When I was seven, my father brought home a woman with blonde hair and perfect makeup. She handed me a box of sliced mangoes. My mother sat at the dining table, watching silently as I ate the fruit with delight. Then, she signed the divorce papers, walked to the balcony of our Manhattan apartment, and ended her life. From that day on, mangoes became my nightmare. That’s why, after Julian Chase and I exchanged our wedding vows, I looked him in the eye and said: "Julian, if you ever want to divorce me, you don’t need a lawyer. Just hand me a mango." That day, wearing his custom suit, Julian held me tight on the lawn of Central Park. He swore that from then on, mangoes would be forbidden in his life too. On the Christmas Eve of our fifth year of marriage, Julian's high school friend, Chloe—the girl who always played the innocent victim—placed a mango tied with a red ribbon on his desk. Julian flew into a rage at the office. He announced he was cutting ties with Chloe and fired her on the spot. At that moment, I thought I had married true love. Six months later, I spent a grueling month in Europe to close a two-hundred-million-dollar merger for our company. I returned in triumph with the contract in hand. At the celebration party in a Manhattan lounge, Julian smiled and handed me a glass of golden yellow drink. I drank half of it. The taste was familiar, yet strange. Suddenly, the woman who was supposed to have vanished—Chloe—appeared behind me in an eye-catching red dress. She leaned into my ear and giggled. "Natalie, how does that mango juice taste?" I froze. I looked at my husband in disbelief. Julian was holding his wine glass, trying to suppress a laugh, like he was watching a prank show. "Don't be like that, Nat. Chloe just wanted to help you." "We didn't give you the pulp, just a little juice." "I think Chloe is right. Not eating mangoes is just psychological. You need to get over it." He shrugged. "See? You were drinking it happily just now. You're fine." The acid in my stomach began to churn. My expression went cold. I raised my hand and splashed the rest of the drink directly into Julian's face. Then I turned and walked away. Some things are never a joke. Mangoes aren't. And neither is my divorce.
"Mrs. Chase—apologies, Ms. Sterling. You are suffering from acute gastric spasms caused by severe stress triggers." In the ER at Mount Sinai, the doctor looked at the report with a serious expression. "You have a severe psychosomatic rejection to a certain ingredient. If you aren't careful, next time it won't just be a stomach ache. It could be a perforated stomach or anaphylactic shock." "We need to keep you overnight for observation. Notify your family immediately." I fell silent listening to the doctor. For that new project, I hadn't relaxed for a single minute during thirty-nine days of negotiations in London. I didn't expect that a glass of mango juice from Julian at my own celebration party would send me to the emergency room. I subconsciously opened our pinned text conversation. I typed a word, then stopped. Something felt wrong. I looked closer. Julian's profile picture had changed. It was no longer our photo under the Brooklyn Bridge. It was a cartoon of a green mango. While I stared at the screen, Julian called. Through the receiver, his voice was cold and impatient. "I'm back at the apartment. Where are you? You ran off before the party ended. How does that look to the investors?" I remained silent. In the past, I would have softened my tone, apologized like a little girl, and tried to please him. But tonight, my stomach was cramping, and my heart was cramping too. Julian seemed annoyed. "Natalie, how long are you going to keep this up? Chloe just wants to help you overcome your fear. Is this drama necessary?" "I'm in the hospital," I interrupted coldly. The line went silent for a moment. In all our years of marriage, he had never truly cared about my health. He probably didn't expect his little "joke" would actually hospitalize me. "Wait there. I'm coming over," his tone softened slightly. I didn't want to talk to him. I hung up. I was so weak I didn't even want to move a finger. Time ticked by. The nurse checked on me three times and changed my IV drip once. But Julian never showed up. Before going to sleep, I checked my phone one last time. Social media pushed Chloe's latest "story" to my feed. The photo showed a man's hand tenderly applying a Band-Aid to a girl's knee. The background was the familiar interior of our Porsche. The caption read: "Every time I get hurt, someone is always there to save me. So blessed~" Chloe's profile picture had changed to a yellow mango. Bright, sweet, and absolutely disgusting. We’ve known each other for ten years. Julian has always known where my bottom line is. He’s been in the business world long enough to know how to maintain boundaries with the opposite sex. But now, he was crossing the line repeatedly. Fine. The love that bound our marriage together is gone. And that two-hundred-million-dollar European merger I risked my life to secure? That decides the life or death of his company. And it doesn't need to exist for him anymore either.
I woke up the next day to a silent phone. Not a text or a missed call from Julian. I wasn't even angry. After the doctor cleared me, I signed the discharge papers and went straight home. The luxury penthouse in Tribeca, overlooking the Hudson River, was something we bought in cash last year. Seven years ago, when we graduated from Columbia, we squeezed into a basement in Queens, sharing a box of cheap Chinese takeout. Five years ago, on the day we got our marriage license, we signed the papers at City Hall, bought two hot dogs from a street cart to celebrate, and shared a supermarket cupcake at home. And now, I was alone in this empty showroom of an apartment, bearing all the pain by myself. I guess I'll get used to it. I was sitting on the sofa reviewing the draft divorce agreement my lawyer sent when the electronic lock beeped. Julian walked in. A strong scent of rose perfume rushed in with him—Chloe's favorite Chanel scent. I frowned slightly at the smell. Julian has sensitive skin and is allergic to many chemical fragrances. He used to hate perfume. Because of this, I only used fragrance-free skincare for years. Even our laundry detergent is hypoallergenic. Turns out, he was only strict with me. When he saw me lying on the sofa with my tablet, he froze for a second, then put on a nonchalant expression. "Chloe had too much to drink at the party last night and fell. I took her home." He scratched his head. "It got too late, so I crashed at a hotel nearby. That’s why I didn't come to the hospital. You okay?" I nodded. My finger swiped on the tablet, canceling a supplier order, and I replied casually: "Yeah, I got it." Julian opened his mouth, seeming surprised. My reaction was too calm. It was nothing like the Natalie who used to worry if he was ten minutes late. He hesitated, walked closer, loosened his tie, and looked down at me. "It's Saturday. Don't worry about work. I'm planning to take Chloe to Paris to clear her head and check out the market. Do you want to come?" Seven years ago, on my birthday, Julian and I took a Polaroid in Times Square with a street performer dressed as the Statue of Liberty. Looking at the crowded background, he swore that when we were rich, he would take me to Paris and take the exact same photo under the Eiffel Tower. Later, his company grew, and he got busier. He coaxed me time and time again: "Nat, this is a critical period for Series B funding." "I'm the CEO. I can't just take a vacation to Europe whenever I want." He would lean in and pat my shoulder. "You understand, right?" I understood. So I stopped mentioning Paris. I threw myself into operations, building his business empire. But it turns out, as long as Chloe wants to go, he has time. I opened the next email, my tone as flat as if discussing the weather. "Three's a crowd. I'm not interested." He seemed relieved hearing this, his tone relaxing. "Alright, I'll grab my passport and go. Order some takeout for lunch. We'll eat together when I get back tonight." "Also, this merger is crucial for opening the global market. I've invited investors and major media outlets. We're holding a press conference at Cipriani Wall Street on Monday." He paused, looking at me seriously. "Don't worry, this time I'll formally introduce you as the co-founder. I won't let Chloe cause trouble. Haven't you always wanted to stand by my side openly? Monday is your chance. Prepare well." I looked up and gave him a faint glance. I knew this was his so-called compensation for last night. But that's fine. Canceling the European project requires a few days of legal processing anyway. Announcing it on the day of the press conference seems perfect.
That evening, I arrived early at the Michelin-starred French restaurant we frequented. In seven years together, waiting for him had become muscle memory. While waiting, I received a call from London. It was my opponent from the recent negotiations, and an old friend from business school, Ethan Vance. He is now the Executive Vice President of the industry giant, Vanguard Global. Ethan's voice was warm and magnetic. "Nat, have you thought about my offer to join Vanguard?" He sighed. "Your company is too small. It doesn't deserve your talent. Julian, that guy... he doesn't know how to cherish an ace." This was his third time trying to poach me. The first time was seven years ago. I turned down a high-paying offer to join Julian's startup shell company, taking a meager salary and paying the rent myself. Ethan called me brain-dead back then. He talked until his mouth was dry, but I wouldn't budge. The second time was a few days ago at the negotiation table. As a competitor, he was crushed by my proposal. After it ended, he was both impressed and worried. "Nat, I heard your salary at your own company is lower than my assistant's? Come to me. Don't let your talent be buried by someone who doesn't know quality." I laughed and refused back then. Buried? That was my husband's company. It was the status I fought seven years to build with him. The third time was now. I only paused for three seconds. I signaled the waiter to open the best bottle of red wine, then spoke crisply into the phone. "Send the offer letter. I start next Tuesday." There was a two-second pause on the other end, followed by Ethan's loud, hearty laughter. "Deal! I'm having HR prep the contract right now." He hung up immediately, afraid I'd change my mind. I smiled. Just as I was putting down my phone, a message from Julian popped up. [Plans changed. Chloe can't wait to see the tower lights. I took her to change flights and we took off already. Eat dinner by yourself.] [I have a surprise for you when I get back.] Immediately after, my social media feed refreshed with a post from Chloe, specifically tagging me. "Thanks for making my dream come true! As a thank you, I'll treat you to a Michelin meal tomorrow." The picture was Chloe holding Julian's hand. The background was the light show of the Eiffel Tower in Paris. The composition and pose were exactly the same as that photo from seven years ago. I stared at the photo for two seconds. Then I exited the app and found Ethan's chat. [I'm bringing a welcome gift for my onboarding. Is Vanguard interested in that two-hundred-million-dollar European merger?]
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