He was the one who invited me on the autumn outing, yet I spent the whole time fretting over his mother's meal plan.

He was the one chatting and laughing with his coworkers, while I stood awkwardly to the side, unable to get a word in.

"Narelle, why do you have to be so boring?"

After his colleagues left, he asked me that, his face completely blank.

I didn't bother responding. My mind was already calculating how many extra shifts I'd need to pick up that month just to keep this household afloat.

By the time I finally understood, we'd already drifted too far apart.

He blamed me for becoming dull and uninteresting. But he'd conveniently forgotten that I was the one playing nursemaid and squeezing in side jobs—all so he could enjoy his carefree life.

People streamed past on the street, shooting me strange looks.

I laughed bitterly. I must have looked like a joke.

Eight years. How many eight-year stretches does a person get?

I'd given everything for the man I loved, and I'd lost. Completely.

If that was how it was going to be—

I had no reason to stay in that rotting home any longer.

I wiped my tears and caught the last bus.

The irony wasn't lost on me. Blake had two cars sitting in his garage, each worth seven figures.

But when I'd suggested buying a little electric scooter to make my commute easier, he'd called it wasteful.

His cars were never available to me.

I squeezed into a corner of the bus and caught my reflection in the glass.

Red, swollen eyes. Dark circles like bruises. A coat washed so many times it had faded to gray.

No one would believe I was barely past twenty.

I used to think love could conquer anything. Reality had just delivered a brutal correction.

But it was fine.

It wasn't too late. Not yet.

The moment I opened the door, the laughter inside died.

Blake looked over at me, his eyes already cold and distant.

"Where were you? Why are you just getting back now?"

I didn't look at him. I swept my gaze over the men and women lounging in the living room and walked straight to the bedroom.

"Blake, your housekeeper's got quite the attitude."

A young woman turned her head, her tone teasing.

My hand froze on the door handle. I thought about how I must look right now.

Like a housekeeper. That was fair.

Or worse—a housekeeper who paid to work here.

Blake's face darkened. He stormed over, his voice sharp with irritation.

"Narelle, didn't I tell you to have dinner ready? Everyone's been waiting for you. Do you have any shame?"

"Now get in there and—"

Slap.

The sound of my palm connecting with his face silenced the room.

"Get out!"

Blake, who'd been so smug a second ago, staggered from the blow.

He stared at the fury in my eyes, disbelief written across his face.

"Say that again!"

"I said get out! Why the hell should I wait on any of you?"

"Narelle, what's gotten into—"

Before he could finish, I hurled the photo I'd been clutching at his face.

Tears spilled without warning. I screamed at him.

"You're right—I must be out of my mind to have let you use me all these years!"

"Consider everything I did a waste. We're done!"

The battered suitcase lay open on the floor, a stark contrast to the shiny new one I'd arrived with eight years ago.

And Blake was no longer the starry-eyed boy who'd looked at me like I was his whole world, who'd declared, "From now on, you're the lady of this house."

He stared at me, his expression dark.

"All this over forgetting to give you grocery money? Was that really necessary?"

The living room went silent for two beats.

I looked up in disbelief.

Even now, he refused to admit it?

He'd already recovered his composure. He pulled out his wallet, fished out five hundred dollars, and tossed it carelessly onto the vanity.

"Upset because my friend called you the housekeeper? Is that it? There. Go buy yourself some decent clothes, clean yourself up, then go get groceries and make dinner. Even if you're not eating, Mom still needs to."

With that, he kicked my peeling suitcase.

"Throw it away. Your job is to stay home and take care of my mother."

He left without looking back.

In his eyes, I was nothing more than a useful dog—good for guarding the house, never complaining.

I watched his elegant retreating figure.

A wave of helplessness washed over me.

The apartment grew quiet. Everyone was gone.

End this. I won't be the other woman.

I stared at the words on my screen: "Message failed to send."

Pathetic. I was still blocked.

The next second, a violent coughing fit erupted from Dawn's room.

I rushed in on instinct.

I called Blake in a panic. This time, he answered.

"Narelle, I'm busy. Don't bother me."

I could hear Lavinia's laughter in the background. A child's voice.

The line went dead.

I tried again from Dawn's phone. The number you have dialed is powered off.

Dawn was having a heart attack. She clutched her chest, her face ashen, drenched in cold sweat, mumbling incoherently.

With one hand, I loosened her collar and adjusted her position. With the other, I dialed 911.

"Chest pain for ten minutes, nitroglycerin ineffective. History of hypertension and diabetes. Please hurry!"

Her color was getting worse. I hoisted her hundred-and-twenty pounds onto my back.

I was severely anemic.

I nearly collapsed several times, but sheer willpower carried me down five flights of stairs.

As I gritted my teeth and told myself to hold on, Dawn's voice came weakly from my back:

"My grandson is here... I want to see my grandson..."

My mind went blank. I finally understood what she'd been mumbling.

Despair flooded through me. The tears I'd just stopped spilled over again.

"So you knew all along. I was the only one in the dark."

Dawn was too disoriented to answer.

I grabbed a pillar to keep from collapsing.

The ambulance arrived quickly. I rode with her to the hospital.

On the way, I borrowed a nurse's phone to call Blake.

A child's voice answered.

"Mommy and Daddy are sleeping in their room. They said not to bother them. Call back later, okay?"

"Tell your father to get here now. His mother's in the hospital."

I hung up.

Dawn was wheeled into the emergency room.

Registration. Payment. Finding the doctor. Running all over the building.

I was still wearing the coat I hadn't changed in two days. Dried tear tracks on my face. My hair matted with whatever Dawn had coughed up.

This was my eight years.

By the time I returned to the room, Blake was already chatting casually with the attending physician.

Lipstick stains on his collar, still fresh. Up close, the faint scent of women's perfume.

No mystery what kind of "sleeping" he'd been doing.

Yet he still looked polished. Poised. Heads turned as he spoke.

The elegant, composed version of him. And the filthy, disheveled version of me.

We might as well have been living in different worlds.

When the doctor saw me approach, he smiled warmly.

"Ah, you must be the caretaker looking after Mrs. Dickerson. I'll go over the follow-up instructions with you. Mr. Dickerson, rest assured."

The payment receipt in my hand froze mid-air.

Blake stood motionless.

I stared at him, fighting to control my heartbeat.

But the next second—

Blake shook the doctor's hand without missing a beat.

"Yes. Thank you for your hard work."

Crack.

The last shred of hope in my heart shattered completely.

How many times had it been now?

I looked at the matter-of-fact expression on his face and realized how laughable my expectations had been.

I slammed the stack of reports—thick as a notebook—right into his face.

"I quit being your maid!"

I spun around and stormed out, slamming the door behind me.

Blake grabbed my wrist, his voice a low, impatient growl. "Narelle, if you're going to throw a tantrum, at least pick the right time and place!"

I wrenched my arm free and broke into a run.

At the main gate, the facial recognition camera caught my reflection. Only then did I realize tears were streaming down my face.

But the suffocating weight in my chest had finally lifted.

I went back to that hollow excuse for a "home" and started packing.

My suitcase had already been kicked to pieces.

I dug out a mildewed old backpack and stuffed in three summer outfits and one winter coat.

That was everything I owned.

After leaving, I made one more stop—his apartment. The place I'd never been allowed to visit.

The modest two-bedroom unit had long since been transformed into a marital home.

A massive wedding portrait dominated the wall. Photo albums on the nightstand showed a happy family of three. The sheets on the bed still bore damp, sticky stains.

Every detail screamed the truth: I was the other woman. The pathetic, clueless maid.

A large photo album nearby chronicled their relationship—date photos, honeymoon shots, even their baby's one-month celebration.

Handwritten notes accompanied each section:

January: Finally confessed to my senior! She said yes! Yeah!

February: First date with my baby. Tried six restaurants beforehand just to find the perfect one. Watching her eat with such gusto made it all worth it.

June: Got our marriage license right after graduation. Today I'm the happiest man in the world!

So while I'd loved him most desperately, he'd already been cheating.

I opened the drawer and found the red marriage certificate.

Cold dread shot from the top of my skull down through my spine. My fingers trembled uncontrollably. I could barely breathe.

With shaking hands, I photographed the certificate, then the happy family portrait.

Then I took off the marble bracelet I'd never once removed and hurled it to the floor.

He'd given it to me at graduation, claiming he couldn't afford anything better yet but promising to buy me something nicer someday.

I stared at the photo of Lavinia's hand, adorned with a massive diamond ring.

It was never about money. I just wasn't worth it.

I put everything back in place, shouldered that worn-out backpack, and said goodbye to my youth.

The door swung open. Blake was back.

His eyes swept over the shattered bracelet on the floor, then snapped to the rumpled sheets. His gaze turned venomous.

"Who said you could come in here?"

"Don't think I don't know what you're up to. You made Mom sick and you still have the nerve to show your face? Get to the hospital and kneel before her to apologize!"

I met his furious glare with icy calm. All I felt was satisfaction.

"Mr. Dickerson, I'm done doing thankless work for you."

I grabbed the framed family photo and smashed it into his face.

"Let your wife and son do the kneeling!"

Glass sliced two bloody gashes across his cheek, making him look like a demon crawling out of hell.

"What did you just say? Don't forget—I fed you and housed you for eight years! Without me, who else would take you in?"

"Don't trouble yourself over that! I may have no parents, but I won't be bullied by scum like you! Since you called me a maid, you owe me eight years of wages plus every mortgage payment I made. Transfer it to my account. I have records of every single transaction. Pay up, or I'll see you in court!"

I turned, slung that battered backpack over my shoulder, and slammed the door behind me.