The next time I saw Les Gilbert, I was kissing my new husband in front of a cheering crowd.

His little junior stood right beside him—the one he'd always coddled—but her eyes were red with fury.

No one there knew that six months ago, to celebrate Michelle's birthday, he'd stolen my only spot at an elite international research conference.

"You're a young scholar—you'll have plenty of chances. But Michelle's turning twenty, and her birthday wish is to be there and broaden her horizons."

He confiscated all my documents, locked me inside the apartment from the outside, and flew Michelle abroad without looking back.

That night, a fire broke out from old wiring.

I smashed through a window to barely make it out alive, then knelt on the pavement calling his phone over and over.

When someone finally picked up, it was Michelle, laughing:

"Madge! Les is cutting my birthday cake right now. Is it urgent?"

In the background, Les was announcing in flawless English to the whole world that she was his lover.

Seven days of conference. Every day, Michelle posted couple photos, location tags, gifts on social media.

And I became the biggest joke in our circle.

Until tonight's academic gala, when Dustin Vance—newly risen powerhouse of the research world—shielded me behind him in front of everyone:

"She's my wife. She's not someone any of you get to touch."

That was when Les finally understood: the girl who used to have eyes for no one but him, he'd thrown her away himself.

……

On the eighth day of the international conference, Les Gilbert finally came home.

He dragged his suitcase through the door in designer casual wear, still riding the high of a week on the international stage.

When he pushed the door open and saw the soot-blackened living room, his brow barely creased.

"Madge, what the hell happened? If you can't use the appliances, don't use them. You're a researcher. Don't you have basic safety awareness? Look what you've done to the place."

I was sitting on the couch, still in the same clothes from the night of the fire. Light burns marked my arms and shins. My face was paper-white, my lips cracked and split.

I raised my head slowly, looked at this man I had loved for three full years, and felt nothing but the shock of staring at a stranger.

Home.

He had the nerve to call this home.

While I was trapped in a burning apartment fighting not to die, he was at a world-class venue overseas, arms around his little junior, smiling as he told everyone she was his lover.

If I'd actually burned to death, he wouldn't even have known.

When I didn't speak, just stared at him with that cold, unfamiliar look, something in Les shifted. He yanked off his tie, irritated, and tossed the suitcase aside.

"Are you done throwing a fit? So you didn't get to go to the conference—so what? You're already a well-known young scholar in this country. Can you stop fighting over scraps like a child? Michelle's still young. She needs the exposure."

"I'm the one making a scene?" My voice finally came, so hoarse it scraped, but underneath it was something worse than anger. Dead calm.

"You took my conference spot. You locked me in this apartment. The apartment caught fire and I nearly died inside it. I called you over a dozen times. You were with your junior, celebrating her birthday, telling the whole world she was your lover."

Every word came out bitten off, forced through clenched teeth.

"Now you walk back in and you don't ask if I'm hurt, don't ask if I was scared, don't ask how I survived that night. All you care about is that I wrecked your precious apartment?"

Something flickered across Les's face, his gaze shifting, as if he'd only just remembered.

"I was busy, alright? The conference schedule was packed, and Michelle's birthday only comes once a year. You're mature. You should understand."

He said it like it was obvious. Like I was the unreasonable one.

"Besides, it was just a small fire. You're fine, aren't you?"

I laughed—laughed so hard the tears almost came.

Three years of feeling. Three years of giving.

I'd put him before my own future, given up chances to advance, given up the spotlight that should have been mine. And all I got back was: *It was just a small fire.*

The laugh died on my face. My eyes went cold.

"Les, I'm breaking up with you."

He froze, clearly not expecting me to say it that cleanly.

In our entire relationship, I had always been the one to bend first. To compromise. To beg him to stay.

Every fight ended the same way: me apologizing, me tiptoeing around his mood, me smoothing things over.

He was used to my obedience, used to my yielding, used to the certainty that I would never leave.

So all he did was knit his brows and let his voice go hard, laced with threat: "Madge, stop being unreasonable. You want to break up? Fine. Don't regret it."

"I won't."

I looked straight at him. Steady. Not a shred of hesitation.

Les's face darkened completely. He glared at me, snatched his jacket off the chair, and slammed the door on his way out.

The bang was loud enough to shake plaster off the living room wall.

I sat alone in the wrecked, lightless apartment, and finally pressed both hands over my face and cried without making a sound.

Not because the breakup hurt. Because three years of my youth had been thrown away on a man like him.

Because the research I'd fought for with everything I had, and the love I'd given just as hard, had both been stepped on and trampled without a second thought.

Les and I were in the same department at the same university. He was a year ahead of me.

We did our graduate work together, entered the Provincial Key Research Lab together, and became recognized young scholars together.

To everyone on the outside, we were the golden couple, the picture-perfect pair of the research world.

Only I knew the balance had never been equal. Not from the start.

I loved him far more than he ever loved me.

I came from an ordinary family and fought my way here on my own.

He came from privilege, had decent talent, was proud and self-centered, and used to being put on a pedestal.

Michelle Fox was his junior labmate, five years younger, dependent on him since they were students. In front of him she was always soft, always helpless, always *Les this* and *Les that* in that clingy little-sister voice.

I'd minded. Of course I had. But every time, he gave me the same line: "She's just a kid. Why are you making it into a thing?"

I believed him.

I talked myself down again and again. Be mature. Be generous. Try to understand him.

A year ago, the National Core Research Lab was recruiting talent. The entire province had one recommendation slot, and the department unanimously chose me.

It was the platform every researcher dreams of. The goal I had been working toward for over a decade.

But days before I was supposed to submit my materials, Les went cold on me. Threatened to end things if I left. Said if I went, we were over for good.

I lost my mind and gave it up.

Professor Hale was so furious she wouldn't speak to me for days. My colleagues shook their heads.

I smiled and told them, "It's fine. I'll have another chance."

Only I knew that night I locked myself in the lab and cried until morning.

I thought my sacrifice would make him cherish what we had.

Instead, what I got was him taking my international conference slot without a second thought.

What I got was him talking soft to another woman while I was on the edge of dying.

When I came back to the lab, every pair of eyes carried the same look: pity, laced with something harder to name.

I had always been the hardest-working young researcher on the team. My track record was strong. Professor Hale used to call me "a future star in the making."

And I'd let one relationship turn me into a joke.

Professor Hale called me into her office. She looked at my pale face and let out a long breath. "Madge, be honest with me. Is this because of Les Gilbert?"

I kept my head down and said nothing.

"I told you a long time ago—Les Gilbert is too proud, too self-absorbed. You were never going to hold him, and you couldn't afford to burn yourself trying."

Professor Hale's voice was heavy with frustration. "Do you have any idea how disappointed I was when you gave up your spot at the Core Research Lab last year? People would kill for that chance. And you threw it away for a man, just like that."

"Professor, I was wrong." My voice cracked.

"It's not too late to fix it." She slid a folder across the desk. "This year's National Core Research Lab selection has opened again. I've already submitted your name. This time, don't sacrifice yourself for anyone. You were never meant to stand behind someone else—you belong at the top."

I looked down at the words National Core Research Lab on the cover, and my eyes burned.

A second chance at something already lost was more precious than anything.

"Professor, I won't let you down again." I gripped the folder, my voice steady.

"One more thing," Professor Hale said, as though something had just come back to her. Her expression turned serious. "The overall lead for this year's selection is Dustin Vance."

My heart jolted.

Dustin Vance. In the research world, that name was practically a god's.

Barely past thirty, already academy-level, running a National Key Research Lab, leading multiple state-level major projects, publishing in the highest-tier international journals. Everyone knew him as young, low-key, and impossibly brilliant.

He was the idol of every young scholar in the country, someone you could admire from a distance but never expect to get close to.

I hadn't imagined he'd be personally overseeing this round of selection.

"Professor Vance almost never gets involved in the selection himself. This time, for whatever reason, he asked to see a few specific candidates' materials—and you're one of them." Professor Hale's voice tightened with barely contained excitement. "Madge, prepare well. This is the best chance you'll ever get."

I nodded hard, my heart hammering.

To be noticed by Dustin Vance was an honor I wouldn't have dared to dream of.

I stepped out of the office, took a deep breath, and deleted the last photo of Les from my phone.

Three years. Done.

From now on, I live for research and for myself. No one else.

Les vanished completely for two weeks.

I found out later, through a colleague, that he'd taken extended leave to go traveling with Michelle.

Every day her feed was a highlight reel: ocean sunrises, amusement parks, five-star restaurants, limited-edition gifts.

Every caption in the same style: "Thank you, Les, for making all my wishes come true."

Each photo was a knife that would have cut straight into the old me.

But now, looking at them, all I felt was calm. Almost amused.

I threw myself into preparing for the selection—practically lived in the lab, buried in literature, crunching data, pulling results together, sleeping three or four hours a night.

When you're that deep in the work, love and all its noise really aren't worth mentioning.

At some point I went back to the burned-out apartment to salvage what I could.

The place was wrecked. Blackened walls, warped furniture.

My foot caught on something hard in the debris. I looked down. A plain-band ring, scorched dull and dark.

I'd saved up for a long time to have it made. Designed it myself, had it custom-ordered.

The night of the fire was our three-year anniversary.

I'd planned to bake a cake at home, hide the ring inside, and propose to Les from across the distance—just the two of us on a video call.

I'd even rehearsed the line: "Les, let's get married. We'll do research together for the rest of our lives and grow old together."

What a joke.

I was choking in smoke and flames, clawing to stay alive—and he was across town, surrounded by flowers and applause, celebrating someone else's birthday.

I picked up the ring and closed my fist around it, squeezing until the metal edge bit into my palm.