Though I was determined to see Arturo's true nature, my heart still twisted painfully as the call ended.

Arturo wasn't wrong about feeling superior; I did pursue him first.

We met at a party. Arturo was a rising star at the hospital, and I was the daughter of a leading medical device company. I fell for him instantly, starting a long chase.

An old saying goes that a woman's pursuit of a man is like a veil, easy to lift. But that didn't apply to me. I chased Arturo for two years, confessing dozens of times. His emotions were unpredictable, warm one day and cold the next, leaving me puzzled about his true feelings.

Eventually, I grew tired. I decided to give up and planned to study abroad. But Arturo stopped me at the stairwell.

"Zendaya, why did you stop pursuing me?" he asked. "I won't let you give up."

After kissing me, he held me close, breathing heavily in my ear. His sudden confession upended all my plans, leading me to cancel my flight to the Alps the next day.

Arturo came from a humble background. To protect his pride, I moved out of my family’s mansion into his rented apartment. When I decided to marry him, my family advised against it. But Arturo was worth it, and I chose love over comfort.

Since Arturo had no savings, we only got a marriage certificate without a wedding ceremony.

"Zendaya, wait for me. I want to earn and give you the grandest wedding myself, to prove to everyone that I can make it!" he'd say.

"You’ve been through so much," he murmured many nights, holding me tight and making promises over and over.

I responded with passionate kisses, believing I was the happiest woman alive.

Until Luciana appeared.

After losing her baby abroad, Luciana suffered severe depression and became Arturo's patient when she returned home.

At first, I didn’t think much of it. But slowly, Arturo's attention drifted away from me; his world now held more than just his work and our home, increasingly filled by Luciana.

Luciana caught a cold; I’ll take her to the hospital for an IV drip. Sorry, I won’t make it to tonight’s Thanksgiving dinner—please tell Dad for me.

Luciana's moving today; she has no family or friends here. I’ll help her out.

Luciana's emotions are unstable today, and I’m worried about leaving her alone at home; I won't be coming back tonight.

Arturo grew increasingly distant, his excuses more flimsy each time. We argued about this, but whenever I brought up Luciana, he'd react defensively, as if struck.

He accused me of being petty and unreasonable.

"Luciana’s my patient; is it wrong for me to care for her more?"

"Zendaya, I think you're bored being a housewife, and that’s why you imagine these things. I already work hard to support you; can you stop making things difficult?"

A housewife? Causing trouble?

Arturo, I wasn’t born to be a nuisance, an unwanted housewife.

Once, I dreamed of becoming a top-tier designer but now find myself tied to household chores and fighting over you with another woman. And why?

Because of you, I gave up on my dreams.

Time has faded everything. Arturo’s forgotten what was once important, leaving only criticism and disappointment for me.

After each argument, I apologized first, seeking peace. Caught in this cycle, I gradually accepted everything—choosing to step back and endure.

After all, my love for Arturo was undeniable.

I thought as long as I avoided the truth, as long as I didn't tear everything apart, Arturo would still be mine—that we'd remain the perfect couple to everyone else.

I realize now how terribly wrong I was.

My tolerance emboldened Luciana, diminishing my importance to Arturo.

At this wedding, Arturo, the groom, abandoned me for Luciana.

I can't forget the disappointment when Arturo's phone didn’t connect, the guests' sympathetic and mocking glances, the sorrow in my parents' eyes as they arrived dressed for the occasion.

Arturo, no matter how much it pains me, this is where we end.

After deciding to get a divorce, I booked a flight to the United States. I also put the city center apartment on the market with a real estate agency. It was the home my family had given us, Arturo Patterson and me. Arturo was initially too proud to move in, worried people would see him as dependent. To spare his ego, I gave up my privileges, opting to share a cramped rental with him for six years. Now, with plans to go abroad, keeping the apartment seemed pointless.

When I returned from the agency, Arturo was sitting on the couch. "Where have you been? I called you, but you didn’t pick up. Do you know how long I've been waiting?" His tone was accusatory, as if I had committed some major offense. "Shouldn't you be at the hospital with Luciana? What do you want from me?" I asked with restraint.

"Zendaya, stop being so sarcastic!" he shot back. "I've told you a hundred times; Luciana is just a patient. If you don’t believe me, that’s your problem. Go to the store and pick up a chicken. Luciana is hurt; she needs chicken soup to feel better." His request flowed out as if it were totally reasonable. I was speechless.

Once I regained my composure, it was clear that the man in front of me was shameless. As the silence stretched, he grew impatient, nudging my shoulder and pushing, "Why are you just standing there? Hurry up, or the freshest chicken will be gone. And don’t forget the thyme and carrots; add them in while cooking. Remember, Luciana hates greasy food, so skim the oil before serving."

Even though I was deeply disappointed with Arturo, his requests reminded me of the years we'd spent together. I had always put him first, and he took it for granted without ever returning the care. He didn’t know my favorite food, color, or clothing brand. Two years ago, after I had an appendectomy, I asked him to make me oatmeal. All he did was frown: "Zendaya, your spoiled princess attitude doesn’t cut it here. If you want oatmeal, order it yourself."

Since then, I’d stopped asking him for anything like that. I foolishly believed Arturo was just too focused on his work to understand women. Now, I see the truth: it’s not that he didn’t understand; he simply didn’t care to understand me.

Fighting back tears, I remained silent. Arturo saw my reddened eyes and shifted uneasily. Softening his voice, he continued, "I know skipping the wedding was my fault. I'm sorry, but I had an emergency at work. As a doctor, I had to be there. I thought you'd understand, being married to a doctor. About the wedding, haven’t you always wanted to see the French countryside? How about a destination wedding there next month?"

Arturo hadn’t forgotten his agenda. Even after his lengthy apology, he was stuck on Luciana’s chicken soup. Tired of the argument, I brushed past him and headed toward the bedroom.

"Zendaya, I'm giving you a chance; don’t throw it away!" Arturo shouted after me. "I'm helping you make things right. You liked Luciana’s Instagram post, and there was backlash. She’s been upset for days. It’s a miracle she hasn’t made a bigger deal of it, and you're sulking?"

As I moved away, Arturo’s suppressed anger bubbled over. "Don’t come crying later!" he warned as I closed the bedroom door, responding with, "Just remember to sign the divorce papers."

The only thing left was Arturo’s furious yell, followed by the sound of the door slamming.

Not long after, while I was still packing my clothes, I received a call from the real estate agent:

"Miss Wells, can you come to your property? There's been a situation."

The voice on the other end was urgent.

I quickly drove to the neighborhood where my apartment was.

What greeted me left me stunned.

The once empty apartment was now filled with furniture, emanating a cozy, lived-in feel.

And there was Luciana Hill, dressed in casual wear, glaring unpleasantly at both the real estate agent and me.

"Miss Wells, this is..." The agent looked at me, visibly uneasy.

My mind flashed back to a post Luciana had made some time ago.

"Thank you for giving me a home." The attached image was of my apartment.

Back then, I found the background familiar, but there were many upscale apartments with a similar style, so I didn’t think much of it.

I hadn’t imagined that Arturo Patterson, who had insisted he wouldn’t accept charity and that living in my apartment would feel like freeloading, would secretly let Luciana move in.

I swallowed my rising anger and was about to speak when Luciana chimed in first:

"This is the home Arturo gave me, Miss Wells. What are you doing here?"

"If I’m not mistaken, isn't your place a cramped rental? Arturo always wants to give me the best."

She laughed lightly, covering her mouth, her eyes filled with open scorn as she looked at me.

I couldn’t be bothered to argue with her, so I simply said calmly:

"This is my apartment. Please move out now."

Luciana burst into laughter:

"Your apartment? Zendaya Wells, do you think we’re all idiots? If it were your apartment, why would you be squeezed into that old dingy place? Scraping by?"

Then she turned to Clyde James from the property management, who had just arrived:

"Mr. James, you're here at the perfect time. The security is too weak. Anyone can just wander in. If this happens again, I might just file a complaint!"

The property manager quickly offered apologies, then glared at me:

"Miss, you’re disturbing the residents. Please leave immediately."

They really were taking over as if they owned the place.

At some point, a crowd of neighbors had gathered to watch the drama unfold:

"What's going on? Who's this woman causing a scene at Miss Hill's place?"

"Exactly, Miss Hill and Mr. Patterson have been living here for years. Everyone knows them around here."

"Could that woman be the other woman? Hard to believe Mr. Patterson, who seems so gentle, could be involved in something like this."

"Oh, let’s not jump to conclusions. Mr. Patterson and Miss Hill have such a good relationship. Miss Hill is so beautiful and gentle. Mr. Patterson isn't blind; how could he be interested in some scruffy country girl?"

The comments flew back and forth, filled with fervor.

Just then, the elevator doors opened, and Arturo Patterson stepped out.