When the 4.2-magnitude earthquake struck, chaos erupted. The panicked crowd surged, and I was pushed to the ground. In that moment of terror, I lost the child I was carrying.

Maxwell didn’t even glance my way. Instead, he took the hand of his boss’ sister and left without a word.

That evening, I returned home, numb and empty. Waiting for me was a box of unused small umbrellas—a mocking reminder of something once shared. I tossed the box into the trash without hesitation and turned to make a long-distance call.

"Ms. Grace Fitzgerald, welcome to Air New Zealand. Your reporting time is within 30 days."

The voice on the other end carried a sense of promise, a way forward. As the call ended, Maxwell walked in, his presence disrupting my fleeting clarity.

"Who were you talking to?" he asked casually.

"Nobody," I replied without looking at him. "Just a scam call. I hung up."

"I’ve told you countless times not to click on random links online. See? You’re always getting scam calls."

He expected my usual sharp retort or some excuse, but I gave him none. My silence must have surprised him because he paused, his tone softening.

"I’m flying to Denver tomorrow night," he said after a moment.

I hummed in response—a noncommittal sound that neither encouraged nor discouraged.

Without another word, he headed to the bathroom to shower.

As we passed by, the lipstick stains on his shirt collar stung my eyes. I forced myself to look away, pretending I hadn’t noticed.

I sat at the island counter, casually sipping chicken soup, letting the hot liquid distract me from the bitter chill in my chest.

When Maxwell stepped out of the bathroom, he frowned at the sight of me. "Why are you drinking such greasy soup?" he asked, his tone sharp.

"Grace, where’s your professional ethics? Do you want to be grounded for being overweight?"

I put the spoon down and looked at him, my eyes steady, calm.

It wasn’t until the miscarriage that I realized we had once created a life together. The doctor’s words still echoed faintly in my mind: Strengthen your nutrition, rest well, and you’ll have children again in the future.

But none of that mattered anymore. What mattered was this undeniable truth: Maxwell and I would never have a future.

Unaware of my thoughts, he continued his usual nagging. "So many red dates, longans, and wolfberries—so sweet and greasy. Don’t drink it."

He paused before adding, "Oh, Emily sprained her ankle today. Tomorrow morning, heat up the chicken soup, put it in a thermos, and pack it for me. I’ll take it to her for nourishment."

I nodded wordlessly, my compliance silencing him for now.

As he walked toward the bedroom door, he suddenly stopped and turned back. "By the way, where’s your ski jacket? The pink one. Find it and give it to me."

I went to the cloakroom and pulled out the cherry-pink satin goose-down ski jacket he had given me last year. It was bright, delicate, and untouched—I had never worn it.

Folding it neatly, I placed it in a handbag and handed it to him without a word.

Maxwell glanced at me and said, "Don’t overthink it. I noticed you haven’t worn it, so I figured you might not like the bright color."

“Emily is only 20, and pink suits her age. Let her have it; it won’t go to waste. I’ll buy you another color later.”

“Okay,” I replied, my voice flat.

He paused, his brows knitting slightly. "Why didn’t you help me pack my luggage today?"

It surprised him. I had always packed for him before every flight mission, whenever I was home.

Without a word, I opened his suitcase and began packing with practiced precision.

"Don’t forget my white ski jacket," he reminded me.

"Okay."

Returning to the cloakroom, I found his white ski jacket hanging beside where the pink one had been. Last year, he had bought the white jacket for himself alongside the pink one for me, saying he’d take me skiing.

We’ll go together when we have time, he had promised.

But time never aligned. Even when we tried, our schedules rarely overlapped, and the few times they did, our shared flights carried more distance than connection.

Usually, Maxwell witnesses heavy snow under the bright southern sun, while I endure endless spring in the cold northern nights. We move in opposite directions, rarely crossing paths—a reality we both accept without saying much.

The next morning, I dreamed of a ski resort. I was wearing the pink ski jacket, its brightness defying the white expanse around me. Maxwell stood nearby, scolding me.

"Pink and tender—how old are you now?" he snapped, echoing a line straight out of Downton Abbey.

The absurdity jolted me awake. Opening my eyes, I saw Maxwell standing at the bedside, his expression as icy and unyielding as a glacier.

"What’s wrong with you?" he barked. "Didn’t you promise last night to heat the chicken soup this morning? Why are you still in bed? Get up!"

Before I could respond, he yanked the quilt off me, pulling me from the bed and onto the cold, unforgiving floor. The chill shot through my bare feet, making me shiver.

A nightgown landed over my head, thrown carelessly in my direction. Without so much as a glance, he turned and walked away.

I pulled the robe tightly around me, trying to fend off not just the cold, but the hollow ache spreading from deep inside.

In the kitchen, the chicken soup simmered on the stove while I prepared breakfast on the island.

Maxwell’s breakfast was always the same—iced Americano and a whole wheat bagel. Mine was hot mocha and taro-flavored European bread.

He only ate the low-fat, low-sugar meals I prepared to his exacting standards. To accommodate his picky palate, I had spent hours poring over online tutorials and had even taken an in-person baking class.

Yet despite my efforts, Maxwell never missed a chance to criticize me. My attempts, no matter how earnest, were always met with his disdain.

I spent countless hours practicing before I finally mastered his favorite breads—bagels, muffins, ciabatta, baguettes, and even alkaline bread. Each one a labor of patience, baked with the hope of meeting his impossible standards.

That morning, I carefully poured the heated chicken soup into a thermos. A few drops of the boiling liquid splashed onto the back of my hand. I winced at the sharp pain.

Hearing me, Maxwell sneered. "You’re becoming more and more dramatic. Blow on it twice, and the wound will magically heal," he mocked.

"Why are you so stingy? Emily is just a little girl. What’s wrong with giving her some chicken soup?"

He didn’t stop there. "Every day, as soon as you open your eyes, you start acting pitifully. Who are you performing this sad drama for?"

I didn’t respond. Silently, I pushed his breakfast toward him.

But when I added chocolate sauce to my hot mocha, it was like lighting a fuse.

"Grace, don’t you understand what I’ve told you?" Maxwell exploded. "You’re almost overweight, and you still dare to eat chocolate sauce? Are you trying to ruin yourself?"

His voice grew harsher. "You drink high-calorie mocha every day. Why can’t you just have iced Americano? Let’s see—will you die if you drink Americano instead?"

Before I could react, he grabbed my chin and forced the icy, bitter drink into my mouth. The cold burned as it flooded my throat, and I coughed violently, struggling to breathe. The pain was as sharp as his words, my lungs aching as though they might collapse.

Without another word, he grabbed his suitcase in one hand and the thermos of chicken soup in the other, leaving me trembling and gasping for air.

Just yesterday, I had suffered a miscarriage. This morning, I hadn’t eaten a single thing. And yet, here I was, forced to drink a full glass of iced Americano.

As soon as he left, the pain in my stomach worsened. My body began to convulse, every nerve screaming. Drenched in sweat, I staggered to the bathroom and swallowed an ibuprofen. Then I stood under a shower of 45°C water, hoping the heat would soothe the ache.

After half an hour and several hot packs, I finally crawled into bed. I lay there for two hours, clutching my stomach and staring at the ceiling.

I wanted to cry, but not a single tear came.

The next morning, I received an email from Air New Zealand confirming my official acceptance for the job.

Without hesitation, I went to my current airline and submitted my resignation. I handed the report to Miss Lara, the senior flight attendant.

"According to company policy," she began, "you need to give at least 30 days’ notice."

The waiting was unbearable.

Unable to sit still, I pulled out the diagnosis report from my miscarriage, its stark words a painful reminder of everything I’d endured.

Maxwell and I had been together for five years, yet he never acknowledged our relationship publicly—not at work, not among friends, not anywhere. To the world, I didn’t exist in his life. Only Miss Lara knew, and even she had stumbled upon the truth by accident.

She looked me over carefully, her sharp gaze almost piercing. "Have you thought this through?"

I nodded, my voice steady and resolute. "Yes. I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to Air New Zealand."

A faint smile softened my features. "Miss Lara, if you ever take a trip to New Zealand, make sure you fly on the flight I’m serving."

Her surprise was evident, and her brows furrowed slightly. "And what about Maxwell? Are you really ready to let him go?"

I met her gaze, unflinching. "Whether I’m ready or not doesn’t matter. The result will be the same."

I asked her to keep my decision from Maxwell, and she nodded, though her concern was clear. "Go home and rest," she advised. "We’ll handle the formalities when you’re ready."

The process was simple yet surreal. I submitted my resignation through the OA system, knowing it would take a week for approval. At the same time, I visited the visa center and handed in all the necessary documents for my New Zealand visa. Five working days, they said. Five days, and I’d have everything I needed to leave.

It’s said that God created the world in seven days. Seven days was all I needed to erase myself from Maxwell’s world.

I had no house, no car, no family keeping me here. There was nothing left to anchor me.

Back at Maxwell’s apartment, I began packing my belongings. Each item I folded into the suitcase felt like another piece of my past slipping away.

As I zipped up the last bag, my phone buzzed with a new notification.

It was a post from Emily on Instagram Stories.

Her collage of nine photos gleamed on the screen, accompanied by a nauseatingly saccharine caption:

"Thank you, my captain, for letting me experience the joy of skiing with you."

The photos told a story I didn’t want to see. At Vail Ski Resort in Denver, Emily and Maxwell had posed together, unlocking every “romantic skiing pose” imaginable: the princess carry, face-to-face hug, even a back-to-back shoulder lift.

Through the screen, her joy was palpable. She stood in a pink ski jacket that made her look as radiant as cherry blossoms in full bloom.

I tapped a like on Emily’s post and quietly exited Instagram.

I didn’t want the gifts Maxwell had given me.

I didn’t want the memories he had shared with me.

I didn’t want the love he claimed to offer.

And most of all, I didn’t want him anymore.

I couldn’t bear to stay in his house for even another minute. But a part of me hesitated—if he came back from Denver and didn’t see me, it might create unnecessary drama.

In hindsight, I was overthinking it.

For days, Maxwell didn’t return. No calls, no messages. I didn’t want to reach out, either.

On the night before I was set to finalize my resignation, the door slammed open. Maxwell had come back.

Without warning, he stormed toward me, his face twisted in fury. Before I could react, his hand struck my face—once, twice, then again, five or six times in rapid succession.

Dazed, I stumbled, but he wasn’t done. Grabbing a fistful of my hair, he dragged me toward the bathroom. I cried out in pain, but my voice was drowned out by the sound of the shower blasting to life.

Cold water sprayed over me at full force, the icy sting biting into my skin and my soul. I was powerless to resist, trembling under the relentless torrent.

Maxwell’s voice thundered over the rush of water. "Grace, how could you be so vicious?"

I blinked, trying to process his words through the haze of pain and shock.

"I’ve always treated Emily like my own sister! I just took her skiing, and you—how could you hurt her?"

I froze, my voice barely a whisper. "What happened to Emily?"

His rage only grew, his eyes burning with contempt. "You still have the nerve to ask? You know Emily has asthma and is allergic to pollen. And yet, you stuffed lily pollen into the pocket of her ski jacket!"

His words hit me like a punch to the gut. My mind raced, trying to make sense of the accusation.

"Do you know?" he spat, his voice trembling with fury. "You almost killed her!"