After endless negotiations, I finally locked down an investment of more than 20 million dollars, just enough to drag the company back from the edge.

Quinton had no idea that, minutes earlier, he had tossed away the company's last lifeline, along with his own future.

Once I left the office, I called the investor and kept my tone as courteous as possible.

"I'm sorry about the inconvenience, Mr. Snyder. There's an issue with the company seal, so the contract needs to be voided for now. When would you be available to re-sign?"

Scott Snyder was a titan in the industry, someone who rarely showed his face in public. If I hadn't once saved his life during a heart attack, our paths probably never would've crossed.

To my surprise, the old man sounded genuinely puzzled.

"I thought you were being transferred to Northreach. I saw your company's announcement. It said all of your accounts are being handed over to a young woman, Ms. Roffe or something."

I went still.

In that instant, I knew Quinton had gone behind my back.

I steadied myself and forced a light laugh. "That must be an internal mix-up. I'm staying put and continuing to handle your account. Even if I ever did take a trip to Northreach to relax, I'd let you know well in advance."

Scott chuckled. "Alright, then. I'm free tomorrow."

After ending the call, I swallowed my anger and unlocked my phone, only to be hit by a flood of messages.

Clients were asking why I was being sent to Northreach and when I planned to return.

When I opened the screenshots they sent, it became clear that Quinton had posted on social media, announcing my transfer and instructing everyone to contact the newly appointed vice president, Andrea.

I hadn't seen the post at all. He had clearly hidden it from me.

Without hesitating, I made my own post.

I attached a screenshot of Quinton's announcement with a massive "FAKE" stamped across it.

The caption read, [I'm still here. Please don't be misled. For business matters, feel free to contact me directly!]

I was replying to clients one by one, my fingers shaking with exhaustion, when Quinton's call came through. His voice was clipped and irritated.

"Lisa, take that post down immediately. Do you have any idea how many people are calling Andrea a fraud and unfollowing her? She's crying right now.

"You're leaving anyway, so what's the point of clinging to these clients? She came from nothing and didn't have it easy. If you had even a shred of decency, you wouldn't do this to her. Delete the post now, or I'll officially terminate you. Don't come crying to me then."

The way he shielded Andrea almost made me laugh.

"Andrea's had a hard road. So have I. Who hasn't? I built these relationships by grinding day and night, entertaining clients, doing their laundry, cooking meals, driving their kids around, and even helping them sort out family messes. And now you expect me to just hand everything over to Andrea? Not a chance."

Quinton stalled, unable to refute it. He finally replied in a cold, official tone, "If you refuse to comply with company restructuring, then we do not need an employee with zero team spirit."

He was trying to strong-arm me again.

This time, I answered calmly, "Perfect. Go ahead and fire me."

I ended the call, stopped by a nearby print shop to print the divorce papers, and headed home.

What I didn't expect was the sharp, spicy scent that hit me the moment I reached the door, like chili peppers burning in the air.

I pushed the door open.

At a glance, I saw Andrea in the kitchen, slipping off Quinton's apron while playfully poking his side.

Quinton stood there holding a spatula, laughing like he hadn't a care in the world.

Hearing the sound, they both turned.

Quinton immediately pushed Andrea aside and hurried over to me.

For once, he took off my coat and hung it for me.

"Why are you home so late?"

I shoved Quinton away and said dryly, "Wow. Guess I came home at a bad time."

Andrea smiled right on cue.

"No, you're not interrupting anything. I just stopped by to help Quinton out. Please don't get the wrong idea."

In the entire company, Andrea was the only person who knew that Quinton and I were married.

He shared everything with her without hesitation. And yet, this was the first time I had learned he even knew how to cook.

For seven years, the kitchen had always been my domain.

He knew perfectly well that after I damaged my stomach from endless business dinners, even the smell of hot oil made me nauseous. Still, he would act sweet and say he loved my cooking, and I would go along with it, making three meals a day.

It never once crossed my mind that he could cook at all, let alone cook this well.

Andrea, fully aware of my stomach condition, spoke with exaggerated concern, "These peppers are from my hometown. They're really spicy. Why aren't you sitting down to eat? Are you avoiding it because you don't like me?"

I didn't move or even look at her. My eyes stayed on Quinton.

"Stop beating around the bush. Just say what you want," I said.

Quinton finished washing his hands, reached into his pocket, and placed a train ticket into my palm.

"About the post earlier, that was on me. I shouldn't have reassigned your clients to Andrea without asking. She said she wants to build things on her own."

He paused, then continued, "Tonight's dinner is a send-off. I booked you a ticket for tomorrow night. Once you're back, we'll go public. I'll make sure the whole country hears about it."

Before I could respond, Andrea lifted her glass toward me.

"Lisa, thank you for letting me use your room. I'll make sure the house is well taken care of."

Quinton quickly added, a hint of unease in his voice, "Andrea's apartment lease just ended. Your room was empty anyway, so it made sense for her to stay there temporarily."

I worked late so often, and Quinton claimed he found it hard to sleep when we shared a bed, so I volunteered to move into the guest room.

Over time, the guest room simply became my room.

I had been to Andrea's place before. It was a two-bedroom apartment, about 650 square feet.

Back then, Quinton and I had squeezed into a windowless basement. The space was so cramped that we could barely stretch out, yet we endured it together.

Love, it seemed, always came with a sense of owing something. To make room for her, he didn't want me staying even a moment longer.

The ticket showed that it was a 43-hour trip on a hard seat. He hadn't spared a single thought for whether I would survive the trip.

I tore it in half and looked at him coolly.

"Are you incapable of understanding plain English? I already resigned. I'm not going to Northreach."

Andrea acted as if she hadn't heard me. She turned, disappeared into the bedroom, and reemerged dragging a suitcase nearly as tall as her waist.

"Lisa, I've already packed your things. If you need anything once you're there, just tell me. I'll prepare it for you."

Quinton's expression softened. He draped an arm around my shoulders and said gently, "Come on. You know I'd never really let you suffer. Just stay in Northreach for a couple of days. I'll find an excuse to bring you back."

That was always his pattern. Hurt first and soothe later.

I used to give in for love. Now, I just felt exhausted.

I played along, took the suitcase, and unzipped it.

Inside lay a shredded down jacket, feathers spilling across the floor.

Exactly as I had expected.

I let out a quiet, bitter laugh.

"So this is what you packed for me?"

Quinton looked momentarily startled, but still rushed to her defense.

"She didn't mean it. It's already kind of her to help at all. You can teach her slowly. Why are you being so hard on her?"

I almost laughed out loud. Andrea was 29, just a year younger than me. Why did he make it sound like she was still a kid?

Andrea's eyes filled instantly. She bowed and apologized in a trembling voice.

"I'm really sorry. I did too much farm work growing up, so my hands are rough. I ruined your clothes. How much was it? I'll pay you back, okay?"

Andrea had barely finished apologizing when she deliberately kicked over the trash can. It hit the floor with a loud crash.

I frowned, irritation rising, ready to lash out. Then I saw what had spilled across the floor, and my breath caught.

Inside were the matching shirts I had bought for Quinton and me, our mugs, and a thick photo album. There was also an old digital camera.

Every single item had been ruined on purpose. Some were sliced cleanly in half, while others were smashed beyond repair.

Andrea's eyes flickered with unmistakable satisfaction, but her expression quickly shifted to innocent concern.

"I didn't mean to break those," she said softly. "Quinton told me you were planning to throw them away anyway."

I turned to look at Quinton.

He nodded without hesitation, completely indifferent.

"They're just cheap junk. I told you ages ago to get rid of them. Andrea was helping you clean up. You should be thanking her."

Something clenched painfully in my chest, and a bitter smile crept onto my lips.

He had already forgotten what those things had meant to us.

After graduation, I had turned down offers from major international companies. At Quinton's desperate urging, I stayed and helped him build the company from nothing.

In a big city, people without connections drift like weeds without roots. Back then, all we had was each other.

On our first anniversary after starting the business, I wanted to encourage him. I sold plasma ten times just to afford that cheap digital camera.

I told him we should record everything. That one day, when we finally made it, we could look back and remember how far we had come.

That camera captured summers when we couldn't afford air conditioning, riding the subway all day just to enjoy the cool air, and pretending it was a date.

It recorded New Year's Eve, the two of us hunched over a phone watching a holiday program, sharing an instant mac and cheese while he quietly slipped half his hot dog into my bowl.

Every time he looked at those photos, he cried. He promised again and again that he would make it up to me someday.

But on the day the company went public, I pulled out the camera to take a picture of him cutting the ribbon, only to have him slap it out of my hands, saying it was embarrassing for a vice president to carry something so cheap.

And now, he had let Andrea destroy it.

Even the printed photo albums were treated like trash.

There was one thing he had said that was true.

What we had was already rotten. It really was time to get rid of it and let it go.

Seeing the pain in my eyes, Quinton finally seemed to recall something. He looked away.

"Don't argue with Andrea," he said. "I'll buy you better stuff later."

I shook my head, opened my briefcase, and took out the divorce papers.

"Sign this."

He frowned in irritation.

"We agreed, no business talk at home."

I replied calmly, "It's just a signature. It'll take less than a minute."

Maybe guilt finally got to him. He hesitated, then took the document.

The moment he saw that it was a divorce agreement, his body stiffened, and his fingers trembled.

Andrea leaned over to peek. When she realized what it was, the smile at the corner of her lips spread uncontrollably.

Quinton snapped back to himself and glared at me.

"You want a divorce because Andrea threw out your stuff? No one's perfect, Lisa. You're being unreasonable."

I answered evenly, "I'm not being unreasonable. You can give Andrea a proper status now. Let her do whatever she wants in the company."

Quinton laughed coldly, anger flashing in his eyes. Veins stood out on the back of his hand as he nearly ripped the papers apart.

"I knew it! Your mind is filthy. Andrea is just a junior from school. What's wrong with helping her out? If someone had helped us back then, would our lives have been so miserable?

"Let me make this clear. Don't try to threaten me with divorce. It won't work.

"I was going to go public with you after you came back. I've changed my mind. I'm so disappointed in you!"