Front Seat Stolen: My Girlfriend's Biggest Regret

In the seventh year of my relationship with Ruby Carrington, she picks me up from work in the heavy downpour one evening.

When I open the door to the front passenger seat, I notice a puddle of water on the seat. A strand of short hair is there as well.

Ruby grips the steering wheel without even looking at me.

"I just dropped off an intern from the project department at his home. He didn't bring an umbrella with him, so he was drenched."

As I sit on the damp seat, I feel my heart slowly going cold as well.

"Ruby, you knew very well that I'm severely germaphobic."

Ruby just chortles in response. Her tone is filled with impatience and exhaustion.

"It's just a seat, isn't it? He's younger and funnier than you, not to mention he's also more handsome than you even when he's drenched in the rain.

"I tried having a relationship with him. Being with him is definitely a lot more interesting than with you. But I'll still marry you, though. As long as you pretend not to know anything about my affair, we can keep this relationship going."

Rain continues streaking down the window outside, and yet, I find the air inside the car even more suffocating than the rain itself.

I sat down on that damp seat, the icy cold liquid instantly soaking through my expensive suit pants.

The chilling sensation spread from my skin all the way to my heart, cold enough to make me gag.

The entire way, Ruby Carrington hummed a tune I'd never heard before. She was in a great mood, completely indifferent to how I felt.

When we arrived at the restaurant—an award-winning restaurant that was almost impossible to get a table at—she still hadn't apologized for what she'd said earlier, nor did she make any attempt to reassure me.

Halfway through the meal, she suddenly pulled out a velvet box that had an engagement ring nestled inside. The velvet around the box was already somewhat worn, as if it had been handled and fidgeted with too many times.

"Put this on, Bruno. It's been seven years. The family has waited long enough."

She sat there and casually tossed the ring to me without even lifting her eyes.

The moment I slid the ring onto my ring finger, my heart sank. It was a full size too big, wobbling loosely.

She had measured my finger size herself three years ago.

"Ruby, the ring's too big."

She took a sip of her red wine, her gaze wandering.

"I remembered wrong. You can go get it resized yourself later."

Just then, the phone on the table lit up, and a WhatsApp message popped up from a contact saved as "Golden Retriever".

"Ms. Carrington, I tried on the ring in your car earlier, and I might've loosened it. Your boyfriend won't mind, right?"

I stared at the message, then at the ring on my finger. So this wasn't just an engagement ring—it was also someone else's toy.

My stomach convulsed violently, and the nauseating feeling of being violated surged through me. I took off the ring and slowly set it down among the leftover scraps on the table.

"Ruby Carrington, does everyone get to try on my engagement ring?"

Ruby's expression instantly fell. She slammed her fork down hard. "Bruno Keaton, don't test my patience! Besides me, who else can put up with your mysophobia and OCD but me?

"Em was just curious. What would a fresh graduate like him even know?"

She thought I was being unreasonable, that I was ungrateful.

She pointed at me, her eyes ice-cold. "If you won't wear it, then the wedding's off. You'd better think carefully."

I stared at the woman I'd loved for seven years. Her face was still the one I'd fallen for, but her insides had already rotted and smelled.

She was like that soaked passenger seat—filthy through and through.

"Cancel it."

I grabbed a napkin and wiped my finger carefully.

"I would never want anything dirty."

…

Ruby didn't take my breakup seriously.

She posted on her social media, "Men can't be spoiled. Once they make too much of a fuss, they're no longer adorable."

The next day, I arrived at the office on time. I was the company's CFO, as well as one of the founding members who had started the company alongside Ruby.

When I reached my office door, I noticed it was left slightly ajar. I pushed it open, and my breathing caught.

Emmett Stone, that intern, was sitting brazenly at my desk. In his hands was my fine porcelain coffee cup—the one Ruby had given me for our fifth anniversary.

But what made me feel physically ill was the slightly oversized white dress shirt he was wearing.