I rarely attended the event Florence organized.

Her close friends all resented me, and none of them bothered to hide their dislike.

Today’s humiliation wasn’t the first I had endured.

Each time, Timothy led the chorus of ridicule.

They rejected me simply because they believed I was unworthy of Florence.

Florence and Michael had grown up together, surrounded by the same circle of people.

Michael had always been full of energy and the heir to a wealthy family, excelling in every aspect of life.

By comparison, I was a hearing-impaired student who had only managed to attend university through scholarships and grants.

Without my hearing aid, even daily conversations became a struggle.

Florence came from a similarly prominent family, and with her extraordinary appearance, she had always been treated like the center of the universe.

People like them stood out wherever they went, dazzling the crowd.

Everyone assumed that this golden couple would eventually enjoy a fairy-tale ending.

But fate played a cruel joke on them.

The Higgins suffered a major catastrophe, and the Higgins Corp. teetered on the brink of bankruptcy.

Michael had resolutely chosen to leave then.

The debt collectors who came knocking were a nightmare not just for Florence, but for me as well.

Once, Florence was beaten until her body was covered in bruises.

She had dragged herself to the convenience store and begged me for help.

That night, I wasn’t supposed to be on shift, but I had swapped with a colleague, and if I hadn’t, I shuddered to think what might have happened to her.

I hid Florence in the storage room at the back of the store.

The collectors followed the trail of blood into the shop.

They were tall, muscular men, each of them strong enough to take me three at a time.

When they realized I was keeping her safe, they clenched their fists and threatened me.

I removed my hearing aid, straightened my spine, and faced them without flinching.

At the same time, my fingers pressed the silent alarm on the phone.

Fearful of trouble, they left quickly when they heard the wail of police sirens.

Only once I confirmed it was safe did I check on Florence, trembling from the adrenaline.

She had lost so much blood that she had already slipped into unconsciousness.

After handing over my shift to a colleague, I rushed her to the hospital and emptied my wallet to pay the medical fees.

When she finally opened her eyes, she looked at me in confusion and asked who I was.

I understood.

She had lost her memory from the beating.

I would never forget that moment when everyone laughed at me for being deaf.

They had snatched my hearing aid to play with it as I desperately tried to grab it back.

It was Florence who stepped forward, scolding those who bullied me, and even retrieved my hearing aid for me.

For the next three months, I cared for her meticulously.

Her view of me gradually shifted from unfamiliarity to dependence.

In the days that followed, I helped Florence run errands for the company and negotiate business deals.

For many nights, I drank myself to death at business events, collapsing on the roadside and being rushed to the hospital by kind strangers.

The doctors warned that if I continued like that, I wouldn’t survive.

Yet when I met Florence’s gaze, I felt I could endure a little longer.

Eventually, Higgins Corporation was revived thanks to several projects I had secured.

Florence threw herself into my arms, brimming with excitement.

“Once my company is completely stable, we’ll hold the grandest wedding ever.”

Then she handed me a bouquet of sunflowers.

But I didn’t like flowers.

Sunflowers belonged to Michael; everyone always said he was like the sun.

Seven years passed, and Higgins Corporation regained its position among the top three companies in the city.

As our wedding drew nearer, Michael came back.

I sent Florence a message and told her I wanted to break up.

By then, it was already two in the morning, and I was still packing my things.

Over the years, the villa had been carefully arranged into something that resembled a warm home.

It held all my memories of Florence.

As I hesitated over each item, deciding what to take with me, I heard my phone ping.

Florence had replied and deliberately avoided my request for a breakup.

[Are you home yet?

[I’m not coming back tonight. Don’t wait up.

[Get some rest, and don’t leave the door unlocked for me.]

I didn’t reply.

She had typed those words out of habit, not out of genuine concern for me.

Seven hours had already passed since I sent the breakup message.

The mystery of what she was doing became obvious the moment I looked through Instagram.

Two hours earlier, Michael had posted a photo.

The caption read: [My forever.]

In the photo, two hands were tightly intertwined.

In the background, the rumpled sheets of a hotel bed were faintly visible.

Anyone who saw the image understood, without words, what had happened.

At that moment, the suffocating pain in my chest hurt my pride more than any abuse she had ever inflicted on me during our past arguments.

I had always believed that publicly displaying intimate affairs on social media was inelegant.

But Michael did it deliberately, forcing everyone to witness that Florence’s final choice was him.

I had once been uncertain about Florence’s love.

She had never said those three words to me, nor had she seemed particularly eager to truly understand me.

Until one New Year’s Eve, when I developed appendicitis and doubled over in agony.

On a night meant for reunions with family and friends, the streets were empty, and hailing a car was impossible.

She cried as she helped me into the ambulance, gripping my hand tightly the entire time.

When I woke up, Florence looked exhausted, her eyes red and swollen.

The instant she saw me open my eyes, tears slid down her cheeks as she pleaded, “Please don’t leave me, Noah.”

A nurse nearby joked, “You have no idea how worried your girlfriend was. She stayed up all night crying by your side.”

That was when I began to believe she truly loved me.

That belief started to waver after her mushroom poisoning.

And now, seeing that post, whatever trust remained had completely vanished.

Michael had achieved his goal.

In the comment section, every mutual friend I could see was offering congratulations.

Timothy’s comment was especially jarring.

[So the real boyfriend is finally back? That cuck Noah should get lost already.]

Yes, Timothy. I’m finally leaving.

I liked Michael’s post and left a comment of my own:

[Wishing the two of you happiness. A perfect match!]

The moment my comment went through, messages from Florence flooded in.

I didn’t read a single one.

When she realized I wasn’t responding, she began calling me.

The ringing irritated me, so I silenced my phone and tossed it into my bag.

Eventually, after her relentless calls, the phone shut itself off.

Half an hour later, I finally finished packing.

Just as I was about to leave, Florence pushed the door open and walked in.

She frowned when she saw my suitcase.

“How long are you going to be so dramatic?”