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!"

"Emily stayed in the hospital for a few days. If she hadn’t been so forgiving and insisted on stopping me, I would’ve called the police to have you arrested," Maxwell spat, his words cutting through the air like shards of glass.

I stood motionless, silent, offering no defense. My indifference only fueled his anger further.

"You’re not the Grace I used to know," he growled. His voice cracked with frustration as he pointed toward the door. "Get out! Get out now! I never want to see you again!"

And just like that, I was kicked out of his house.

The suitcase I had packed in advance now felt like both a burden and a lifeline. Dragging it behind me, I stepped into the stormy night, the cold rain soaking through my clothes and skin.

This was the first time Maxwell had hit me—and it would be the last. But the sting wasn’t from the slap. It was the reason behind it: another woman.

The streets were eerily deserted, not a single taxi in sight. I opened the Lyft app, only to see 45 passengers ahead of me in the queue. Resigned, I kept walking, my suitcase wheels clattering against the wet pavement.

After what felt like an eternity, I finally stumbled upon an Express Hotel. I checked in, drenched and shivering, the sound of the storm raging outside.

Sleep eluded me that night. Tossing and turning, I felt a fever setting in, the heat spreading through my body like a cruel reminder of the cold world I was leaving behind. Thankfully, I still had ibuprofen in my bag—my quiet companion through countless sleepless nights.

By dawn, the fever had subsided. I forced myself to get up, swallow a cold medicine, and face the day ahead.

It took half the day, navigating through multiple departments and signing endless paperwork, but I finally completed my resignation procedures. As I left the office building, a small sense of relief washed over me. At least I hadn’t run into Maxwell.

In the afternoon, I collected my New Zealand work visa without a hitch. I called Air New Zealand to confirm my reporting date, then booked my flight to Auckland International Airport for the day after tomorrow.

The next day, I visited the cemetery, carrying a bouquet of sunflowers—Charlotte’s favorite.

She was my twin sister. Six years ago, while driving along the treacherous Pacific Coast Highway, we were in a car accident. I escaped with minor injuries, but Charlotte stayed frozen in time, forever 21.

The face etched into her tombstone radiated the same youthful beauty that had always lit up my life.

I knelt before her grave, my voice trembling. Charlie, I’m leaving for New Zealand. I may never come back."

Tears blurred my vision as I whispered, "I’m sorry. I can’t look after Maxwell for you anymore."

A sharp, mocking voice cut through the silence.

"Don’t worry, I’ll take care of Maxwell from now on. You’d better roll off to the southern hemisphere quickly and never come back."

I didn’t even notice when Emily approached me. Her presence made my stomach twist.

I fixed her with a cold glare. "What are you doing here?"

Emily smirked, her long, wavy hair cascading like a crown of arrogance. "Reeds are lush, white dew turns to frost. But it’s a pity—you’re just Grace. You’ll never be Charlotte."

My voice was clipped. "Emily, stop dancing around it. What are you trying to say?"

Her words were like knives, sharp and deliberate.

"Grace, do you really think that crawling into Maxwell’s bed with the same face as your sister will make him love you?"

"Don’t delude yourself," she sneered. "Charlotte is his white moonlight—the one he’s always longed for but can never have. The love of his life, forever untouchable."

Her voice dripped with venom. "And you? At best, you’re just a stand-in. A shadow to be summoned and dismissed as he pleases."

I felt the blood drain from my face, but I refused to let her see me break.

Emily’s smile grew even more vicious. "You spend your sister’s money, sleep with your sister’s man… How shameless can you get? Aren’t you afraid she’ll come haunt you in the middle of the night?"

I shook my head, my voice barely a whisper. "No… It’s not like that."

Her cold laugh sliced through me. "Stop lying to yourself. If Maxwell really loved you, why hasn’t he ever talked about marrying you? Why hasn’t he ever acknowledged you publicly at the company?"

"Tell me," Emily’s voice dripped with malice, "when he sleeps with you, does he shout Charlotte’s name in his heart?"

Her words struck like a dagger, and I felt my world shatter around me.

She continued, her words cutting even deeper. "He once asked me, why didn’t you die in the car accident that year?"

The weight of that question slammed into me like a tidal wave. Why didn’t I die?

The last thread of my control snapped.

Without thinking, I raised my hand and slapped Emily across the face.

The world went silent.

Maxwell’s furious roar broke the stillness. "Grace, what the hell are you doing?"