On the eve of my wedding, I discovered the invitations were printed with my fiancé Matthew’s name and that of his personal assistant. When I confronted the assistant, she burst into tears, claiming she’d accidentally typed her own name instead of mine. Matthew called moments later. “Flora, she made a mistake on a name. Are you really going to make such a big deal out of it?” He berated me for being narrow-minded and pathologically jealous, unable to tolerate even a junior employee. Five minutes later, the assistant, Vivian, posted a new photo to her social media: the same invitation, but this time paired with an intimate selfie of her and Matthew. The caption read: “My boss said even if I tore a hole in the sky, he’d be there to patch it up for me.” Before, if an employee had provoked me like this, I would have forced Matthew to fire her. But this time, I truly didn’t care anymore. 1 I threw every last one of the invitations bearing Vivian’s name into the trash and walked to my usual salon. The stylist hovered, scissors in hand, asking again and again if I was sure I wanted to cut it all off. I’d spent four years growing my hair down to my waist, all because Matthew once said he’d marry me when it reached that length. Well, my hair was finally long enough, and he was, in fact, about to make good on his promise. But I didn’t want the hair anymore. And I didn’t want Matthew anymore, either. Just as I was about to nod, my phone buzzed. A video call from Matthew. “Where are you?” he asked the second I picked up. I didn’t answer. He caught sight of the scissors in the stylist’s hand over my shoulder, and his brow furrowed in displeasure. “You’re cutting your hair?” I nodded. A laugh escaped him, as if he’d just stumbled upon something hilarious. “You look awful with short hair. After all that time growing it out, why would you do something so stupid?” Years ago, when my hair was short, he’d constantly tease me for not being feminine enough. I used to argue with him endlessly, trying to prove that femininity wasn’t defined by the length of one’s hair. But now, I didn’t say a word. I just looked at the stylist behind me and said, “Do it.” When Matthew saw the scissors rise, he knew I was serious. The smile vanished from his face. “Flora, are you really going to cut off all your hair just because Vivian made a typo on the invitations? What is wrong with you?” When I remained silent, he must have realized his tone was too harsh. He softened his voice, reining in his temper. “Flora, you grew your hair for years, all for this one day. The wedding is next month. Don’t cut it, okay?” I didn’t say yes, and I didn’t say no. “I’m coming to get you,” he continued. “I booked a table at that new restaurant, the one you wanted to try.” It was his classic move. He’d yell at me, then smooth things over with a meal at a trendy new place. It had become our unspoken ritual over the years. He appeared outside the salon a short while later. When he saw my hair was still long, a faint smile touched his lips. The moment I got in the car, I was hit by a wave of perfume so strong it made me sneeze. I’m sensitive to scents and never wear any myself. Matthew’s car had always been fragrance-free. This one was different—a heady, predatory scent that clung to the air. “Who was in the passenger seat today?” Matthew’s smile instantly vanished. “Vivian’s car broke down. I just gave her a lift.” I rubbed my nose. “Hm. Her perfume is… nice.” The rest of the drive was silent. When we pulled up to the restaurant, Matthew didn’t move to get out. He turned to me, his brow knitted. “Why didn’t you blow up at her? Aren’t you supposed to hate her?” I raised an eyebrow. My usual script would involve confronting her, making her cry, and then demanding Matthew fire her. But this time, I didn’t want to. There was no need. “Let’s just go eat. I’m tired and I want to get home early.” I got out of the car and walked into the restaurant without him. He followed a moment later. Once we were seated, Matthew’s smile returned. He told me conspiratorially that he had a surprise for me, then got up and walked away. I watched him go, a sudden thought striking me: he was so childish. He had barely left when his phone, left on the table, started ringing. It was Vivian. She called twice, but Matthew didn’t return. On the third ring, I answered it. The second I did, Vivian’s voice, thick with tears, burst through the speaker. “Matthew, you have to come save me! I’m trapped in the basement!” Just then, Matthew returned, carrying a cake adorned with fresh flowers. The joyous expression on his face froze. He rushed over, carelessly dropping the cake in front of me. The perfect floral arrangement collapsed, and a single, cream-covered rose tumbled to the floor. He snatched the phone from my hand, glanced at the screen, and his face contorted with rage. “Flora, who told you you could answer my phone? Don’t forget, we’re not married yet. You’re not my wife!” 2 After the call, Matthew’s expression was grim. “Vivian’s in trouble. I have to go. I’ll be back soon, just wait for me here.” He rushed out. I stared at the mangled cake, a bitter smile twisting my lips. How could he not see through such a clumsy ploy? If you’re trapped in a basement, wouldn’t you call 911? But no, a person in mortal danger just keeps calling her boss. It was almost funny. I waited until the restaurant was about to close, but Matthew never came back. Thankfully, I’d had the foresight to ask the waiter to bring my order out earlier. Otherwise, I would have been waiting on an empty stomach. Just as I was getting up to leave, Matthew hurried back in. He glanced at the half-eaten dishes on the table, his tone laced with disapproval. “Flora, you didn’t wait for me? You ate by yourself?” In ten years together, this was the first time I hadn’t waited for him. It used to be that I wouldn’t even order until he arrived. After we moved in together, I’d cook dinner and wait for him to sit down before I took a single bite. I offered an apology that held no apology at all. “Sorry. I figured you were with Vivian and wouldn’t be coming back, so I went ahead.” Matthew’s face darkened. He slammed the object he was holding onto the table with a loud thud. “I was picking up the new invitation samples!” I glanced down. The cover design was indeed new. Matthew stared at me, his eyes gleaming with a mix of pride and expectation, waiting for me to open it. I knew he must have checked it. This time, the bride’s name would be mine. But I no longer had any interest in looking. “You’re not going to open it?” he asked, incredulous. I shook my head, my expression cool. Just as I finished my meal, I saw a new post from Vivian. It was a photo of the newly designed invitation. The groom’s name, Matthew, was clearly visible, but the bride’s name had been deliberately blurred out. All you could make out was the first letter of his last name, followed by a hazy, repetitive pattern. The caption: “I love the new version. Do you?” I urged Matthew to leave. The restaurant was well past closing time, and we were the only ones left. But he stood there stubbornly, holding the invitation out to me. He was waiting for me to open it, to gush over it, to soothe his ego. I didn’t want to see it. I raised a hand to block it. He must have thought I was reaching for it, because he let go. The invitation fell onto the cake, smearing it with cream. He froze for a second, then his embarrassment morphed into rage. He slammed his fist into the remains of the cake. “Flora, how long are you going to drag this out over something so small? I’ve already given you an out. What more do you want?” “I just want to go home and rest.” My calm tone only seemed to infuriate him further. “We can go home after you look at the invitation! Why won’t you look at it? I picked this design for you out of thousands! You can’t even be bothered to glance at it?” “Flora, have I been too good to you? Is that why you’re acting so spoiled? Everyone says you’re not good enough for me anymore, that I’ve outgrown you. But I ignored all of them and insisted on marrying you. What more could you possibly be unhappy about?” I looked down, a bitter smile on my face. There it was again. Every time we fought, he’d use that line to force me to back down. He and everyone around him believed he was doing me a favor by marrying me, that I should be eternally grateful and cater to his every whim. But this time, I refused to compromise. “If you don’t want to marry me, then don’t.” 3 Without another glance at him, I stood up and walked out. In the past, he would have let me go, then spent the night out with his friends, not coming home until I begged him to. But this time, I’d only taken two steps before a hand grabbed my arm. Not only had Matthew followed me, but he was insisting we go home together. I stared into his handsome eyes. “Who said I was going home?” His brow furrowed instantly, and he dropped my arm. “You said you wanted to rest. It’s late. Where else would you go if not home?” His rapid-fire questions made me laugh out loud. In this city, it was true, I had nowhere else to go. For ten years, my entire world had revolved around him. I sighed and pulled out my phone. “I just booked a mystery trip. The flight leaves tonight.” As I stepped out of the restaurant, the car I’d called was waiting. With nothing but my phone and the clothes on my back, I began a journey, alone. It was the first time in ten years. When I landed and turned my phone back on, dozens of messages flooded in. Only one was from Matthew, a short, terse sentence: “Happy now?” The rest were from Vivian, a string of apologies culminating in a tearful voice message. “Flora, I’m so, so sorry. Matthew said if you don’t forgive me, he’s going to fire me! I can’t lose this job. You know my family’s situation. Flora, are you really going to be so cruel? Are you going to watch me get fired, watch my mom get kicked out of the hospital because we can’t pay, and my little brother drop out of school?” I looked up at the sky, so different from the one in my old city. I turned my phone off, silencing all the noise. In the past, no matter how big our fights were, I was always reachable. Matthew could ignore my calls and texts, but I always answered his within seconds. This was the first time I hadn't replied to him. I knew he’d be furious, but I turned my phone off anyway. I traveled for a week. Away from Matthew, I discovered how freeing the world could be. I posted pictures from every new place I visited. Matthew liked every single post, but never commented. After a week, my trip ended. As I exited the gate at the airport, I saw him waiting. He was holding a massive bouquet of flowers, a conspicuous sight in the crowd. The ride home was silent. When we arrived, I found the apartment had been completely transformed, decorated in festive reds and golds. A stack of wedding invitations sat on the coffee table. But these weren’t printed; they were hand-drawn. Matthew had some artistic talent and had even won awards for his work in college. He looked at me, beaming, waiting for praise. I pretended not to notice, went to my room, and began packing my personal belongings, looking for the right moment to make things clear. I had just lain down to rest when I heard the keypad on the front door beep, followed by a cheerful voice. “Matthew, I forgot my sleep mask!” Vivian breezed into my bedroom, heading straight for the nightstand. Our eyes met, and she quickly looked away. And there, standing in the bedroom doorway, was Matthew, wrapped in a towel, his hair still dripping wet.
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