Seven years. We’d been together for seven years, and my staunchly anti-marriage girlfriend was pregnant. I stared at the positive test in my hand, the world grinding to a halt around me. It couldn't be mine. She hadn't let me touch her in a month. Every time she cheated, she’d buy me a supercar. Our driveway and garage looked like a showroom for exotic machines, a glistening monument to her infidelity. For seven years, I’d swallowed my pride, again and again. But this time was different. I couldn’t swallow this. I packed my bags, ready to end it. When I told her, she just scoffed. "So I've been a little distant for a few days. Are you really going to throw a tantrum over that?" It wasn't a tantrum. It was the sound of my heart finally giving up. 1 “Vivian isn’t against marriage,” her new flame sneered, standing over me with an air of smug superiority. “She’s just against marrying you. You’re nothing but a lap dog she keeps.” In that single, brutal moment, the full, stupid weight of the last seven years crashed down on me. Yesterday was our seventh anniversary. I’d orchestrated a perfect evening—a romantic, candlelit dinner overlooking the city, a song I’d written just for her, a celebration of what I thought was our epic love story. But Vivian never showed up. I called her endlessly, each ring unanswered until she finally texted back a curt, dismissive reply: Busy. Stop bothering me. Now I knew what she was so busy with. She was with him, Julian, her business partner. He showed me the photos, of course. Vivian, draped in a stunning evening gown, gazing at him with an adoration I hadn’t seen in years. And then, the final, crushing realization: Julian was the one who had been anonymously sending me these pictures all along. Seeing my silence, he gave my shoulder a condescending shove. "If I were you, I’d have tucked my tail between my legs and run a long time ago. The only reason you stick around is for the cars, right? You're just that pathetic." He let out a dry, contemptuous laugh. Then he told me. Every single supercar she’d ever given me after one of her "indiscretions"—he was the one who helped her pick them out. It was a game to them, a sick bet. They’d wager on whether another expensive car would be enough to make the fool stay, to make me forgive her one more time. My tolerance, my willingness to believe her lies, had become a source of amusement for them. A joke shared between lovers. Faced with the ugly, shattered pieces of my reality, I didn’t throw a punch. I didn't scream. I just went home and started packing. Seven years of this had left me hollowed out, exhausted down to my very soul. It was time to leave. Just as I pulled out my suitcase, Vivian walked in. In her hand, she dangled another key fob, holding it out to me like a peace offering. "Leo, I'm so sorry. Work has been insane. I can't believe I missed our big day." She pressed the key into my palm, then melted into my arms, her voice a soft, practiced purr. "We'll make it up, I promise. As soon as this deal closes, we'll have a proper celebration." "Look," she cooed, "this one's a global limited edition. Worth a fortune. See how good I am to you? You'll forgive me, won't you?" I gently pushed her away, studying her perfectly made-up face. How could she stand there, her body and soul already given to another man, and lie to me so flawlessly? I didn't know whether to be impressed by her audacity or disgusted by my own gullibility. A bitter smile touched my lips. I held the key back out to her. "An anniversary only happens once. You can't 'make up' for it." My voice was steady, a calm facade over the churning vortex in my gut. I was about to say the words—we're over—when she pressed her body against mine, her lips finding my neck. "Then let me... make it up to you tonight?" The thought of her hands on me, the same hands that had been all over Julian just last night, sent a wave of nausea through me. How did she do it? How did she switch from whispering sweet nothings to him to trying to seduce me without missing a beat? This time, I didn't have to push her away. A sharp, distinct ringtone cut through the air—Julian's ringtone. Without a second's hesitation, Vivian pulled back, snatching her phone and ducking into the bedroom to answer it. Through the crack in the door, I could see the brilliant, unrestrained smile spreading across her face. There was a time when I was the one who made her smile like that. When her family, her friends, the whole world, it seemed, was against us, she knelt before her parents and swore she would have no other man but me. She’d nearly been disinherited for me. Her fierce loyalty made me believe we were inevitable, that I was her one and only. Even when she told me she was anti-marriage, that she just wanted to be with me forever without a piece of paper defining it, I accepted it. For her, I would have accepted anything. And now, this woman who once loved me to the bone, emerged from the bedroom after a call with her lover and offered me a placid apology. "Leo, that was work. An emergency negotiation. I have to go." Her tone was final. "I promise, I'll make it up to you. Get some sleep, okay?" I reached out, my fingers brushing her arm. "Do you really have to go? There's something important I need to tell you." Her eyes flashed with annoyance. "What could possibly be so important? Leo, don't be childish. Don't waste my time." And with that, she slipped into a sleek power suit and walked out the door without a backward glance. The last flicker of warmth in my heart turned to ice. I had thought a simple "we're done" would be enough. That our financial ties could be untangled by lawyers. But seeing her so comfortably enjoying her double life, I knew it wouldn't be that easy. So I did the only thing I could. I finished packing my bags, walked out of that house, and moved out. I sent her a single text message: It’s over. She never responded. My departure, it seemed, wasn't even worth a reply. Three days later, my phone rang. It was her number, but the voice on the other end was Julian's, dripping with arrogance. "Vivian just had a miscarriage. She's weak. If you have something to say, say it to me. I'll pass it on." A miscarriage? The words struck me like lightning, rooting me to the spot. Because of her "no marriage" stance, I had been obsessively careful for seven years, terrified of an accident, of causing her any harm. The woman who preached about the evils of commitment... had been pregnant with another man's child? The betrayal was a physical thing, a crushing weight on my chest that made it impossible to breathe. The ground seemed to drop out from under me. It all made sense now—her recent aversion to my touch, her distance. I’d chalked it up to work stress. The truth was so much uglier. She wasn't stressed; she was hiding a pregnancy. I fought to keep my voice even, a cold calm settling over my rage. "When she's better, tell her our relationship is over." Julian chuckled on the other end. "You should have been gone a long time ago, you broke loser." The click of the phone hanging up echoed in the silence. The fury I'd suppressed for years finally erupted. I collapsed, my head in my hands, and I sobbed, not for her, but for the seven years of my life I had utterly wasted. After the storm passed, clarity began to return. In a twisted way, I was grateful for her supposed anti-marriage principles. It meant a clean break, no messy divorce or battles over assets. For years, I’d let my own ambitions wither to keep her happy. I was once a top graduate from a prestigious art academy, but I’d settled for a dead-end job that gave me more time for her. My old mentor had reached out last year, offering to hold a spot for me in a master's program abroad. On a whim, I called him. "That specific spot is gone," he told me, "but with your portfolio and my connections, getting you into a new program will be no problem at all!" True to his word, within weeks, I had an acceptance letter. With everything settled, I stood at the airport with a single suitcase and a one-way ticket. I had just checked my bag when my phone buzzed. It was Vivian. Her voice was raw, raspy. "Leo, why did you just move out? What is this silent treatment all about? Why are you being like this?" So, she'd finally been home. She'd have found my empty closets, and the fleet of supercars left gleaming in the garage and driveway, untouched. The rage had cooled into a dull, quiet ache. "We broke up, Vivian. Naturally, I moved out. I'm not taking a single one of the cars." "As for the house and everything else," I continued, "my lawyer will be in touch. Just wire the money when he tells you to." She sounded completely bewildered, as if I were speaking another language. "Honey, what are you talking about? Broke up? I don't understand." I didn't know if Julian had kept his mouth shut or if she was just playing dumb. Frankly, I was past caring. My patience was gone. "Stop pretending, Vivian," I snapped. "You were pregnant with Julian's child. How can you still stand there and act like you're the victim, like you're devoted to me? For seven years, you ran to him behind my back. As a man, I have put up with more than enough. I am done. Now, I'm settling the score with you two cheating, backstabbing liars!"
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