2

Before Sean Sagan and I were talking about getting married, he had a girlfriend he'd been with since high school.

I'm not the kind of person who gets hung up on things when it comes to relationships, so I didn't get angry when one of his friends accidentally mentioned her.

But I still remember the uneasy look in Sean Sagan's eyes as he stared at me back then.

And his friends who were there were all cautiously glancing my way. One of them was even gripping the edge of the table, as if he was afraid I was about to flip it and fly into a rage.

All the staring made me uncomfortable, but I kept peeling a jumbo shrimp for Sean Sagan. Then, in a very calm voice, I said, "What's the big deal? Doesn't everyone have a past?"

'Everyone has a past. The person to cherish is the one right in front of you. There's no need to fuss over what happened before.'

That's my attitude toward relationships, but clearly, it wasn't Sean Sagan's.

I remember that after I said that, all the guys at the table looked visibly relieved. Then, they all raised their glasses in unison, and their way of addressing me changed from my full name, Jade Harrow, to "Saozi."

"Saozi, for being so cool about it, I have to toast you!"

"Yeah, Saozi! Brother Sagan hasn't had it easy all these years. You two should take good care of each other. When you get married, I'll definitely give you a huge red envelope."

At the time, I didn't understand what they meant by "hasn't had it easy," so I just dazedly accepted the glass they offered me.

Looking back now, it seems Sean Sagan had been pining over someone for years. What they meant by "it hasn't been easy" was that he was lucky to finally meet someone as "magnanimous" as me.

He took meticulous care of me in every way. He thawed my cold heart, carefully watering and fertilizing it, waiting for me to blossom and bear fruit.

But on the other hand, he was secretly keeping a sacred place in his heart for his ex-girlfriend—a place pristine and untouched by anyone else. He would pour out all his troubles and worries to her, not expecting a reply...

What was that supposed to be?

:

3

I felt like I was possessed.

I couldn't sleep after lying down. I just lay there, eyes open, as my entire body ached. A sickening chill washed over me in waves, and even huddled under the covers, I couldn't stop the cold sweat from breaking out.

Sean Sagan, asleep next to me, subconsciously reached out to hold me, but I shoved him away.

My resistance only made him grunt twice.

He scrunched his nose in annoyance, rolled over, and went back to sleep.

That seemingly tender moment banished the last of my sleepiness.

Clutching my pillow, I left the bedroom and curled up on the living room sofa, hugging my knees and trying to find some semblance of security.

But it was useless.

The text messages Sean Sagan had sent to that person invaded my thoughts, line by line, word by word. Tears streamed down my face. I wiped them away with my sleeve again and again until my eyes were so red and swollen that even opening them was a struggle.

I passed the entire night in a daze, only snapping back to my senses when I heard Sean Sagan call me "Babe" from the bedroom, his voice thick with sleep.

I used to think that nickname was incredibly sweet and doting.

But now, hearing that familiar, gentle call just made my skin crawl. A wave of revulsion rose from the depths of my heart, making me feel like I was suffocating.

I didn't answer.

A moment later, I heard Sean Sagan walk out of the bedroom, his slippers slapping against the floor.

The moment he saw me curled up on the sofa, all his drowsiness vanished.

He crouched down to look me in the eye, his voice full of concern as he reached out to stroke my hair. "Babe, what's wrong?"

I instinctively recoiled from his touch. I pulled out his phone, held it out to him, and said nothing.

I saw the look in his eyes tremble, as if shaken by an earthquake. His expression darkened, a mixture of anger and restraint.

He took the phone, his hand trembling uncontrollably.

"This... This is..."

4

He couldn't even form a complete sentence.

No explanation, no denial—not a single word.

I sat on the sofa, looking up at him. He stood there, stiff as a statue. For a long time, neither of us said a word.

The utterly lost look on his face made me despair.

I sniffled, fighting back the urge to cry. In a voice I struggled to keep steady, I asked, "Who is she?"

No response.

'Who was this person Sean Sagan had been texting for three years straight, someone who didn't even need to reply? Who was she, this person he was so devoted to, the one he could pour his heart out to?'

Sean Sagan looked up at me, his face ashen. "It's Lucy Shaw," he said, his voice flat.

Lucy Shaw.

'Yes, that was the name.'

'The name one of his buddies had mentioned right in front of me, a name I hadn't thought twice about.'

'The name that haunted his dreams, the one he poured his heart out to.'

Lucy Shaw.

My head was buzzing. I wanted to argue, but I couldn't get a single word out.

Just then, the alarm on the phone in Sean Sagan's pocket went off, reminding us both that it was time to go to work.

He sighed and gripped my shoulders, his tone placating. "Don't be angry. I have an early meeting at the office today. When I get back tonight, you can make as big a scene as you want."

"For now, let's just get to work, okay? I'll drive you."

Normally, whenever he had time, he would drive me to and from work himself. But on days he had an early meeting, he was always in a rush and would just call a cab for me.

But today, even with an early meeting, he was insisting on driving me.

'I knew it was just his way of hiding his panic. After three years together, I knew him all too well.'

I shook my head, refusing. My voice was weak, drained of all energy. "You go on to work. I didn't sleep at all last night. I already called out."

Sean Sagan's expression was indescribable. He stared at my back as I returned to the bedroom, clutching a pillow, but in the end, he said nothing. After washing up and changing his clothes, he walked straight out the door.

The SLAM of the door was violent, striking me like a pickaxe to the chest.