The night before Valentine's Day, I crossed two thousand miles to surprise my long-distance boyfriend, Miles Gilbert.

The moment I rang the doorbell, a stranger answered.

When she saw me, her face lit up with sudden understanding.

"Oh, you must be the cleaner Miles called! Come in, come in."

She stepped aside, waving me through. "I kept telling him I could tidy up myself, but he insisted. Said he didn't want me getting tired, so he had to hire someone."

The moment I stepped inside, the smell of home hit me—lived-in, intimate, unmistakably shared.

My eyes swept the room and froze on the photo hanging in the center of the wall.

The girl was gazing up at a sky full of falling snow, and Miles—my Miles—was looking only at her. The tenderness in his eyes was so raw, so unguarded, it burned.

She followed my gaze and smiled softly.

"That was from our trip together. He promised to take me everywhere—said he wants to show me the whole country."

My fingers curled into my palms. Something tightened around my chest, squeezing until I couldn't breathe.

Miles had always been so cold with me. Reserved. Distant.

I never knew he was capable of looking at someone like that.

——

On the flight here, I'd let myself imagine this moment a hundred times.

Would he pull me into his arms? Would his eyes go soft with surprise? Would he scold me gently for traveling so far just to see him?

But those daydreams shattered the second she opened the door.

When I didn't move, she grabbed my wrist and tugged me toward the bedroom, rattling off instructions as we walked.

"Make sure you really scrub this rug—my boyfriend and I like to lie here and soak up the sun."

"Oh, and be careful with that ceramic piece. We brought it back from our first trip together."

I followed her numbly, but the moment we reached the closet, my whole body went rigid.

A row of matching couple's outfits hung in perfect order, mocking me.

I used to beg Miles for matching clothes. He always wrinkled his nose and said, "Aren't we a little old for that? It's childish."

So why wasn't it childish with her?

In the dressing room, she pointed to the center of the jewelry case, her tone suddenly serious.

"Be extra careful with that bracelet. Don't knock it or let it fall."

My gaze dropped to the bracelet she was pointing at.

The air left my lungs.

It was identical to the one on my wrist.

The memory slammed into me—our third anniversary. Miles sliding the bracelet onto my wrist himself, his voice low and certain: "This is a Gilbert family heirloom. It only goes to the woman I'm going to marry."

Stacy Fox's sharp eyes caught the glint of metal on my arm. Her brow arched.

"Your bracelet looks exactly like mine."

Before I could respond, she let out a small laugh.

"You must have been scammed. There's only one of these—it's been passed down from my boyfriend's grandmother. Anything else out there is just a knockoff."

My throat closed. But I forced the words out anyway, my voice tight.

"What if... yours is the fake?"

The second I said it, I wished I could take it back.

He was living with her. Why would he give her a fake?

I was only fooling myself.

Stacy laughed, light and unbothered.

"That's impossible. His mother gave it to me personally. Why would it be fake?"

His mother.

The words hit like a hammer to the chest, crushing the last fragile thread of hope I'd been clinging to.

Shame and humiliation twisted together, burning behind my eyes. My legs trembled. I wasn't sure how much longer I could stay standing.

Just then, a familiar voice drifted in from outside:

"Baby, I'm home! I brought you that mango mousse you love."

Stacy's eyes lit up instantly. She bounced toward the door like an eager puppy and threw herself at Miles, clinging to him like a koala.

I stood frozen, a bitter ache spreading from my chest to my throat.

Back when Miles and I were together, I'd wanted to hold his hand. Even when no one was around, he'd subtly pull away, frowning. "We need to maintain appearances."

But with Stacy? He let her hang all over him without a flicker of impatience.

I let out a self-deprecating laugh. So this was the difference between loving someone and not.

"Why are you so good to me?" Stacy cooed, pawing at his cheek.

Miles leaned down, touching his nose to hers. His voice dripped with affection. "You're my future wife. Of course I'm good to you."

The next second, his gaze swept into the room. The moment our eyes met, the smile on his face froze.

Stacy noticed something was off. She followed his line of sight and turned to look at me.

"Oh no, why didn't you warn me? There's someone else here!" She swatted his arm playfully. "Put me down!"

Miles finally set her down.

But he wasn't looking at her. He was staring straight at me.

Those eyes were ice-cold—a silent warning not to expose anything.

Looking at him like that, the bitterness I'd been choking back finally broke free.

"Miles, don't you think you owe me an explanation?"

The moment I spoke, Stacy whipped around, her face a picture of surprise.

"Oh! So you're not the cleaning lady?"

She paused, as if something had just clicked. "Ah, I get it now. You must be Marilyn Swanson."

I froze, about to ask how she knew my name, when she continued:

"You're always calling Miles, aren't you? I was right there listening the whole time."

"I know all about you two. I know you've had a crush on him for years." She tilted her head, eyes wide with mock innocence. "But I never imagined you'd actually have the nerve to show up at our home."

Her words hit me like a bucket of ice water. My ears rang. Everything around me seemed to lose its sound.

So that was why. Every time I'd called Miles, every video chat—he'd always said he was busy, his voice impatient, rushing me to hang up, telling me not to bother him.

Stacy had been right there beside him the entire time.

My chest felt like it was caving in. It took me a long moment to steady myself. I lifted my gaze to Miles and spoke, each word deliberate:

"Miles. Tell her exactly what I am to you."

Even now, some part of me clung to hope.

If he would just admit I was his girlfriend—four years of long-distance—I would treat this as a misunderstanding. I would forgive him.

But all he did was frown. He reached for my arm, trying to push me toward the door, his voice a low hiss:

"Stop making a scene. We can talk outside."

I wrenched my arm free, my eyes burning. "I'm the one making a scene?"

"You're the one who's a coward! You're the one playing both of us! You're the one who lied to me for four years!"

I lost control completely. I swept my arm across the coffee table, sending the matching couple's mugs crashing to the floor. Then I grabbed the couple's pajamas hanging on the wardrobe and hurled them down.

Stacy let out a shriek.

Miles's expression turned thunderous.

He grabbed my arm and dragged me roughly toward the door.

"Marilyn, what the hell are you doing?"

"If there's something you want to say, why can't we talk about it in private? Why did you have to make a scene in front of Stacy?"

I looked at him, unable to hold back any longer, and slapped him across the face.

Stacy stumbled back a step, pulling out her phone and pointing it at me, her voice trembling with tears.

"Marilyn, I'm calling the police! How could you hit someone?"

"Miles, are you okay? The police will be here soon—they'll get this crazy woman out of here."

We stayed locked in that standoff until the police arrived.

The officer in charge surveyed the wreckage I'd made of the apartment, then looked at the three of us.

"What's going on here?"

I wrenched my arm free from Miles's grip. My voice shook, but I forced the words out.

"I'm his girlfriend. We've been in a long-distance relationship for four years. He cheated on me."

Before I could say anything else, Stacy's voice cut in.

"She's lying. She's just an old classmate of Miles's. She showed up out of nowhere and started causing trouble—she's the one who smashed all our things."

The officer raised an eyebrow and turned to me, his tone flat.

"If you're just an old classmate, you'll need to compensate them for everything you damaged."

"We are a couple! I have proof!"

I fumbled for my phone, desperate to explain.

But when I opened my chat history with Miles, the words died in my throat.

The screen was filled with messages—all from me. His replies were always the same few words:

"Busy." "Mm." "Okay."

Not a single "babe." Not even one message that showed he cared.

I stood there holding my phone, cold seeping through my entire body. My hand went still.

The officer glanced at the screen. The corner of his mouth twitched into something that wasn't quite a smile.

"This constitutes disturbing the peace. You'll have to compensate them for the damaged property. If the circumstances are serious enough, you could also face detention."

Stacy jumped in immediately.

"Officer, please lock this crazy woman up! She just hit my boyfriend—she's completely out of control!"

The officer turned to Miles, waiting for his response.

Miles frowned. He was silent for a few seconds, then hesitated.

"Detention isn't necessary. Just have her pay for what she broke."

He paused, his gaze falling on the shattered pieces scattered across the floor.

"That mug... it was my girlfriend's favorite."

In that moment, something inside me went numb.

All the grievance, the rage, the injustice—it was like a balloon that had been punctured. Everything just deflated.

I tugged at the corner of my mouth. I didn't argue. I didn't cry or scream. I just said, my voice hoarse:

"I'll pay."

But Stacy wouldn't let it go. She clung to Miles's arm, her voice turning coy and petulant.

"No way. She came into our home and made this huge scene—smashing things, hitting people. I was terrified."

"You can't go soft on her just because she's an old classmate! She needs to be detained. We can't just let this slide."

I looked at Miles and let out a bitter laugh. What would he choose this time?

Miles avoided my eyes. He frowned but didn't push back. He just said quietly to the officer:

"Follow standard procedure."

That one sentence pushed me over the edge into the abyss.

I thought detention would just be a simple punishment. I had no idea that walking into that holding cell would be the beginning of my nightmare.

I hadn't been inside long before a group of women surrounded me, looking me up and down, their eyes full of mockery and contempt.