A Promise We Couldn't Keep

My flight was suddenly canceled, so I dragged my suitcase back home.

As soon as I stepped inside, I saw torn black stockings scattered on the floor.

This was the eighth time Simon Jones had brought a different woman home.

The sound of running water and a young woman’s laughter echoed from the bathroom.

I didn’t cry or make a scene.

Instead, I sat quietly on the couch, waiting for them to finish.

Everyone assumed I would continue being Simon’s devoted fool like before.

But no one knew that the man I truly loved had returned.

After tonight, Simon, the stand-in, would be discarded.

The sound of running water in the bathroom suddenly stopped.

I sat calmly on the living room sofa, watching as the girl stepped out of the bathroom without a stitch of clothing on.

Her skin was fair, and on the right side of her upper part was a vivid red rose.

It was unmistakably Simon Jones’ work.

He was a painter, one who especially enjoyed using the bodies of young women as his canvas, seeking inspiration through them.

A few seconds later, Simon also emerged from the bathroom.

His damp hair clung messily to his forehead, and his white shirt stuck to the firm muscles.

The girl beamed and threw herself into his arms, tilting her face up with admiration in her eyes. "Simon, your way of creating art is so unique. I love it."

Simon gave her a playful slap on the backside, his tone teasing. "As long as you like it."

She leaned in, trying to kiss him, but the moment she caught sight of me sitting on the sofa, her face drained of color.

In a panic, she grabbed her clothes from the floor to cover herself and shrank behind Simon.

Simon glanced at me, then casually told the girl, "Go home."

She hesitated, unwilling to leave, but he pushed her out the door without hesitation.

…

After sending the girl away, Simon noticed the suitcase by the door.

He turned to me, his expression indifferent. "Why didn’t you leave?"

I answered calmly, "The flight was canceled."

"Oh."

Simon rubbed his temples and sat down beside me.

The sofa sank under his weight.

He stretched out, resting his head on my lap, eyes closed. "It’s been a long afternoon. I’m exhausted. Give me a massage."

I lowered my gaze, looking at him.

His sharp jawline, straight nose, and slightly raised brows carried an air of effortless charm.

He looked just like the man I fell for.

Back then, just to have Simon, I had willingly played the fool for him.

Whatever he said, I followed without question.

Even as the girls around him came and went, I never cried or made a fuss.

I even thoughtfully cleaned up the mess he left behind because I was obedient and sensible.

That was how I stood out among all of Simon’s admirers.

On every sleepless night, I liked tracing his eyes, his brows, his sharply defined jawline with my fingers…

And secretly, in my heart, I missed someone else—Noah Wells.

Simon’s friends often praised him for knowing how to handle a woman, and they complimented me on being gentle and understanding.

I always smiled and said nothing.

I thought life would continue like this, muddled and uneventful.

But tonight, on my way back from the airport, I received a call from Noah.

"Chloe, I’m back."

His voice was deep and rich, as if it could reach through the phone and clutch my heart.

"Simon."

For the last time, I traced my fingers over his brows and eyes. "Let’s break up."

Time seemed to freeze.

Simon paused for a second before opening his eyes to look at me. "Because of that girl?"

I wanted to say no.

But before I could speak, he had already sat up.

His deep-set eyes lifted as he looked at me, a mocking glint in them.

"Fine. You want to break up? Suit yourself."

…

Simon didn’t take it seriously at all.

He thought I was just being petty and acting out of jealousy.

After all, every time we argued, I was always the one to make amends first.

Simon was used to his pride. There was no way he would ever lower himself.