I didn't argue with him again. I turned around, walked back to the bedroom, and started packing.

He followed me in, his voice edged with anger.

“What are you doing? Running away from home again?”

“Marilyn, do you have to pull this every single time?”

I ignored him and kept folding my clothes into the suitcase, one piece at a time.

That finally got to him. He grabbed my hand and pressed it down.

“I told you it's a misunderstanding! What do you want me to say?”

I looked up at him, then leaned in close, resting my chin against his chest.

“Rod, you smell like peach perfume.”

“You used to hate that kind of sweet, cloying scent. Said it gave you a headache.”

His grip went slack.

I kept going, my voice soft and perfectly steady：

“The passenger seat in your car was moved forward three centimeters.”

“Your phone passcode used to be my birthday. Now it's 0618.”

“You never used to drink boba. Now you bring home a low-sugar pearl milk tea every night after work.”

With every line I spoke, another shade of color drained from his face.

By the end, he just stood there. Not a single word.

I zipped the suitcase shut and stood up.

“I don't want to hear another excuse.”

“Starting today, we're done.”

I dragged the suitcase to the door.

He didn't stop me.

Only when I pulled the door open did he say, low and quiet：

“You walk out, don't regret it.”

My steps faltered for half a second. I didn't turn around.

“I won't be the one with regrets.”

I sat in the convenience store downstairs all night.

The rain outside came and went, stopped and started again.

I stared at our photos on my phone.

From eighteen to twenty-five. Seven full years of my youth.

So seven years of love really meant less than an intern he'd known for three months.

I drank, and every minute of that night stretched longer than the last.

At five in the morning, his message came through：

“Wednesday, 7 PM. Westside Bellevue Hotel. Sterling Group's celebration banquet.”

“This is the project we spent three months grinding out together. Mr. Lambert asked for you by name.”

“Stop acting like a kid. Work is work.”

I stared at those words for a long time.

In the end, I typed back a single “OK”.

Not because I'd gone soft.

Because I'd poured too much of myself into that project to walk away from it now.

Back when we were fighting to land the Sterling contract, I'd slept three hours a night for a solid month, drinking with Mr. Lambert until my stomach bled and I ended up in the hospital.

Rod had sat by my hospital bed, holding my hand, and said：

“Mari, once this project goes through, I'm marrying you.”

The project's long timeline was over now.

That promise never was.

Wednesday evening, I put on a simple black suit and light makeup.

I arrived at the hotel ten minutes early.

The moment I pushed open the door to the private dining room, I froze.

Emma Fox was sitting right beside Rod, in the main seat at the head of the table.

She had a teapot in her hand, pouring for Mr. Lambert.

Every gesture, every posture, like she was already the woman of the house.

The second she saw me walk in, she stood up, her smile dripping sweet：

“Mari! You're finally here! We've all been waiting so long for you.”

“Mr. Gilbert said you were stuck in traffic. He was so worried about you.”

Rod glanced up at me. His face showed nothing.

“Sit down.”

Mr. Lambert waved me over with a broad grin：

“There she is! Come, come, sit down. You've got to have a few drinks tonight. This project wouldn't have happened without you. You're the real MVP!”

I managed a thin smile and sat down in the only empty seat left, tucked away in the far corner.

Emma picked up the teapot right away and came over to pour me a cup.

“Mari, you've worked so hard.”

“Rod told me that when you were closing this project, you were incredible. Said your alcohol tolerance was amazing, that you even drank Mr. Lambert under the table.”

“If it had been me, I definitely would've blown the whole deal.”

Then she turned to Mr. Lambert：

“Mr. Lambert, I'm still young, and I'm sure I have a lot to learn about client relations. I hope you'll be patient with me going forward.”

She gave him a shy little glance.

It worked. Mr. Lambert beamed：

“Oh, no no no—a girl your age shouldn't be out drinking with clients.”

“Leave that sort of thing to Marilyn.”

“She's experienced, she can hold her liquor. She's perfect for it.”

My fingers tightened around the teacup, nails digging into my palm.

I knew exactly what she meant.

I was used up, past it—good for nothing except pouring drinks and laughing on cue to land a contract. And she was young and pretty, so all she had to do was pout and everything fell into her lap.

The old me would have thrown that teacup in her face.

But I was an adult now. I swallowed it, all the humiliation, teeth and all.

I took a deep breath, picked up my chopsticks, and reached for the dishes.

That was when Emma walked over carrying a glass of juice.

“Mari, I can't drink because of my health, so I poured you some juice too. Try it, it's really sweet.”

As she said it, her hand tilted. The entire glass of juice splashed down the front of my white blouse.

“Oh no! I'm so sorry!”

She let out a little shriek, grabbing napkins and dabbing at me in a frantic mess.

“I swear I didn't mean to—Mari, don't be mad at me, okay?”

“I'm just so clumsy.”

She pressed hard enough to leave my blouse wrinkled and ruined, a wide yellow stain soaking across my chest.

The light makeup I'd carefully put on was smeared too.

Rod finally looked up.

For a second, I thought maybe he wasn't so far gone that he couldn't say one fair thing.

But Emma coughed twice, pressed a hand to her chest：

“I feel awful……I can't really breathe.”

Rod was on his feet immediately, at her side, holding her arm, his voice full of concern：

“What's wrong? Is your asthma acting up again?”

“Let me take you outside for some air.”

He slipped off his suit jacket and draped it over her shoulders.

Then he guided her out without looking back.

Not once. Not a single glance at me.

The private dining room went dead quiet, nothing left but the low hum of the air conditioning, and I looked down at the ugly yellow stain on my blouse and laughed.

Three years ago. Same kind of client drinking session. Same Mr. Lambert.

I'd downed close to a full bottle of hard liquor, my stomach turning itself inside out, cold sweat running down my back from the pain.

I grabbed Rod's sleeve, my voice shaking, and begged him to take me to the hospital first.

All he did was pull a wad of tissues and a disposable mask from his pocket and push them into my hand.

“Hang in there a little longer, Marilyn.”

“Mr. Lambert's flying out of the country tomorrow. If we miss this negotiation, we'll never get another shot.”

“Just go to the restroom, get it out of your system, put the mask on, and come back. Nobody's going to notice.”

And I listened to him. I actually listened.

I hid in a bathroom stall and threw up until there was nothing left but bile.

Then I splashed water on my face, put on the mask, and went back to the table.

I held it together until the contract was signed. Then everything went black.

When I woke up, I was lying in a hospital bed.

The doctor said if I'd come in any later, I would have burned a hole straight through my stomach.

Back then I'd told myself it was fine. He was doing it for our future.

But now I finally understood.

It was never that the work mattered too much.

It was that I mattered too little.