At seven in the evening, my stomach growled loudly with hunger.

When I stepped out of the room, I saw Stanley cooking my favorite goulash. He knew I liked it slow-cooked in a pot over a low flame for at least half an hour, but he had always been too impatient to make it before, complaining it took too long.

"You're up? Come and have some of your favorite goulash!" he called out cheerfully, ladling a bowl for me.

"I didn't have dinner earlier. Can I eat with you?" Nancy emerged from her room and seated herself directly across from me at the table.

"Sorry, this is for Becca. If you want some, go cook it yourself." Stanley's tone was cold and dismissive, as though they hardly knew each other.

But beneath the table, Nancy's foot had already wound itself around his leg.

I took a few sips of the goulash, then stood up. I didn't want to stay and watch their little performance any longer—especially since her foot occasionally brushed against mine under the table.

Stanley's expression turned pitiful as he looked at me. "I thought this was your favorite goulash?"

"I don't have an appetite. I'm going for a walk."

I turned to leave, but Stanley hurried to the closet, pulling out a coat for me. "I'll go with you. It's too cold outside—you might catch a chill." He draped the coat over my shoulders and clasped my hand as we stepped out.

The way he looked at me, so tenderly, almost made me believe I had imagined everything.

For a fleeting moment, I thought he would always treat me well, that my sacrifice of leaving my hometown and coming here alone hadn't been in vain. But how much time had passed before he changed? Before he became this way—betraying me so blatantly, without a shred of guilt?

We strolled around the neighborhood, his phone constantly in his hands as he typed away. I didn't need to guess who he was texting.

When we reached the gate, I stopped walking. He darted off somewhere, returning moments later, slightly out of breath.

In his hands was a bouquet of flowers.

"Becca, these are for you. I hope they'll make you happy." He handed me the bouquet and kissed me gently on the forehead.

I glanced at the flowers. The petals were curling at the edges, wilting slightly, as if they'd been sitting around for days. And they weren't daisies—my favorite. I never liked any other flowers. Stanley knew that.

Yet, here he was, presenting me with what looked like a secondhand bouquet, expecting me to be overjoyed.

"Becca, I love you. In this lifetime, I only love you. So please, don't be upset—it breaks my heart to see you like this."

He grasped my hand, his face earnest, his words almost convincing. Then, as if remembering something, he fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a ring.

"This was meant to be your birthday gift, but I thought I'd give it to you early."

He slid the ring onto my finger—a size too large, its loose fit glaringly obvious.

I recognized the brand instantly. Nancy had posted about this exact ring on her social media, flaunting it in one of her stories.

So, this wasn't meant for me. It was for her.

Twisting the ring slightly, I looked at him. "Are you sure you bought this for me?"

Stanley nodded quickly, his lips pursed in a pout of mock hurt, as if offended by my doubt.

Before he could respond further, his eyes darted past me, drawn to a figure in the distance.

Nancy was approaching, dressed in a revealing miniskirt, a small bag of trash dangling from her hand.

"Well, what a coincidence. Is this a proposal I'm seeing?" she said, her voice dripping with faux innocence.

"My boyfriend proposed to me recently too. Becca, do you think I should say yes?"

Her words were directed at me, but her gaze was fixed squarely on Stanley.

"Do as you please," I said, sliding the ring off my finger and placing it back in Stanley's hand. Without waiting for his reaction, I turned and headed upstairs.

"Becca, wait up! I'll just grab a pack of cigarettes and be right back!" he called after me.

I stopped at the corner of the landing, watching as he and Nancy walked hand in hand to the car. The light outside the building was broken, casting the area in a shroud of darkness. From my hidden spot, I saw them climb into the back seat together.

The faint glow of the streetlamp barely reached the car, but the movement inside was unmistakable—a slow, rhythmic rocking. Their muffled voices filtered through the cold night air, each word sharper than the chill biting at my skin.

"That bouquet you gave her," Nancy's voice floated out, "you'll buy me something bigger, something better."

"And the ring," she continued. "You said it was for me, that you'd propose to me. Why did you give it to her?"

She bit his ear, eliciting a sharp gasp from him.

Stanley exhaled heavily, his voice strained. "Why do you always have to compete with her? Just behave and take care of me. What do you want that I haven't already given you?"

"I want a title," she murmured, her voice trembling slightly, laced with a hint of madness. "Will you give me that too?"

I stood frozen in the shadows, the cold seeping into my bones until I could no longer feel my legs. Yet the wind was so soft that their words reached me with painful clarity.

In that moment, I felt like a clown, stripped bare and paraded before a jeering crowd. I stood there, helpless, until Stanley's voice pierced the night once more. "I love you."

I couldn't bear it anymore. Covering my face with trembling hands, I turned and fled.

Back in the apartment, the evidence of Nancy's presence was everywhere—more than I'd noticed before. She was more like the mistress of this home than I ever was. The realization hollowed me out, leaving nothing but a bitter void.

Minutes later, Stanley and Nancy entered the apartment, one after the other. Their faces held traces of embarrassment, but they recovered quickly.

"Becca, why aren't you asleep? Are you upset I didn't coax you earlier? Come on, let's go to bed," Stanley said with a forced cheerfulness, scooping me up like nothing had happened and gently laying me on the bed.

That night, I tossed and turned, my mind churning with everything I had seen and heard. Sleep evaded me until dawn began to seep through the curtains.

By the time I woke, they were gone.

I wandered into Nancy's room. Her wardrobe, to my dismay, held not only her clothes but also Stanley's belts, socks, and even underwear. Their entanglement was no fleeting affair; it had deep roots.

I gathered every item of his from her room and moved them into mine. Then, without looking back, I walked out of that place, leaving it all behind.

By noon, Stanley was home and frantic. Not finding me, he began searching everywhere. When he finally spotted his belongings relocated to my room, the truth hit him like a thunderbolt. The color drained from his face as realization dawned.

Panicked, he called me incessantly, his messages a cascade of desperate voice notes. Meanwhile, he remembered it was the day of my scheduled check-up and raced to the hospital in a frenzy, hoping to find me there.

The doctor, unaware of the chaos unfolding, greeted him warmly. "Becca Warhol? She didn't come today. Isn't she pregnant? She just needs monthly check-ups now. Didn't she tell you? After all these years, you've finally succeeded. Just take good care of her and the baby."

The doctor's words must have felt like shards of ice against his skin. Stanley stood there, pale and unresponsive, hearing nothing beyond the ringing in his ears.

It was over—completely and irrevocably over.

"Becca, please listen to me. Let me explain. Don't ignore me. Where are you? I'll come find you!" His frantic messages flooded my phone, one after another, filled with a desperation that might have once moved me.

But now, I couldn't even bring myself to open them. Let the person he loves give him his child. That's no longer my role.