I stepped into the beauty salon near campus, resignation letter ready in my bag.

The moment the manager, Lily, spotted me, she grabbed my hand with a warm smile.

"Belle, you can't quit! Where am I ever going to find another makeup artist as good as you? Just stay a little longer—please, just a little while more!"

Her enthusiasm made it difficult to refuse.

"Actually," she went on quickly, "there's a big job today. It's a high-paying group booking from a Great Eastern University student, a house call service. Do this one for me, I'm begging you."

In the end, I agreed.

Carrying my kit, I walked into the most luxurious four-person dormitory on campus, the one everyone whispered about.

The air was heavy with expensive perfume.

My eyes landed immediately on the ornate photo frame displayed on a desk.

In the picture, Joe stood with Ivy, smiling brightly, standing close together like the perfect couple.

A handsome man, and a beautiful woman—they looked like they belonged on the cover of a magazine.

"Wow, Ivy! This photo of you and Professor Joe is so sweet!" one girl exclaimed while fixing her eyebrows in the mirror.

Another chimed in, "Of course. Ivy's the daughter of a board director, and Professor Joe is her father's favorite. They're the campus dream couple!"

"I heard the families are already talking about an engagement. A perfect match."

I kept my head lowered, pretending I had not heard, focusing on laying out my tools.

"Wait a second, aren't you—"

The girl who had spoken earlier leaned closer, scrutinizing me. Recognition flickered across her face, followed by open disdain.

She turned to her friends and sneered, "It's her. I've seen her before—she used to bring Joe lunch all the time. Always dressed so plain, like some country bumpkin."

"I really don't get how someone like that could ever be with him. Totally drags down his image."

Their sharp words pierced through the air, every syllable striking my chest.

My hands froze for a moment. My face turned pale.

However, I did not look up, did not argue. I only worked faster, desperate to finish.

An hour later, the job was done.

I collected my pay and left the dorm as if fleeing a battlefield.

All I wanted was to get back to my little apartment—my one corner of the world.

However, at the campus gate, I stumbled upon the scene I dreaded most.

Joe and Ivy stood together by the roadside.

Ivy was on tiptoe, delicately straightening the gray scarf around his neck. Her fingertips brushed against his throat with intimate familiarity.

They were deep in conversation.

"Regarding the nonlinear solutions of the Schrödinger equation in quantum tunneling, I believe…"

"But the perturbation of the Planck constant could introduce uncertainty in the wave function collapse…"

Their voices blended with a string of academic jargon—words I could not even begin to understand.

I looked at them. I looked at him–the man who spoke with such grace and confidence, who seemed to belong to another world entirely.

In that instant, I realized we were already from two different worlds.

Joe noticed me. His smile faltered, expression tightening as if he wanted to say something.

However, I turned away first, quickening my steps, losing myself in the crowd, disappearing around the corner.

Like an outsider, I ran–clumsy and ashamed–away from their perfect picture.

When I finally got home, exhaustion dropped me onto the sofa.

Joe returned a little later.

The moment he walked in, his eyes fell on the untouched birthday cake still sitting on the table.

It hit him then—yesterday had been my birthday.

A flicker of guilt crossed his face.

"Belle, I'm sorry. I forgot… I'll make it up to you tomorrow with a gift."

His voice was cautious, almost pleading.

"No need," I replied coolly, not even looking at him.

The silence between us was heavy, suffocating. Then his phone rang.

It was Ivy.

The moment he answered, her frail, pitiful voice came through the line.

"Joe, I'm in so much pain… I tripped on the stairs just now. I twisted my ankle. I can't move."

Joe's expression changed instantly.

"Don't move. I'll be right there!"

Without a second thought, he grabbed his car keys. He did not even bother with a coat before rushing out the door.

The door slammed shut with a violent thud, a sound that seemed to draw a final line between our two worlds.

I stared at the empty apartment, knowing this time, he might not come back for a long while.

Slowly, I walked to the dining table and opened the cake box.

I picked up a spoon and, expressionless, began eating the cold, forgotten cake bite by bite.

The cream melted on my tongue with cloying sweetness. All I tasted was endless bitterness.

Joe had not come home for days.

I learned everything about his life from Ivy's social media posts.

There he was, spending the night with her in the library, helping her search through piles of reference books.

At dawn, he draped his jacket over her shoulders.

On the track field, he crouched down to tie her shoelaces after she finished her run.

In another photo, Ivy was bent over a microscope, focused intently. Joe stood beside her, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

Every picture looked so tender, so perfect.

I stared at them in silence before shutting off my phone.

Then I opened my wardrobe. One by one, I pulled out my clothes, folded them carefully, and placed them neatly into a suitcase.

Just as I was almost finished, the door opened.

Joe was back.

He looked tired but oddly satisfied.

"Belle, what are you doing, packing?" His tone was calm, like nothing had happened. "I want to show you something. Our new home."

He did not bother explaining where he had been all this time.

My heart felt nothing—not anger, not sorrow. Just numbness.

Wordlessly, I followed him into the car. He drove us to a luxury villa community in the suburbs.

At the grand entrance, we ran into Ivy.

She pulled up in a sleek red sports car, rolled down her window, and flashed a dazzling smile.

"Joe, Belle—what a coincidence! I just moved in too. Right next door."

I trailed after Joe into the so-called 'new home.'

The place was decorated in his usual minimalist style, all cold tones and sharp lines—just like him.

Through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, I could see Ivy's villa next door. The layout, the colors, even the furniture—it was practically identical.

Catching my pause, Ivy laughed lightly.

"Looks like we should knock down the wall between our houses. That way we'll be like one big family."

To celebrate the move, Ivy suggested dinner at a nearby high-end French restaurant.

Joe agreed without hesitation.

When the waiter handed me the menu, I stared blankly at the French words I could not read, clutching the corner of the paper nervously.

Joe ordered for me—a steak, exactly what he was having.

Across the table, Ivy elegantly twirled a piece of asparagus with her fork. She glanced at Joe, her voice soft but deliberate.

"Joe, you remember my favorite, don't you? Filet mignon, medium well. No pepper sauce."

His hand paused mid-air. Then he nodded.

I felt like a clown at someone else's show.

I stood too quickly, muttering something about the restroom. In my haste, I knocked over a plate.

The porcelain shattered on the floor, sauce splattering everywhere.

Laughter—restrained but mocking—rose from the next table.

"So clumsy. How did she even get in here?"

My face burned with humiliation. I crouched down to clean the mess, hands trembling.

However, before I could touch the shards, smoke suddenly billowed out from the kitchen. The fire alarm shrieked.

"Fire!" someone screamed.

Panic erupted. People shoved and stumbled toward the exit.

In that chaos, I saw Joe's first instinct.

He spun around, scooped Ivy into his arms, and shielded her with his body as he pushed his way toward safety.

I was knocked to the ground by the rushing crowd.

My arm slammed into a broken plate, and a sharp shard sliced open my skin, leaving a long gash. Blood gushed out immediately.

I watched Joe carry Ivy right past me. He never looked back. Not once.

Gritting my teeth, I dragged myself to my feet and struggled out of the restaurant alone.

At the nearest community hospital, the doctor cleaned the wound, bandaged it, and stitched it up—five stitches in total.

I never made a sound.

When I finally returned to the empty villa, I booked the earliest ticket out of this city for the next morning.

By dusk, Joe came home.

He reeked faintly of smoke—and women's perfume.

His eyes landed on the suitcase by my side. His brows furrowed.

He walked over, opened it, and immediately spotted the glaring slip of paper inside.

The ticket.

His voice was sharp, each word heavy as a hammer.

"Belle. Where do you think you're going?"