After saying that, he slammed on the brakes.

He dropped me off on a dark, deserted road two kilometers away from our home and told me to walk back alone to “reflect on myself.”

He returned first, gently coaxed Samantha to sleep, then waited—confident I would come home and apologize.

We had been in love for eight years. Every time we fought, no matter who was at fault, I was always the one to give in first. I would bow my head, apologize, and try to fix things.

But this time, he sat alone in silence the entire night, waiting.

And I never knocked on the door.

The next day, just after I got off work, I received a message from Grant asking me to bring painkillers for Samantha. The location? A private room in a well-known upscale restaurant.

I didn’t want to go.

But I thought about what he had done for me during my own family’s hardships years ago—how he stayed by my side. That debt, at least, needed to be repaid.

We were even.

I brought the medication to the private room, but before entering, I heard playful voices inside.

“Samantha, did you come back to America for Grant? So, when’s the wedding?”

With a soft laugh, Samantha replied sweetly,

“That depends on Grant. I’m fine with whatever he decides.”

Grant didn’t say a word—not to deny it, not to correct her.

I opened the door and saw him gently feeding her a bite of food, causing the others around the table to cheer and tease them like a couple.

The moment his eyes met mine, his expression changed. Cold and sharp.

“Lena, are you following me?!”

That one sentence made everything clear.

The message hadn’t come from him—it had come from Samantha.

But what did it matter anymore?

Without saying anything, I tossed the box of painkillers onto the table.

“You messaged me about the medicine, didn’t you? Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten.”

Then I turned and walked away.

Grant was momentarily stunned.

In the past, I would have rushed in to assert my presence, proudly standing beside him to claim what was mine.

But now, I didn’t argue. I didn’t fight. And somehow, that unsettled him even more.

While waiting for the elevator, my boss called.

“Lena, your application has been approved. You can book your flight.”

I nodded. “Alright. I’ll reserve it now.”

Just as I ended the call, I heard Grant’s voice behind me—confused and a little suspicious.

“What are you booking?”

Without turning around, I lied casually.

“The boss wants to treat a client to dinner. He asked me to reserve a private room.”

He said nothing, simply stepped into the elevator with me, and offered to drive me home.

But the moment we got downstairs, his phone rang.

It was Samantha.

“Grant, my stomach hurts... Can you come back and stay with me?”

Without a glance at my direction, he stepped out and rode the elevator back up, still talking on the phone.

At home, I began to pack.

A short while later, my phone rang. It was Grant again—this time, sounding unusually considerate.

“Aren’t we supposed to take our wedding photos today? Why didn’t you remind me?”

I handled all the wedding arrangements. Every detail. He hadn’t lifted a finger.

And now, because I hadn’t reminded him, he sounded almost… offended.

While folding my clothes, I replied absentmindedly,

“Well, since you’re busy taking care of Samantha, we can just take the wedding photos after the honeymoon.”

I didn’t think that would trigger him—but it did.

“Lena!” he shouted, furious. “Do you even realize how valuable my time is? How dare you make decisions like that without asking me?!”

“If you go on like this—just cancel the wedding altogether!”

He ended the call abruptly.

For a moment, my chest ached.

The boy who once stood under fireworks, promising to make me the happiest woman in the world—was gone.

I picked up the framed photos of the two of us from the shelves and, without hesitation, tossed them all into the trash bin.

Late at night, Grant came home, supporting a drunken Samantha. He noticed immediately that the house looked different—things were missing.

Already in a bad mood, his irritation turned to anger.

“Lena, what kind of stunt are you pulling now?”

I looked up from where I was folding the last of my clothes and said calmly,

“The house was getting a bit cluttered. I’m just tidying up.”

He shot me a cold glance, then carried Samantha straight into the bedroom.

Moments later, I could hear her shrill, drunken giggles coming from behind the door.

Annoyed, Grant told her to stop making noise and came out to ask me for hangover medicine.

Back when he had frequent business dinners, I always kept a supply of hangover pills ready in the cabinet.

But not anymore. I threw them all away—along with the rest of my patience.

Thinking of this, I responded flatly, “We’re out.”

“Fine. Just send me the brand name—I’ll buy it myself.”

When I didn’t reply, he grabbed my phone from the table, visibly irritated, and tried to unlock it himself.

But after several failed attempts, his face darkened with frustration.

“Lena, when did you change your password?”

I calmly took my phone back.

“I changed it when I felt like it. Do I need a reason?”

His anger erupted.

“How long are you going to keep acting like this?!”

He turned on his heel and stormed into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

All night, the walls echoed with Samantha’s coy whining—her voice laced with laughter, asking Grant to kiss her, hug her, pamper her.

The next morning, a mild earthquake suddenly shook the city.

Startled awake, Grant’s first instinct was to grab the panicking Samantha and rush her out of the building.

Only after the tremors stopped and the danger had passed did he remember—he had left me behind.

By then, I was already at the airport.

My suitcase beside me, I watched as his name flashed repeatedly on my phone screen.

I didn’t answer.

Just before boarding, I sent him one final message:

[Let’s break up.]

Then I removed the SIM card, snapped it in two, and tossed it into the airport trash bin.

At the exact moment he received my message, Grant was holding his phone, expression frozen, his eyes turning icy.

Beside him, Samantha’s expression flickered with barely disguised joy—but she quickly forced tears into her eyes.

“Grant… Lena must be upset because of me. It’s my fault… If she comes back, I’ll move out. I promise I won’t bother you anymore.”

Grant rubbed his temples, his tone irritable.

“Don’t worry. I won’t let her kick you out.”

He pulled out his phone, about to type a message asking me to come back, but then his gaze landed on the table—and he froze.

His breath caught in his throat.

At that moment, his phone rang again. It was a call from a relative.

“Grant! Check the group chat. Did you see the link Lena sent? What’s going on?”