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.

So, when Simon came out of the shower and saw me packing in the bedroom, his mood turned inexplicably irritable.

He stormed into the room and yanked out the clothes I had just folded, one by one.

"I bought this coat for you in France last year, and I gave this dress to you just last month."

One by one, he pulled every last piece of clothing from the suitcase and tossed them aside, the final one slipping from my sight and landing on the floor.

Then he smirked, his tone laced with mockery.

"Chloe, I bought all of this for you. Do you really think you could afford these designer brands with the scraps you make in a month?"

Simon grabbed my arm and dragged me to the vanity mirror.

He gripped my chin, forcing me to look at my own reflection.

"Chloe, do you think it’s disgusting that I paint on women’s bodies for inspiration? But who are you to act all high and mighty? Haven’t I been the one supporting you all these years?

"Look at yourself—every single thing you’re wearing, from head to toe, I bought it for you.

“You want to break up? Fine.

"Strip. Leave everything behind and get out."

I didn’t cry or make a scene.

I simply pulled away from Simon’s grip.

Right in front of him, I took off each piece of clothing like shedding layers of restraint.

What Simon never knew was that I never liked these designer brands in the first place.

He was the one who insisted on buying them, forcing me to wear them.

And every time, he would gaslight me.

"Chloe, I’m a renowned artist now. Being my girlfriend is the best thing that’s ever happened to you.

"So don’t embarrass me. When you’re out in public, you need to watch how you speak and act. Even your style has to be refined and high-end."

To fit the role of Simon’s perfect girlfriend, I wore clothes that didn’t fit, heels I despised, accompanied him to events I hated, and said things I never meant.

The heels looked beautiful but cut into my skin, leaving my heels raw and bleeding.

Scabs formed, only to break open again, until all that remained were hardened calluses.

By the time I was done stripping, I was left in just my underwear.

I reached into the bottom of my closet and pulled out the only set of clothes I had bought for myself—my old workout gear.

Simon always said it looked cheap, but to me, it was the most comfortable thing I owned.

Finally, I packed my ID, passport, and phone charger into my bag, then looked up at Simon. "Can I leave now?"

Without waiting for an answer, I stepped past him and walked toward the door.

Just as my hand pressed down on the doorknob, Simon suddenly made a call and deliberately put it on speaker.

A sweet, delicate voice came through the line. "Simon, why are you calling so late? Do you miss me?"

Simon chuckled. "Mm."

"Baby, send me your address. I’ll come right over."

I didn’t listen to the rest. I didn’t need to.

From now on, whoever Simon painted on for inspiration had nothing to do with me.

I walked out without looking back.

Behind me, something crashed hard against the door with a loud bang.

Then, from the other side of the door, Simon's voice rang out. "Chloe, don’t you dare regret this! I wouldn’t take you back in this life or the next!"

…

After the breakup, I blocked Simon on every possible contact.

My life fell into a monotonous cycle—work, home, repeat—until one evening after work when I suddenly got a call from my high school class president.

"Chloe, I’m organizing a class reunion at Latinx Bar this weekend. Noah will be there too."

…

For several nights, I tossed and turned, unable to sleep.

Finally, the weekend arrived.

I rummaged through my closet, trying on over a dozen outfits.

Then, I spent two hours doing my makeup in the bathroom.

I arrived at Latinx Bar half an hour early.

In the elevator, I watched the numbers on the digital display climb higher and higher, my heartbeat rising with them.

Unfortunately, when the doors slid open, I ran into one of Simon’s buddies.

The moment he saw me, his face lit up with surprise and excitement.

"Chloe?! You’re here to see Simon, aren’t you?"

Reeking of alcohol, he could not walk straight, but his grip was ridiculously strong.

No matter what I said or how I resisted, he forcefully dragged me into the private lounge ahead.

Inside, the room was drenched in neon lights and the thick scent of alcohol.

The moment I stepped in, I heard Simon’s voice.

"Yeah, Chloe’s pretty, but she’s nothing special. If she weren’t so obedient and easy to handle, I would’ve dumped her a long time ago."

Laughter erupted around him.

A girl was straddling Simon’s lap, her arms wrapped around his neck as she fed him cherries from her fingers. They almost kissed.

Then, she saw me.

The room went dead silent.

Even she froze in place.

The suffocating tension lingered until Simon’s buddy finally broke it.

"I knew it! Chloe was bound to come crawling back to beg for forgiveness!"

"And look at her—all dressed up just for Simon. If that’s not love, I don’t know what is!"

The man who had dragged me in seized the moment, giving me a shove forward.

"Chloe, don’t get me wrong. Women are practically lining up for a guy like Simon. If you don’t hold onto him now, someone else will, and you’ll regret it.

"I’m just looking out for you. With what you’ve got going for you right now, you’ll never find a man better than Simon. You should be grateful."

Around the room, knowing glances were exchanged. Everyone was sneering.

They were all waiting for me to break down in tears and beg Simon to take me back.

Simon kept his hand on the girl’s body, idly stroking her, but his gaze was fixed on me, amusement flickering in his eyes.

"Chloe, stop playing these boring little games. I don’t have the patience to humor you every time. This time, I’ll let it slide. But don’t pull this stunt again. Understood?"

He casually nudged the girl off his lap, dismissing her like a pet.

Then, with the same arrogance, he crooked a finger at me. "Come here."

His eyes flicked toward his lap, making it clear what he expected. His voice was as condescending as ever.

"Pour me a drink, Chloe. Consider it an apology, and we’ll call it even."

The room erupted in cheers.

"Come on, Chloe, Simon’s giving you an easy way out. Just take it."

"Yeah! And don’t forget—three shots as a penalty!"

Under the expectant gazes of the crowd, I stepped forward, picked up a glass of beer from the table and threw it straight into Simon’s face.

The liquid soaked his hair, strands clinging to his forehead.

His eyes squeezed shut from the sudden impact, but after a brief pause, they snapped open.

Silence crashed over the room.

The dim lights flickered weakly above, struggling like a breath on its last legs.

Simon clenched his teeth, his jaw tight as he glared at me.

I met his stare without a trace of emotion.

"Are you sober now, Simon? It appears you didn’t hear me clearly that night, so let me say it again, in front of everyone.

"Simon, we’re done."

I didn’t wait for a reaction.

I turned and walked out the door.

One of Simon’s friends couldn’t hold back and asked, “Simon, you’re really not going after her? She seemed serious this time.”

Simon kicked over the coffee table, sending fruit platters and glasses shattering to the floor.

“You think I’d go after her? Ha! As if she’s worth it. I’d love to see what Chloe amounts to without me.”

…

That night, around a dozen of our old high school classmates gathered for the reunion.

It had been years since we last saw each other, and the drinks flowed freely as laughter and conversation filled the air.