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.

One of the women—a bleached blonde with a sneer to match—looked me up and down.

"So you're the homewrecker trying to climb the ladder?" She let out a sharp laugh. "How pathetic."

"Caught red-handed by the wife and tossed in here with the rest of us." She clicked her tongue. "Absolutely shameless."

My fists clenched at my sides, nails biting into my palms.

"I'm not a homewrecker!"

But my denial only made them laugh harder.

The next second, the blonde moved first.

She shoved me—hard.

Something snapped inside me. I lunged at her, eyes burning, and we collided in a tangle of fists and clawing hands.

Her friends jumped in immediately, yanking my hair, landing blows wherever they could reach. More fists rained down on my body, my face.

Pain radiated through my limbs, but the ache in my chest cut deeper.

The guards finally heard the commotion and rushed in, pulling us apart. We were all written up and warned—next time, the consequences would be severe.

After that, they didn't touch me again. But the mocking glances never stopped. The snide comments. The whispered insults.

I ignored all of it. Found a corner. Curled up. Waited.

Five days.

Five days I survived.

Walking out of that detention center, every step sent pain shooting through my battered body.

Miles was standing at the entrance.

When he saw me, he froze.

Then he rushed over, reaching for me but hesitating—like he was afraid of hurting me further.

"What happened? Where did these injuries come from?"

I didn't look at him. Didn't answer. Just kept my eyes down and walked forward, one agonizing step at a time.

How did I end up like this?

The man I'd loved with everything I had for four years—how could he let me fall this far?

What a joke.

He followed behind me, his footsteps quickening, his tone sharpening with impatience.

"Marilyn, how long are you going to keep this up?"

I stopped dead in my tracks. Slowly turned to face him.

"Miles. Am I the one causing problems here?"

His mouth opened. Closed. Not a single word came out.

The silence stretched on until he finally managed:

"You should have told me you were coming."

"And about Stacy—I can explain everything."

Before I could respond, he kept going.

"My mother has always wanted me to marry someone from a suitable family. Stacy fits the bill."

"What you saw between us? It's all an act for my family. Once this charade is over, I'll marry you. I promise."

My gaze dropped to the bracelet on my wrist. I said nothing.

I stared at it for a long moment. Then I slipped it off.

"This one is fake, isn't it?"

Miles's eyes darted away. He stumbled over his words.

"When we get married, I'll give you the real one."

"The one Stacy's wearing—my mother forced it on her. There was nothing I could do."

Before I could refuse, he grabbed my arm and pulled me into the car.

"Hospital first. We'll talk about everything else later."

I sat in the passenger seat, every part of me resisting.

But I knew I couldn't gamble with my own body.

At the hospital, X-rays, examinations, one procedure after another—by the end, I didn't even have the strength to lift my arm.

The doctor returned with the films.

"Two broken ribs. Multiple soft tissue contusions. You'll need to stay for observation."

Miles took the X-rays, his brow furrowing. When he turned to me, guilt crept into his voice.

"Marilyn, I'm sorry. I let you suffer like this. I'll make it up to you—I promise."