Chapter 1The Year I Stopped Loving You

The day my mom married Julian Vance's father, he got drunk and cornered me with red eyes:

"Joanna, letting your mom marry into wealth... was this your goal all along?"

"Great! Just great!"

In that moment, the troubled boy I had saved began to hate me.

He didn't break up with me.

But from that day on, he changed. He brought different women home every night.

Until now, he set his sights on his new secretary.

This time was different. Three months passed, and he still hadn't dumped her.

On New Year's Eve, I saw them at a Michelin-starred restaurant.

I was working overtime, negotiating a deal.

He and Chloe were having a candlelight dinner.

Two people who had loved each other for ten years sat at adjacent tables like strangers.

I smiled politely, making conversation, while the client touched my hand suggestively.

He slid a hotel key card across the table.

Just as the situation became unbearable, fireworks exploded outside the window.

JULIAN LOVES CHLOE

At that moment, I looked at Julian.

My heart plummeted.

He won.

After the dinner, I turned around and made a call.

"Mom, I agree to break up with him. Book me a flight out of the country next week."

* * *

I walked aimlessly on the street, phone pressed to my ear.

The last night of the year was exceptionally cold. Sleet mixed with rain, the wind drilling into my heart.

The New Year's bell rang. Cheers erupted from the crowd.

I followed their gaze. On the giant LED screen of the Vance Tower, a sentence scrolled across:

"Happy New Year to the most beautiful and capable fairy at Vance Corp, Chloe."

On the first day of the new year, her name still haunted me.

Passersby read it aloud with envy, their voices transmitting through the phone.

Mom was furious: "That's too much! I'm going to talk to your Uncle Richard."

"No need, Mom. I'm leaving anyway."

I hung up indifferently. The suffocating pain I used to feel was gone.

But seeing the "2-hour wait" on the Uber app made me irritable.

A jarring honk sounded. Julian's car was cruising beside me.

Chloe leaned out from the passenger seat, greeting me enthusiastically.

"Joanna! Are you going home?"

"Mmhmm," I replied calmly.

She exaggerated her pity, practically clinging to Julian: "Aww~ The wait for Uber is forever tonight. We're going the same way, but Julian bought so many gifts, the back seat is full. Otherwise, we could have given you a ride."

I stopped. Through the window, I could see a massive bouquet of roses taking up most of the back seat.

Before I could look closer, a suit jacket hit me square in the face.

I caught it instinctively. Julian's sneer reached my ears:

"Cover up that smell of alcohol. It stinks. Don't let clients complain about you to the company."

The heavy jacket stung my face. I watched Julian's taillights disappear into the night.

I threw the suit I had personally ironed—now stained with another woman's scent—into a roadside donation bin.

I got home three hours later.

The lights were on, but the house was empty. He was out again.

I thought I was used to it.

But when the bathroom steam fogged up the mirror, revealing handprints from an intimate moment, the alcohol in my stomach churned. I vomited, tears mixing with bile.

When I came out, dawn was breaking. Two unread messages on my phone.

One: Flight booking confirmed.

The other from Julian:

[Busy. Not coming back.]

Scrolling up, our communication this year was scarce.

Mostly me making endless calls, and him replying with a single word: [Busy.]

I habitually opened Chloe's Instagram. As expected, a perfect nine-grid post.

999 roses, New Year's fireworks... and the center photo: a mirror selfie of her hugging Julian.

I recognized the place. Julian's property on the West Side.

In the corner of the mirror was a sticker of Judy and Nick from Zootopia—a souvenir from a movie we watched together.

Now it was soaked, peeling, and pathetic.

Disgusting.

Julian didn't return for the next few days.

The housekeeper was on holiday. I wandered the huge, empty house like a ghost. Only the food delivery reminders marked the time.

Spicy wings, ghost pepper fries, Sichuan hotpot...

When the fifth spicy meal appeared on the table, I couldn't take it anymore. I swept them all into the trash and sent a photo to Julian.

[Stop ordering. I'm not the one who loves spicy food.]

He called immediately.

Julian's voice was raspy, laced with post-coital laziness and impatience.

"Throwing a tantrum with a hunger strike? Fine. Just don't call me when you end up in the hospital again."

Chloe's chirpy voice chimed in.

"Joanna, just try it! Julian and I tasted these places, they're super yummy!"

"Ignore her. Let her starve if she wants."

I pressed my lips together, swallowing the urge to humiliate myself by asking:

Julian, you remember I have gastritis and need regular meals. Do you remember I went to the hospital last time because I ate spicy food?

The words stuck in my throat. Finally, I replied:

"I can order for myself."

"Heh, yourself?" Julian repeated ambiguously, then scoffed. "Joanna, you don't want food. You just want money, right?"