Al’s voice exploded in my ear: “Calla, where are you? Sentry Capital just issued an official statement! They’ve entirely rejected your report, claiming your data sources are false, that your deductions are malicious, and they’re threatening legal action against you personally!” I held the phone, the chilling realization of betrayal consuming me. Sentry Capital was Pete’s. He chose to discredit me publicly, knowing my report was true. But I had no time for despair. I rushed back to the newspaper office, reorganizing and backing up all my data. I couldn't allow my personal fight to damage the newspaper’s reputation or ruin my colleagues’ work. But when I took the final draft to Al, he wouldn't meet my eyes. He slid an envelope toward me. It contained a resignation letter, neatly written. “I’m sorry, Calla.” Al’s voice was dry and hoarse. “I mentored you, and I’m proud of the excellent journalist you’ve become.” Al was my boss, my mentor, and my guide. So I only asked one question: “Did someone apply pressure?” Al nodded. “Calla, I hope you understand. I have many people to protect.” I understood. I accepted the resignation letter with both hands. Then, I took a step back and bowed deeply to him. Al’s eyes reddened. He turned his head and steadied his voice. “But I saved your London fellowship application. You can go in a personal capacity. You leave in three days.” “Thank you.” I walked out of the office building and leaned against the railing, silently watching the distance. A commotion and crude shouting broke out nearby. An elderly street vendor selling small trinkets was being shoved and threatened. His wares were scattered across the sidewalk. I instinctively rushed forward, reaching into my pocket, the words “I’m a journalist” almost slipping out— But my fingers only met empty fabric. My press pass was useless now. The man pushing the vendor glanced at me, annoyed. “What are you looking at? Get out of the way!” In that moment, I felt a deep, profound confusion. I did nothing, ultimately. I simply helped the old man silently pick up his scattered items. Then, I went back to the apartment I shared with Pete—my passport and other documents were still there. I assumed Pete would be at his office at this hour. But when I opened the door, I saw him in the open-plan kitchen, wearing a dark gray apron, placing a platter of steamed fish on the island counter. Quinn sat on a high stool, chin propped on her hand, watching him. “Too much salt,” she commented. “Is it?” Pete tasted a bit from her hand. “It’s fine. You just have a bland palate.” “It is too much. You never used to make this mistake,” Quinn complained. “It’s been a while. My hands are rusty,” Pete indulged her. “Oh, really?” Quinn raised an eyebrow, her gaze sweeping past me, freezing on my figure in the doorway. “You don’t cook for her? You used to make me a different meal every day. Why the double standard now?” The air froze. Pete recovered first, looking at me. “Why are you home so early?” “Uh, not much going on at the paper.” I answered vaguely, heading straight for the bedroom. I just wanted my papers and to leave. “Since you’re here, why don’t you join us?” Pete’s voice came from behind me. I glanced at the counter: four dishes and a soup, perfectly arranged and appetizing. I had known Pete for three years, and this was the first time I realized he could cook so well. “No, thank you.” I found my document pouch in the bedroom drawer and quickly left. Behind me, I heard Quinn’s soft, amused voice and Pete’s low reply. I didn’t care what they were saying. As I walked out, my phone rang. It was my mother. “Calla, have you eaten? When can you and Pete come back? We still need to discuss the wedding…” “Mom,” I interrupted her. “I’m not marrying him.” A few seconds of silence followed. My mother’s voice returned, carrying its usual timidity. “Pete is such a good match. He treats you well, and finding a man like that isn’t easy. Don’t be difficult. If the man is good, you can endure the rest.” Endure it. My mother had endured her whole life, sacrificing her dignity, believing this was the fate of all women. My chest ached fiercely. I took a deep breath. “Mom, would you like to come with me?” “Leave? Why?” My mother hesitated. “Your father has finally been treating me better lately. Where would I go? Calla, don’t be impulsive. If you marry Pete, your father is very satisfied, and our family…” I didn’t listen to the rest. I closed my eyes, forcing down the lump in my throat, and whispered, “I’ll call you back.” Then I hung up. A massive LED screen nearby was showing the business news. The anchor’s voice was crisp and professional: “It is reported that Ms. Quinn, from New Orleans, has officially taken up the role of CEO at Sentry Capital, a move supported by a mysterious backer.” “In related news, investigative journalist Ms. Ji, who previously reported on Sentry Capital’s profit manipulation, resigned today. It is currently unknown if Sentry Capital will continue with its planned litigation.” “Furthermore, this station has learned that the journalist in question has a controversial reputation, having reportedly used her position to pressure others and even threatened to put people she disliked on the front page…” The screen cut to the furious interview clip of the blond thug from the diner. The onlookers started to murmur: “These reporters will write anything for attention!” “Exactly, they’re irresponsible. She should be sued!” “I heard it was a woman. So aggressive.” I stood there, watching the scrolling news and listening to the comments, feeling an overwhelming numbness. I had spent years meticulously fact-checking every article, cross-verifying every piece of data. I had never betrayed my badge, never betrayed my conscience. But now, the truth was easily buried. My hard-won integrity was dismissed as “reckless ambition.” Without warning, large raindrops began to fall. People shrieked and scattered, seeking shelter. Only I remained standing. The rain quickly blurred my vision. Through the haze, I saw a family across the street huddling under an umbrella. The father lifted his daughter onto his shoulders, her laughter clear and bright. I saw a young couple squeezed under one umbrella, the boy holding the girl close. Everyone had a place to go. I felt abandoned, alone in the cold rain. I don’t remember walking back to my apartment. I didn’t change out of my soaking-wet clothes. I stumbled to the sofa and collapsed, all my strength drained. As consciousness drifted away, I felt a deep, piercing cold. I knew I had a fever, but my body wouldn’t move. I couldn’t even lift a finger. My mind drifted between sleep and wakefulness. I felt like I was floating above everything. I saw my mother, whose face lit up with a look of pure contentment after a few placating words from my father, forgetting the recent humiliation. I saw Pete, standing beside Quinn, meticulously instructing her on the points to be aware of in her board meeting. I saw the newspaper office, brightly lit, my former colleagues still busy, my departure leaving no trace. Finally, my ethereal consciousness crashed back into my body. When I opened my eyes again, the window was filled with bright sunlight. My throat was raw and painful. I struggled to sit up, found my phone, and checked the date. Three days had passed. I dragged my weak body to the bathroom. My reflection in the mirror was pale and gaunt. I looked at myself, then turned on the shower. After washing, I went to the living room, retrieved the suitcase I had packed earlier, and left without a second thought. The airport announcement was a soothing voice in the terminal. I passed through security and walked toward the international departure gate. Beyond the massive glass wall, planes landed and took off, slicing into different skies. The boarding announcement for my flight came on. I stood up. The plane roared, soaring into the clouds. Outside the window, the sun pierced the cloud cover, turning the sky a brilliant gold.
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