When I got into the car accident, Verity Walker, my girlfriend, passed by with her male secretary. She slowed down the moment she caught sight of me, bloodied and wrestling in pain, though rather than extending a hand, she leaned out the window and hurled a cutting remark my way.

“Don’t worry about him; he’s not going to die!” She jeered before speeding off, leaving me in a state of disbelief.

Later that evening, I huddled in the dim corner of my bedroom, a heavy sense of unease settling over me.

As my eyes drifted to the open closet, something caught my attention—among my hung clothes was a pair of men’s underwear that didn’t belong to me.

Without hesitation, I shut the closet door and picked up my phone.

“President Everett,” I uttered, calm and composed. “I’ve made my decision. I’ll be ready to leave the city next week and join your company.”

“That’s excellent news, Tyron,” he responded, satisfied. “We’re excited to have you on board.”

...

As I ended the call, the bathroom door creaked open, and Verity emerged. Her long hair hung damp around her shoulders. She had always been quick in the shower, thirty minutes tops, but recently, she spent at least two hours locked away with her phone.

“Who were you just talking to?” she asked, curious.

When she asked, her eyes stayed glued to her phone. I told her I had just spoken to President Everett.

“Oh,” was all she said, her voice distant, like she hadn’t processed a word. I didn’t push it; those days of trying to make her care were long behind me.

Instead, I quietly started drafting my resignation letter on my phone, fingers moving steadily across the screen.

Verity reached for her cup but paused when she realized the coffee I used to make for her every night wasn’t there. Her cold gaze finally shifted toward me.

“Tyron,” she began. “I took your CT report to an orthopedic specialist. He said your leg only has minor surface injuries. Just be careful not to get the wound wet.”

I barely looked up, still typing. “Okay, I’ll be careful,” I replied, my tone calm, indifferent.

During the afternoon, I found myself facing eight stitches in my calf from the accident. To complicate things further, three of my toes on the left foot had been amputated due to necrosis from blood loss.

The doctor sighed, shaking his head, wishing I had made it to the hospital sooner—my toes might have had a fighting chance.

Verity caught sight of my unusually cold demeanor and furrowed her brows. She was clearly on the brink of coming over to check on me. But just then, her phone buzzed, and her mood brightened in an instant. She sprang to her feet with energy and dashed into the study.

Seizing the moment, I opened Verity’s WhatsApp using a secondary account. My heart dropped as I stumbled upon a new update that was visible to everyone but me.

The post featured a tall, dashing young secretary with the caption, [Oh! It turned out to be me!].

The photo captured Verity and her secretary, Colton Turner, making heart signs together.

In an instant, I smirked and liked the post before the contract from President Everett came through. Without a moment’s hesitation, I signed it, sealing my decision.

The next morning, Verity surprisingly rose early to pick up food from a nearby restaurant. Just as I was about to unwrap the bag of seafood, she coldly slapped my hand away and remarked, “Don’t you like seafood? The shrimp are the ones I specially bought for you.”

I was taken aback, quickly realizing that the seafood she referred to was intended for Colton. Unable to contain my disbelief, I asked her, “After seven years of dating, don’t you know I’m allergic to shrimp?”

Verity's cheeks flushed as she stood up abruptly.

With a hint of sarcasm, she said, “Fine. It's my fault. A grown man really should stop being so picky and making a fuss over nothing,” she huffed, crossing her arms. “Honestly, it’s your choice, eat or don’t eat. I couldn’t care less!”

As Verity turned to leave, I dashed into the room and pulled out a bag, presenting it to her.

“When you see Colton later, please return this to him?” I asked, my voice steady.

Her eyes widened in shock as she caught a glimpse of the men’s underwear inside. She opened her mouth, poised to explain, but when she met my indifferent gaze, she cleared her throat and replied, “Alright, I’ll have a word with Colton and ensure he’s more careful next time.”

Noticing my lack of enthusiasm, Verity awkwardly suggested that I could come to work with her today.

Despite our seven years together, where we had weathered countless storms, she had always been strict about keeping work and personal life separate—never once did we commute together.

Yet now, on Colton's first day at work, she was already bending the rules, providing him with transportation.

Lost in thought, I felt a strange pain surge through my eyes, causing me to drop my spoon and fork onto the floor. Trembling, I bent down to retrieve them.

When I straightened up, Verity stood at the door, her back to me.

“There’s an urgent matter at the company,” she said quickly. “I’ll accompany you next time.”

With that, she hurried out, leaving me in a sudden silence.

Half an hour later, I hobbled to my workstation. For some reason, my colleagues regarded me with sympathy and concern, their expressions making the air feel heavier around me.

While filling my cup with water in the break room, I couldn’t help but overhear a few colleagues whispering in hushed tones.

“So, Verity cheated on Tyron and got together with Colton?” one asked, disbelief etched in her voice.

“Definitely,” another chimed in, excitement lighting her eyes. “You should have seen it this morning! Colton only had a minor scratch from a paper cut. In front of all the supervisors in the meeting room, Verity put his finger in her mouth to show concern…”

Their voices trailed off, leaving a weighty silence in the air as the implications of their words sunk in.

My hand slipped, and the mug I held shattered on the floor. The gossip in the break room abruptly stopped, all eyes turning toward me.

I crouched down, silently gathering the jagged pieces and disposing of them in the trash can, the weight of their stares heavy on my shoulders.

I worked late into the night, pushing through until ten o'clock.

Suddenly, I felt a gentle weight on my shoulder; Verity was leaning against me, her familiar and unsettling presence.

“Tyron, why haven’t you replied to my messages?” she asked, her tone laced with confusion.

I didn’t turn to face her, but instead, I lit up my phone to check the unread message: [What kind of games do you guys usually like to play?]

Three years ago, I watched my buddy proudly flaunt the new game console his girlfriend had gifted him. At that moment, I asked Verity for a newly released game skin, hoping to share that excitement.

In the past, Verity had shot me a disdainful look and said, “Tyron, are you serious? You’re in your thirties, yet still obsessed with games and skins. Isn’t that a bit pathetic?”

Verity raised an eyebrow in surprise and exclaimed, “Aren’t you always saying you wanted to play this?”

I shrugged and replied casually, “I don’t play games anymore.”

After a brief silence, she snapped, “Fine then. I’m heading to the bathroom, and after that, we’ll go home together.”

Half a minute later, Verity's phone on my desk lit up, displaying a message from Colton: [Wow, Verity! You’re beyond generous and so thoughtful! Not only did you get me the game console, but you also loaded up on all the games. I’ll have to hit the gym harder to repay you—blushing over here!]

Arriving home well past eleven, I quietly entered the bedroom to gather my belongings.

Just then, Verity strolled in, her hair damp from the shower, and paused. Her gaze fell on the thinned-out clothes in the closet, the emptiness echoing the growing distance between us.

Frowning, Verity said, “Tyron, send me your measurements. I’m off to Paris for a business trip next month, and I’ll pick you up a couple of new suits.”

I waved my hand dismissively, replying without much thought, “No need. I don’t care about brands.”

The truth was, I was leaving soon anyway, so it hardly seemed worth the trouble.

Throwing the towel onto the bed, Verity shot me a cold glance and remarked, “Is this because I bought the wrong breakfast? Are you still sulking over that?”

I blinked, poised to explain that I wasn’t angry at all. But she scoffed, cutting me off. “Tyron, you are petty and unrefined.”

Verity pushed me out of the bedroom and shut the door behind her.

After seven years of being together, Verity initiated countless cold wars, each forcing me to swallow my pride to restore peace. But this time, I had genuinely reached my breaking point with her.

Verity remained locked away in the bedroom all night, ignoring any knock that might have come her way.

The following day, I went about my routine and prepared breakfast for both of us.

After finishing my meal and getting ready to leave for work, Verity stormed out of the study, her expression seething with anger.

Brandishing her phone like a weapon, she snapped, “Tyron, take the day off. By 5 PM this afternoon, I need you to make an identical fondant cake for me.”

My mother, a Le Cordon Bleu-trained pastry chef, had ignited a deep passion for baking in me from an early age. Since Verity and I had become a couple, making her birthday cakes each year had become a beloved tradition.

Recently, I noticed a striking football star lighting up her phone, Colton’s WhatsApp profile picture, and the sight sent a jolt of discomfort through me.

An uneasy silence enveloped the living room as Verity, finally realizing the absurdity of her request, met my gaze with a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. I simply nodded, acknowledging the moment's weight between us.

“Send me the picture. I’ll head out to get the ingredients now,” I said, determination edging my voice.

Seven years ago, at a dinner party, Verity had been drugged, and in a blur, I found myself at a hotel with her.

When she came to, a wave of regret swept over her, and she wept, blaming me for going along with her reckless decision. Since that night, the burden of guilt had weighed heavily on me.

But once I baked this cake, I would finally be free from the ties that bound me to her.

As I strode toward the door, I sensed Verity’s hesitation before she called out to me. I didn’t bother to turn around, asking, “Do you have any other instructions?”

“...I’ve transferred the money for the ingredients to you,” she said, her voice tinged with reluctance.

Once in the elevator, I opened the chat with Verity and couldn’t suppress a chuckle at the staggering statistics: I had sent her a mind-boggling 5,363 messages, while she had responded 35 times.

The notification sound of the ten thousand dollar transfer being returned to the living room made Verity grip her phone tightly, her expression darkening with unease.

At 8 PM that night, my phone buzzed, and it was Verity.

“Tyron, where are you?” she asked, her voice unexpectedly gentle.

I chose not to answer her directly. “Is something wrong?” I probed.

Her tone softened even more. “Nothing's wrong. As always, I just wanted to tell you that the cake you made is absolutely delicious.”

After a brief pause, she added, “Thank you for your hard work.”

Before I could find the words to respond, a lively, cheerful voice burst onto the line; it was Colton.

“Tyron! I heard from Verity that you made the birthday cake today. Is that true? I never would’ve guessed a man like you could whip up something so impressive! Meanwhile, I’m all thumbs and can’t even print a report without Verity swooping in to save me!”

When Colton invited me to the birthday party, Verity's voice sliced through the air. “Tyron, you don’t need to come,” she said sharply before hanging up.

A few minutes later, however, I received a message from her with a location: [When you come over, bring Colton a pack of cigarettes from the nearby store.]

As I pushed open the private room door, I saw Verity feeding Colton a slice of cake.

I knew Colton had sent the location and message, yet I still found myself drawn in despite the tension.

As Colton beamed at me with a friendly “brother,” Verity shot me a sharp glare. “Didn’t I tell you not to come?” she admonished, somewhat irritated.

“Sorry, Verity. I just wanted a cigarette, so I tricked Tyron into coming,” Colton confessed, a sheepish grin spreading across his face.

Seeing him look so vulnerable, Verity couldn’t help but lean against his arm, her demeanor softening as she reassured him that she wasn’t upset. Recognizing it as the perfect moment, I pulled out my resignation letter, ready to leap.

“Verity, a colleague has a family emergency and needs to leave urgently. Could you please approve this?” I said, my heart racing.

In most cases, resignation applications would have gone through the HR department. However, when the HR manager saw my name on the form, he simply returned it without hesitation.

Verity was lost in her playful banter with Colton in the softly lit private room. As I watched her, she signed the form without even a fleeting glance at the name, exactly as I had hoped.