On our tenth anniversary, my fiancée was on a business trip overseas with her junior assistant. I called her a dozen times. No answer. Almost at that exact moment, the assistant’s social media account lit up with a new post. It was a video. In the background, I could see my fiancée, her back to the camera, slipping off her bra. The smooth, tense lines of her shoulders and back were stark under the dim, moody lighting. The caption he wrote: "Seeing the world with the top lawyer. She teaches me business by day, and… life lessons by night." I didn’t rage. I didn’t panic. I simply liked the post and left a comment: "Keep up the hard work! Maybe you'll get a 'promotion' out of it." 1 The phone, silent for so long, finally rang with an incoming call from her. The shrill ring cut through the silence, and then came Babara’s voice, tight with a fury she couldn't contain. "Robert, what the hell is with the passive-aggressive crap?" "You've really pissed Paul off!" "Seriously? The kid was just making a joke, a meme!" "You were young once, too. Why can't you take a fucking joke?" The accusations came like a volley of gunfire, one after another. She didn't once stop to wonder why I, who had long stopped chasing after her, would have called over a dozen times in a single hour. I held the phone away from my ear, my own voice unnervingly calm. "Let's break up." Silence on the other end for a few seconds. Then, her tone shifted, becoming cool and measured. "Over a joke video?" "Yes." "Robert, this is the third time you've tried to break up with me in less than six months. Aren't you afraid I'll actually say yes one of these days?" Babara sighed, a sound heavy with exasperation. "I know you're insecure. You're not a kid anymore, and you're always worried some younger guy is going to steal me away." "But you need to get this straight. First, he's not interested in me like that. And second, do you really think I'm that kind of irresponsible person?" "So, tell me. What is it you want this time?" "Fine. When I get back, I'll propose to you publicly. We'll get married over the holidays. Will that make you happy?" Without another word, I hung up. We had been together for ten years, from nineteen to twenty-nine. We fell in love in the prime of our youth and clawed our way through the hard times hand-in-hand. Now, she was a success, a partner at a top-tier law firm. Everyone said I was lucky, that I’d picked a winner, a "rising star." And Babara was absolutely certain that every time I mentioned breaking up, it was just a strategic retreat—a way to get something more from her. I had already tried to end things twice before, each time because she let Paul cross the line. And each time, after a period of cold silence, it was Babara who backed down and made peace. The first time, she took a ten-day vacation to go with me to my hometown and visit my parents. The second time, she bought me a Ferrari and a villa she called our "future marital home." This time, she thought I was pressuring her into marriage. She had no idea that every single time, I had genuinely wanted to walk away. But this time, I wouldn't be turning back. The breakup was just the final step. I had already laid the groundwork for a new chapter in my life. A new job, a new city—they were all waiting for me. I was only waiting for her to return because a decade is a long time. Even an ending deserves a proper, resounding close. 2 Babara walked through the door looking utterly exhausted. She dropped her suitcase in the entryway and collapsed onto the sofa, her voice raspy. "Robert, did you make the soothing tea?" "My throat's been killing me for the last two weeks overseas. It’s been absolute misery." She suffered from chronic pharyngitis. Over the years, I had experimented endlessly to create a custom herbal blend that worked better for her than any medicine. In the past, I would have been fussing over her, bringing her the freshly brewed tea and watching her drink it down. But now, my eyes didn't leave my computer screen. I didn't move a muscle. Babara looked surprised. She pulled a small jewelry box from her pocket, opened it, and held it out to me. "Robert, your tenth-anniversary gift. What do you think? Do you like it?" When I didn't react, she took the ring out. "Try it on. It's beautiful!" It wasn't a wedding band, as I might have once imagined, but a small, delicate, decorative pinky ring. I glanced at it, then went back to clicking my mouse. Babara's patience wore thin. She tossed the ring onto the table. "Are you still pissed off about that video?" "I took him on the trip for work. It's not like I forgot our anniversary. I bought you a gift. What more do you want?" I looked at her, my expression calm. "Did you pick it out?" A flicker of guilt crossed her eyes, but her voice rose in defiance. "Paul picked it out. He said a proper engagement ring needs to be custom-made ahead of time, and that for a simple gift, a trendy pinky ring was more stylish." "I don't know anything about men's accessories. The sales associate said it was the latest design from a luxury brand. Is there something wrong with that?" I held out my right hand. "Is that so? Then put it on me." Babara picked up the ring. The moment she tried to slide it onto my little finger, her face changed. Against my pale, slender hand, the knuckle of my little finger was grotesquely twisted. The ring stopped right there, a mockery. She froze, her lips parting silently. I let out a cold laugh and pulled my hand back. She had forgotten. Babara had forgotten that my pinky finger was permanently damaged because an injury had gone untreated. She’d forgotten I couldn’t wear a pinky ring at all. She forgot so quickly. Even though I got that injury saving her. When the car hit, I had thrown myself into her, shoving her out of the way. My little finger was crushed in the process. We were dirt poor back then, six months behind on rent, on the verge of being thrown out onto the street. I took the eight thousand dollars from the settlement with the driver, paid a year's rent, and used the rest to buy her a decent suit for her job interviews. It wasn't until I started crying out in pain at night that Babara realized I'd only had it set in a cheap clinic, a shoddy plaster cast instead of proper medical treatment. That night, we clung to each other and cried in that cramped basement apartment. She told me she would love me, cherish me, for the rest of her life. Turns out, her "forever" didn't even last a decade. 3 The sound of the keypad lock at the entryway beeped, and the door opened softly. Paul tiptoed inside. He froze when he saw the two of us. "Oh, Robert... you're home," he stammered. "I didn't mean to interrupt." He looked instantly uncomfortable, as if suddenly realizing how out of place his entrance was. "Babara left her laptop in the car. I thought she'd be sleeping off her jet lag, so I didn't want to knock and wake her..." I stared at the boy, who looked on the verge of tears, and my voice was ice. "You seem to know that passcode pretty well. I'm guessing this isn't the first time you've let yourself in?" Paul’s voice trembled, but his face was set in a stubborn, unyielding expression. "Don't get the wrong idea, Robert. I've only been here a few times. Babara gave me the code so I could grab some work files for her." "I know you don't like me, but there's nothing going on between Babara and me. We've done nothing to be ashamed of. I'm her assistant. It's my job to run errands for her." I couldn't help but laugh, a harsh, bitter sound. "Her 'job'? The 'assistant' who brings her ginger tea for her cramps at midnight? The one who plays hero when there's a cockroach in the apartment? The one who 'coincidentally' shows up wherever we are on a date? You're a damn dedicated assistant, I'll give you that!" "And you have the nerve to talk to me about being 'ashamed'? You take videos of your boss undressing and then follow her home the second she lands? You're a real piece of work." Paul's eyes welled up with tears, as if he were the victim of some great injustice. He looked pleadingly at Babara. When she remained silent, he finally turned away, a single tear tracing a path down his cheek. "Robert, that's enough," Babara said. She walked over to Paul, gently patting his back as she frowned at me. "Was it really necessary to be so nasty? He was just being thoughtful and dropping off my laptop. I'll tell him to be more careful in the future." She turned to Paul, her voice a soft reprimand. "You, too. Why are you so reckless? Go on, apologize to Robert." "I did nothing wrong," Paul sobbed. "I was just worried about you. You've been working so hard these past two weeks. I was just afraid of waking you." I'd had enough. I pulled out my phone. "You entered a private residence without permission, and you think you did nothing wrong? Since your lawyer boss clearly hasn't taught you the law, maybe the police can." "Stop it!" Babara strode over and snatched the phone from my hand. "Don't take it too far, Robert. You're acting like some irrational brute. If anyone here doesn't understand the law, it's you. This house is in my name. He can come if I say so." The room fell so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Paul straightened his back, shooting me a triumphant look. I stared at Babara, unblinking. We went to the same law school, the same program. The whole reason she started chasing me was that she could never beat me in a debate. And now, in her eyes, I was an "irrational brute who doesn't understand the law"? Suddenly, the face I had looked at for ten years became foreign, blurry. Meeting my gaze, a flash of panic crossed Babara's face, but it was quickly replaced by a cool composure. "Robert, all I meant was, let's not make a big deal out of nothing." I grabbed my bag and laughed softly. "You're right. This is your house. I'm the one who should be leaving." Paul blocked my way. "Robert, don't be like this. I'm sorry, okay? Is that what you want to hear?" "If you storm out like this, she's just going to have to chase after you." "Babara is exhausted. I'll leave right now. Just... stop fighting. Please, just let her get some rest, okay?" He gripped my arm, his nails digging sharply into my skin. I wrenched my arm free and threw a punch. There was a dull thud as he staggered backward and fell. "Robert!" Behind me, Babara took two steps toward me before Paul's cry of pain pulled her back. I slammed the door behind me and didn't look back. 4 In the garage, Babara’s Cullinan was parked next to my Ferrari. The passenger seat of the Cullinan was littered with cartoon accessories. There was even a custom-made plaque stuck to the dash: "Assistant Paul's Special Seat." Babara had just made partner when she bought this car. She was on top of the world that day, insisting on putting the car in my name and excitedly taking me for a drive out of the city. My back was acting up, and I'd wanted to put a lumbar pillow in the passenger seat. She’d looked at the cutesy cartoon pillow and laughed helplessly. "Robert, having something like that in here will make clients question my professionalism." When had her "professionalism" made room for an entire collection of cartoon junk? Principles, it seemed, were made to be broken. An old love is no match for a new flame. I turned and got into the Ferrari. As I pulled onto the street, it hit me that in this entire sprawling city, I had nowhere to go. My hometown was a thousand miles away, a small town nestled in the mountains. For years, my entire life had revolved around the law firm, around Babara. Outside of my colleagues and her, I didn't have a single close friend to confide in. I had broken my parents' hearts when I refused to come home after graduation, insisting on staying in the city to help Babara build her dream. Three years ago, an unexpected pregnancy. It was a critical time for the firm; we simply didn't have the means to get married and have a child. We made the painful decision to terminate. My mom traveled a thousand miles to take care of her during her recovery. Seeing how pale and frail Babara was, my mom had cried. "Robert," she'd said, "one day, you're going to regret this." The miscarriage took a huge toll on her. Her health faltered, and she couldn't handle the intense demands of both our home and the firm. I quit my job to take care of her full-time and never went back. After leaving the firm, I lost touch with my old colleagues, too. I drove until I was out of the city, pulling over on a deserted roadside, my mind a blank. Should I have regrets? Regret for holding a hand at nineteen and refusing to let go, even as we bled for it? I unconsciously rubbed my deformed little finger, unable to find an answer. A message from Babara popped up on my phone. "I sent Paul home. And I changed the passcode. It won't happen again." "I would never cheat on you. And he's not that kind of person. You're overreacting. He cried for a long time. He feels terrible." A notification followed: a bank transfer of $52,000. "You've been in a bad mood lately. Go take a trip, clear your head. As soon as I'm past this busy period, we'll set a wedding date. Now, can you finally relax?" Her arrogance practically leaped off the screen. When did marriage become a gift she was bestowing upon me? A bitter smile touched my lips. I remembered a party not long ago. Coming back from the restroom, I overheard a mutual friend ask her: "Babara, I heard you bought a lakeside villa for your marital home. I'm so jealous. Career, success, and you've got your handsome man." Someone else chimed in, a little flippantly, "Seriously though, with Babara's status now, she could probably date a movie star. It's just because she's so devoted that she's sticking with the same guy!" Babara's low laugh. "It's been ten years. Robert suffered so much with me. If I didn't marry him, I'd be a monster." Ten years. Marrying me had become her duty. I was no longer the love of her life, just a heavy burden. I stared at the phone, not accepting the money, not replying. Then, a message came from another number: "Junior, you told me a few days ago you were coming to Australia to help me out. You weren't just messing with me, were you?" "Babara was just in our old alumni group chat asking about wedding planners. You two are getting married? Are you sure you can handle a long-distance relationship?" I smiled softly and typed back: "We broke up. And besides, when have I ever gone back on my word? My visa is already approved. Get ready to conquer the world." 5 The next few days were a blur of preparations for my move. Babara sent me only one message during that time: "Come back when you've cooled off." Paul, on the other hand, was living his best life online. His feed was a constant stream of updates, and Babara was in almost every single one. "The top lawyer treated me to a Michelin-star dinner. Fine, I forgive her. ~" "So thoughtful, driving me all the way home in the Cullinan on a rainy day. I really want to just take her home with me, but alas, my cat can't do backflips!" "The look in her eyes tells me that if she cast everything aside and followed her heart, I would be her one and only choice." … He was trying to provoke me, but he had no idea that I simply didn't care anymore. The day before I was due to leave the country, Paul called. His voice was cold, defiant. "Babara was in a car accident. She's asking for you. I've sent you the address. Whether you come or not is up to you." After a moment's thought, I decided to go. I pushed open the door to the hospital room and came face-to-face with Paul, who was just walking out of the bathroom, flicking water from his hands. A malicious smile spread across his face as his eyes darted to the floor. Following his gaze, I noticed several used, crumpled tissues tossed on the ground. The air in the room was thick with a cloying, musky scent. Paul shook his wrist and let out a soft "Oops." From behind the curtain, I heard Babara's familiar, post-coital rasp. "What's wrong, Paul?" "Nothing," Paul replied, his eyes locking with mine, his smile bright and triumphant. "Honey," he cooed, his voice just loud enough for me to hear. "Wasn't I amazing? So much better than your fiancé, right?" "Yes..." came the muffled reply. He just stood there, tilting his head slightly in a gesture of pure, taunting defiance. I cracked a small smile and turned to leave. Another second in that room would have felt dirty. Some people don't deserve a clean break.
? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "MotoNovel" app ? search for "393667", and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel