I realized I had left something at the house I once shared with Rowen, so I asked the driver to drop me off downstairs. As soon as I stepped out of the car, ready to head straight to the elevator, someone grabbed me from behind.

Rowen clasped my wrist, pulling me into the stairwell, his eyes intense. "Whose car did you just get out of?" he demanded.

"A Lamborghini Aventador. Wrenley's right—you really are just a gold digger," he sneered.

I wrenched my hand free from his grip and slapped him hard across the face. Rowen looked stunned. "You hit me?"

I felt a sense of satisfaction. If it weren't for my years of judo practice, he might have tried hitting me back by now. Ever since the early days of his startup, when he had nothing, to his modest success now, I had been there every step of the way. Out of pride, I never spent a dime from my family.

During our toughest times, Rowen and I lived in a leaky apartment, with the only dry spot being near the door. We pushed the bed over there, cramped together on a single bed, shivering. Those days were physically tough but filled with a sense of happiness.

Anyone else could call me materialistic, but not Rowen. Anyone but him.

Under my unwavering gaze, Rowen looked uneasy, trying to placate me by lifting my hand to his cheek. "Baby, feel it, you really hurt me."

His eyes were pleading, his hand gently resting on my stomach. "Don’t be mad, you're still pregnant," he reminded me, watching my reaction.

"When are we setting the wedding date?" he asked cautiously.

I pulled my hand away. "There won't be one."

When I got home, Rowen rushed over to hug me, but I pushed him away. He looked at me with a hurt expression.

"Sweetheart, what's wrong?"

"I shouldn’t doubt you, but why didn’t you let me know when you were leaving? I could have picked you up."

I studied Rowen’s face, which hadn’t changed much from our college days.

Yet now, all I could see in my mind was the reflection in the floor-to-ceiling window.

Blurry and completely unfamiliar.

Rowen sensed the distance between us and softened his voice:

"Sweetheart, I haven’t had much time to spend with you lately; work's been hectic.

You mentioned wanting to visit Italy awhile back, right? Once you’re feeling better, how about we go together?"

Three years ago, I had talked about wanting to visit Italy, but he always claimed he was too busy.

When I suggested going by myself, he stopped me, saying it wasn’t safe for a woman to travel alone.

Now he wants to go with me, but the idea doesn’t excite me anymore.

He doesn’t genuinely want to accompany me; this is just a way to keep me content.

Besides, there’s no baby to bring into the world anymore.

Pretending to be interested in my phone, I chose not to respond to him.

Seeing no reaction, Rowen picked up his phone.

Just then, a new notification popped up on my social media feed.

It was from Rowen's assistant, Wrenley.

"The power's out in my apartment. So scary alone."

I glanced at Rowen and saw a flicker of tension pass over his face, quickly replaced by calmness as he looked at me.

"Snow," he said, using my nickname, "I need to go to the office; something’s come up."

Feigning ignorance, I asked, "What’s the matter? Is the company’s power out too?"

Rowen smiled smoothly, "A project’s facing some issues. I have to check on it."

He was quite an actor.

I wouldn’t have given up my position at my family’s firm to help build his if he hadn’t been.

Pretending to be clueless, I smiled warmly, "Go ahead."

After Rowen left, Wrenley updated her status again.

"What’s it like to have a boss who makes you feel completely safe?"

The picture showed a man cooking, seen from behind.

I’d recognize Rowen’s silhouette anywhere; just one look and I knew it was him.

I zoomed in and out of the picture, engaging in self-torment, inspecting it closely.

The man wore a black sweater rolled up at the sleeves, exposing muscular forearms as he held a spatula, veins subtly visible.

My gaze shifted to his wrist—it was bare.

The bracelet I’d given him was removed, tossed aside for convenience while cooking.

He was cooking for Wrenley.

But he hadn’t cooked for me in ages.

The last time I had a stomachache, I asked if he could make me some soup, and he said he hadn’t cooked in so long, he didn’t know how anymore.

Then he ordered some greasy, unappetizing takeout.

In truth, his indifference had long been apparent; I just kept making excuses for him.

Since his career took off four years ago and the company gained international fame, his attentiveness towards me had waned.

Though he often seemed as caring and affectionate as before, the little things showed he didn’t care anymore.

Since Wrenley started as his assistant two years ago, his time at home had significantly decreased.

Now, I have every reason to believe that almost all his affection for me was just a façade.

I stood up and looked around this apartment; it was our first major project together, bought with the profits we earned.

The place was small, with two bedrooms and a living room, yet filled with memories of Rowen and me.

The pottery we crafted together.

Stones collected from our trips.

Shells gathered during seaside outings.

...

Countless treasures displayed on the wall shelves, encapsulating one cherished memory after another.

But somewhere along the line, it all shifted from genuine feelings to mere pretense.

The once deeply in love couple had turned into distant strangers, sharing a bed but dreaming different dreams.