Three years into our marriage, Preston Slater walked out of my birthday party, holding another woman in his arms.

People tried to explain, saying she was his first love.

Later, his first love nearly ran me over with her car.

But Preston? He was only concerned with pulling her into his arms, scolding me for causing trouble for her.

At the hospital, he comforted her, telling me I was just an "old woman"—that he was long over me, and I couldn’t even compare to her.

This time, I didn’t wait for an explanation. I left him with a divorce agreement and my wedding ring.

I packed my bags and went to Italy to study abroad.

He thought it was just a game to make him stay, and didn’t care at all.

Until six months later, when he saw a photo of Jack Grayson and me kissing passionately in the rain.

He shoved his first love aside, hopped on the fastest flight, and appeared right in front of me.

Jack smiled at him and said:

"Are you here to congratulate us on our engagement, dear ex-husband?"

...

At the birthday party, I was about to blow out the candles when suddenly someone collapsed across from me. Preston, who was standing beside me, rushed to help immediately.

I instinctively grabbed his hand, but he shrugged it off.

When he saw the person had fainted, he scooped her up and ran out.

The crowd buzzed in a flurry of whispers.

“That’s Westria, the daughter of the Reutherford family.”

“I heard she was Mr. Slater’s first love, but then she fell for someone else and moved abroad.”

“Don’t tell me—his wife looks a little like her.”

...

His good friend Tom rushed over to comfort me.

“Sis, that’s the daughter of one of Preston’s close family business partners.

She’s always been like a little sister to him, but her health’s been fragile. He’s probably just really worried about her.”

Tom’s girlfriend, who was standing nearby, muttered,

“Look at how desperate he is. Doesn’t seem like just a little sister, does it?”

Before she could finish, Tom quickly covered her mouth.

I stood there frozen for a long time. The last time I saw him look that panicked was when I got hurt after graduating from college.

We met in our final year of university.

I was the campus beauty, and he was the charming heartthrob, always flashing cash.

As in many stories, he began pursuing me relentlessly.

Maybe it was my looks, or maybe he wanted to challenge my aloof “campus beauty” persona.

I never even gave him the time of day. A playboy like him was just playing around with feelings.

The one time I got fed up with his persistence, I said:

“Guys like you just want to date for fun, right?”

“I’m more traditional. When I date, it’s with marriage in mind. Can you handle that?”

He didn’t say anything, and after that, I didn’t see him around for a while.

Until one day, when I was undercover as a journalist and found myself in a life-threatening situation, he showed up, single-handedly rescuing me, with the police right behind him.

He trembled as he held me, comforting me.

In that moment, I felt an undeniable, strange sense of love.

Later, at the hospital, he dropped to one knee, pulled out a ring, and asked me to marry him:

“Felicity, I’ve thought a lot about what you said last time.”

“I like you, and I want to give you the best life possible. Will you marry me?”

I remembered the terrified look on his face when he rushed in to save me from the kidnappers.

For the first time, someone had risked everything to come to my side and save me.

It was the first time I acted impulsively, without thinking about anything else, and I said yes.

I snapped back to reality and asked which hospital they had gone to before following them there.

Tom hesitated for a moment, then agreed to take me along.

I stood at the door of the hospital room, watching as Westria nestled into Preston's arms.

She shot me a challenging glance, then weakly spoke, her voice filled with fake vulnerability:

"Preston, I’m so sorry. I ruined Felicity’s birthday party."

"It’s because of my fragile health… It’s all my fault."

She coughed a few times, as if preparing to slap herself.

Preston stopped her, his voice full of concern.

"You’ve always had a weak constitution. Why didn’t Reuben take better care of you all these years?"

She choked on her words, tears welling up.

"I broke up with Reuben a long time ago… Preston, do you still have feelings for me?"

Preston hesitated, not answering.

Westria lowered her head, sobbing.

"Preston has Felicity now—an accomplished, beautiful wife. I’m no match for her. I regret it so much. If only I had stayed by your side back then…"

Preston frowned, clearly irritated by her self-pity, and said firmly:

"Felicity is an old woman who’s good for nothing. She doesn’t compare to you."

I staggered backward, covering my ears, not wanting to hear any more.

I grew up in an orphanage and never trusted anyone except myself.

No one ever taught me what love was.

But for the first time in my life, I felt loved. I thought he was the one I could trust with my whole heart.

He told me he wanted me to have the best life, that he didn’t want me out there struggling.

He said he never wanted to be apart from me again, always worrying about me.

He wanted to come home and see a light on for him.

He wanted me to be the woman behind him—

To pick him up when he was drunk, to make dinner for him after work,

To manage everything at home.

He never let me interact with his family, saying he was afraid they’d get jealous and hurt me.

I believed him, and soon enough, it felt like I’d become the woman who stayed home, waiting for him to have free time.

But his free time seemed to shrink, and eventually, he didn’t even need me to pick him up when he was drunk.

This birthday party only happened because Westria had come back to the country.

It was only then that Preston thought to invite her, along with everyone else he knew.

Now, in his eyes, I had become a useless, tired woman.

My heart sank, and I forced a smile.

I didn’t want to interrupt their time together, so I silently left and went home.

I texted him, asking when he would be back, but got no response.

He never knew that, after we got married, many of his exes sent me messages, trying to provoke me on Instagram.

I’d never paid any attention to them, but today, I suddenly felt like looking.

So I approved a bunch of Instagram requests and scrolled through them.

The first picture that caught my eye was one of Westria snuggling up to him.

Thank you, Preston, for saving me.

Preston came back the next day, the dark circles under his eyes from staying up all night with her clearly visible.

He brought me a gift but didn’t explain anything—he just wanted to go straight to bed.

I recognized the brand—it was from the Reutherford Group.

I spoke up, my voice steady:

"Did Westria ask you to bring this?"

Preston paused for a moment, then replied impatiently:

"The situation was urgent yesterday, you know that. I didn’t have the mood to celebrate your birthday."

"Just the fact that I brought you something should be enough. Don’t worry about where it’s from."

I gave a small, bitter smile.

"I heard she was your first love. So you spent the whole night with her, huh? You didn’t even notice my messages?"

Preston frowned and said sharply:

"I’m a married man now. She’s just my sister. Don’t overthink it."

With that, he stormed upstairs without another word.

I wasn’t sure if he was reminding me of something, or reminding himself.

Can I still trust you, Preston?

I touched the ring on my finger and closed my eyes, silently hoping I could give us one more chance.

After that, we went through a relatively peaceful period.

Preston, out of guilt, would occasionally come home for dinner.

There were certain things we avoided discussing, as if ignoring them might make them disappear.

On our wedding anniversary, I baked our special cake, just like always.

I had planned to surprise him at his office.

It had been a while since I last visited his company, and I still felt a bit nervous.

As I was crossing the street, I was startled by a car screeching to a halt and ended up falling to the ground.

Before I could even call Preston, I saw him rush out, looking clearly panicked.

I watched helplessly as Westria, crying, jumped into his arms after crashing into my car.

He didn’t even look back, simply instructing his secretary to deal with the accident.

The secretary gasped when he saw me, “Mrs. Slater?”

Only then did he glance at me, his brow furrowing deeply.

Westria gently tugged at his sleeve, still crying, saying,

“It’s not Felicity’s fault. I didn’t see her running out.”

Preston couldn’t help but scold me:

“Felicity, didn’t I tell you that Westria and I aren’t like that? Why do you always have to cause trouble for her?”

“Have you really become the jealous woman you used to hate so much?”

In that moment, Westria conveniently passed out, and he rushed her to the nearest hospital, holding her tightly.

The cake on the ground was crushed beneath his feet, just like our relationship.

After sitting there, stunned for what felt like an eternity, the secretary looked at me with concern, and I told him I was fine.

I tried calling Preston, and the call went through, but he didn’t answer.

Still, I could hear their conversation, and I knew it was all Westria’s doing.

She whined, trying to sound innocent:

“Preston, you should go check on your wife. Otherwise, she’ll get jealous again.”

I could only hear Preston softly soothing her:

“It’s fine. She was a reporter. She’s used to getting hurt.”

“Unlike you, your health is fragile. Don’t drive anymore; I’ll arrange for a chauffeur.”

I smiled bitterly. So, once he stopped loving me, I had become “strong” in his eyes.

Of course, only those we love are meant to be protected.

He was no longer the one who would hold me and worry about me after I’d escaped danger.

Or maybe the love we had back then was nothing more than a reflection of his first love in my face.

Westria sighed, “If I’d stayed by Preston’s side back then, I’d be so happy now.”

“Don’t you think Felicity will be upset if you don’t go back? She doesn’t seem to like me very much.”

I felt a little nervous, but still, I wanted to hear his response.

He frowned, hesitated for a moment, and said, “She’s not as important as you. If I like you, that’s enough.”

I couldn’t bring myself to listen any longer.

In a daze, I opened Instagram.

I saw that Westria had posted another picture.

She was wearing the same ring as mine.

My heart sank, as though it had sunk to the bottom of the sea.

So even that ring wasn’t unique.

I smiled bitterly. It was time to let go—let go of the ring, and let go of this relationship.

I sent him a message:

“Preston, let’s get a divorce.”

I didn’t go to the hospital for treatment. Instead, I went straight home to pack my things.

I had planned to discuss my acceptance to a university in Italy and my plans to study abroad with him.

But he was too busy, too busy for anything in my life, even me.

After all, he had someone more important beside him now.

This marriage only bound me.

I told my friend in Italy that I had made up my mind to study abroad, and he was very happy for me.

I left the divorce agreement and the wedding ring that had tied me down for three years.

I went to Italy alone, ready to start my life over.

Three days later, when Preston came home and found I was gone, he realized I had really left.

He didn’t understand why he felt so anxious. I had already canceled my domestic number, and he couldn’t reach me.

I left him the lawyer’s contact number. He was furious, unable to believe I would really do this.

He was sure I would come back. After all, I had no parents, and he was the only one I had.

I couldn’t abandon this marriage, this hard-won union. He was so confident in that belief.

He was firmly convinced of my love for him, then sneered as he looked at the divorce papers.

“Felicity, you think pulling tricks like this will make me stay?”