In less than a second, Ethan yanked me away.

I was shocked that the guy I had just kissed didn't push me away; instead, he smiled at me.

The random guy I had picked out now seemed somewhat attractive.

Ethan gritted his teeth and asked, "What are you doing?"

I shrugged nonchalantly. "Just playing a game."

Seeing the embarrassment and discomfort in his eyes made me want to end this back-and-forth.

I pointed my finger at his chest, forcing him to step back.

"Who do you think helped you when you were broke? Who paid for the food and the roof over your head before you bought that villa? And who cleared up all your messy accounts? I've been here for ten years, supporting you while you played entrepreneur. Do you really think I'm a fool?"

Ethan had nowhere to retreat and plopped down on the sofa.

He rubbed his head in frustration. "Can you stop bringing up the past?"

His words made me laugh bitterly; I wanted to chuckle, but tears threatened to spill.

I punched him in the chest and leaned back against the table.

"What about now? Are you really going to send me off to be someone else's plaything?"

I grabbed a nearby bottle of alcohol and smashed it on the ground—the sound echoed like our shattered relationship.

I stepped closer to Ethan, our faces inches apart. "I've loved a backstabbing wolf."

The microphone dropped with a loud thud as I turned to leave, but he grabbed my hand.

"Emma, what do you mean? Everything you have—your clothes, your food—comes from me, and you're acting like a victim?"

I pulled my hand free and tried to slap him, but he caught my wrist.

I saw his other hand rise, and I wasn't about to back down; I raised my other hand in defiance.

My palm connected with his face with a sharp crack.

Ethan's head snapped sideways from the force of my slap, and that's when I noticed someone else had grabbed his raised hand.

The man spoke in a deep voice, "Ethan, be a gentleman."

To my surprise, it was the same person I had just kissed, and upon seeing his face clearly, I realized he was even more attractive than Ethan.

Ethan's cheeks were starting to redden, but he suppressed his anger and addressed the newcomer respectfully. "Yes, Kyle."

Confused, I wondered when he had acquired a friend like this.

But then again, it didn't matter; he was just my ex now.

I picked up my car keys from the floor and stormed out.

As I reached the door and spotted Ethan's car, a wave of satisfaction washed over me as I smashed his side mirror.

Feeling triumphant for a moment, I slid into my own car, but my mood quickly plummeted.

I sat there gripping the steering wheel, staring blankly ahead.

The truth was—I had been exaggerating about my family's wealth; we didn't own a big company—just some small businesses.

Ever since that explosive argument with Ethan that drove a wedge between me and my parents three years ago, I hadn't been home.

The realization hit me hard, all this for that scumbag wasn't worth it at all.

Just as I was contemplating when to visit home again, someone knocked on my window.

As I rolled it down, I thought bitterly that if it was Ethan trying to talk to me again, I'd make him stick his head in and then roll the window up on him.

But when I saw the familiar yet unfamiliar face of Ethan's friend Kyle outside my car, disappointment washed over me.

He looked polite and flashed a charming smile as he asked, "Mind if I catch a ride?"

If he weren't related to Ethan, I'd have said yes without hesitation. But since he was...

"I do mind."

He seemed unfazed by my rejection and continued speaking as if he hadn't heard me.

"If it's about Ethan, you've misunderstood; we're not close at all."

"And besides," he added with a smirk, "you did kiss me; shouldn't you take responsibility for that?"

A hint of realization dawned on me regarding his intentions as I turned to tease him back, "Are you trying to hit on me?"

He paused for a moment before responding with a grin, "Is that so wrong?"

I couldn't help but smile slightly in response. "Yes, it is."

He didn't seem upset; he just shrugged it off but still wanted a ride with me.

I said, "Stand back."

He obediently took a step away, and in the next moment, I rolled up the window.

With a quick flick of the accelerator, I sped off, watching him grow smaller in the rearview mirror until he vanished completely.

When I got home, I was surprised to find Ethan had returned even earlier than I had.

Ignoring him, I headed straight for my room.

He followed cautiously, and as I stuffed clothes into my suitcase, he grabbed my hand.

"Emma, I was drunk earlier. I didn't mean what I said; please don't be mad."

I calmly pulled my hand away, feeling like a decade of my youth had been wasted on him.

Turning to face him, I said, "I'm not mad, ex-boyfriend."

The term clearly struck a nerve; his expression froze.

Before he could respond, his phone rang.

He answered it quickly and prepared to leave, saying over his shoulder, "Emma, let's talk when I get back."

With that, he rushed out the door.

Seeing him hurry off triggered a reflexive pang of sympathy in me.

It was late; who knew how long he'd be out negotiating contracts with someone else?

Shaking off the thought, I slapped my cheeks lightly. "Emma, stop feeling sorry for him."

By the time I finished packing, it was well past midnight.

Suddenly, a dull pain began to throb in my stomach—an ominous sign.

I quickly poured myself some water and swallowed two pills but felt no relief; instead, the pain intensified.

During Ethan's early days of starting his business, I accompanied him everywhere.

He was allergic to alcohol, so I played the role of his secretary and shielded him from drinking.

That's when my stomach issues began to surface.

He had always been considerate about my health and even prepared special meals for me to help soothe my stomach.

But now? He hadn't cared about my well-being in ages.

I had planned to move out tonight, but the pain made it impossible to move.

Sweat beaded on my forehead as the medication showed no effect.

Reluctantly, I reached for my phone and called Ethan.

After several attempts with no answer, just as I was about to give up hope, he finally called back.

Before I could say anything, he snapped at me. "Didn't I say we'd talk when I got back? Why are you calling? Can't you see I'm busy?"

In the silence that followed, a woman's voice came through on his end, "Ethan, what's wrong?"

I felt an immediate surge of anger mixed with amusement at his audacity.

"Busy with another woman in bed?" I spat back.

I didn't want to burden anyone with my minor ailment; instead, I suffered alone for two hours in silence.

Thankfully, the worst passed eventually.

Dragging my suitcase behind me, I left the villa that had once been filled with dreams of our future together.

In its place lay a formal breakup notice for Ethan—complete with a request for reimbursement of my previous investments—and then promptly blocked all his contact information.

I returned to our old apartment—the one I'd bought myself—only to unexpectedly run into someone familiar.

After a sleepless night dragging my suitcase to the complex entrance, I bumped into Ethan's friend who was out for a morning jog.

Not wanting to interact with him, I turned away only to spot Ethan leaning against the security booth.

My heart raced with shock and confusion; wasn't he supposed to be spending the night elsewhere?

Ignoring him again, I pushed my suitcase into the building.

But Ethan stepped forward and pressed down on my suitcase's handle.

His voice was hoarse as he asked, "Weren't we supposed to talk? What are you doing?"

I turned to face him and noticed marks on his neck—evidence of someone else's touch that seemed deliberately left visible.

A bitter laugh escaped me; just moments ago he had been wrapped up with another woman and now he wanted to reconcile?

I tugged my suitcase free and offered him a polite smile before trying to walk away.

Just as he opened his mouth to plead again, his gaze shifted past me as he called out, "Kyle."