On the drive home, I hesitated for a long time before finally taking out my phone and dialing my mother's number.

The overseas signal was patchy. I had to try three times before she finally picked up.

"Mom… it's me."

There was a pause on the other end. Then her voice came through, choked with tears.

"You heartless girl! How could you be so cruel? All I did was try to stop you from being with that penniless boy, and you cut off all contact with your mother for all these years. Do you know how much that broke my heart?"

Back when I got together with Scott, my parents had never approved of him. They ran a background check and were shocked to find out he'd hidden the truth from me—he was neck-deep in debt, owing tens of thousands of dollars.

My father had slammed the table in fury. He said any man who could hide something like that must be manipulative, and I'd never be a match for him.

But I had been blinded by love, too stubborn to listen. I broke ties with my family without a second thought, convinced that my choices were noble and true.

To this day, Scott still believed I was an orphan, that I had no parents, no one waiting for me.

I had stayed with him through everything. Helped him climb out of debt, piece by piece. Watched him rise from nothing. I had been there when he had no one.

And now that he stood tall as the admired CEO of the company, I had become nothing more than a burden to discard.

"Mom… I'm pregnant."

There was a loud crashing sound on the other end—she must have dropped the phone.

A long silence followed before she let out a soft sigh.

"Well… if that's your decision, then come back to New York in three days. Let me take care of you."

When I hung up, a wave of emotion rose from the pit of my stomach, churning like a storm. 'In the end, it's true—being someone's daughter is the easiest role in the world. Scott, if you can't treasure me, then I'll leave. Quietly. Forever.'

The apartment was exactly as I'd left it: cold, empty, silent.

Scott hadn't been home for at least two weeks. Maybe longer.

I let out a hollow laugh, dropped my things, and headed for the bathroom, planning to wash up. But just as I reached for my toothbrush, a message from my friend popped up on my phone.

[Has Chloe no shame at all? She actually posted that on her story?]

Confused, I clicked on her social media—and instantly felt like something had slammed into my chest.

In the photo, Chloe stood in front of a hotel mirror, taking a selfie. Her upper body was nearly bare.

Behind her, a man's arms were wrapped tightly around her waist, his face hidden from view, but the curve of his body unmistakable.

It would have been nothing more than a risqué couple's photo, just one of those flirty moments people post to show off their affection.

But then, I saw the scar on the man's shoulder.

I recognized it instantly.

Scott, the same man who had sworn he was working overtime that night.

That scar had a story. When we were still in love, still too poor to afford anything but each other, we used to climb a mountain near the rundown apartment we rented. It was free, and that made it our favorite escape.

One day, while we were climbing, loose rocks began to fall.

I'd frozen, too late to dodge. He threw himself at me and pushed me out of harm's way.

The stone crashed onto his back. The scar remained as a silent reminder of a day I thought proved his love.

I had cried for hours back then, clutching his hand like a lifeline. I'd vowed to never leave him, no matter what.

But now—how quickly the heart of a man can change.

Tears blurred my vision, but I could still make out the caption she had written: [I said this scar was ugly. He said he'd have it tattooed with my name tomorrow.]

I laughed.

So this was love? Just an illusion I had chosen to believe in?

The next morning, I was the first to arrive at the office. Not because I was eager to work, but because I needed to resign.

I stood in the corridor, breathing deeply, again and again, trying to hold myself together.

The last step of resignation required a signature from the CEO, Scott.

How was I supposed to come up with a reasonable excuse to make Scott sign it?

I racked my brain, pacing in circles in front of the office door, but still came up with nothing. The words, whatever they were supposed to be, simply refused to form.

Then, just as I was about to give up, the office door swung open.

"It's all your fault. If you hadn't been so rough last night, why would my back be hurting now?"

The voice drifted out, light and teasing—Chloe's voice, unmistakably.

My whole body stiffened.

I turned toward the sound.

There he was—Scott, smiling, hand gently curled around her waist, kneading it in small, practiced motions. There was a softness in his eyes I'd never seen before, at least not directed at me.

But the moment they saw me, the warmth in their expressions cracked. A flicker of alarm flashed through both their eyes, like caught actors in a poorly rehearsed play.

Chloe cleared her throat awkwardly.

"Alyssa, don't misunderstand. We played a bit of badminton last night and I twisted my back, that's all."

Her cheeks were tinged with color, her words feeble at best. Anyone would draw their own conclusions.

She was trying to provoke me, that much was obvious. But I didn't rise to it. I didn't even look at them for more than a second. I just stepped forward and held out the file.

"Here. Sign this."

Scott frowned. "Didn't we already finalize everything? What's this, a new contract?"

He reached to flip through the pages.

My heart clenched. Every muscle in my body tensed. My mind scrambled for how I'd answer when the questions inevitably came.

But I hadn't expected Chloe to act first.

"Oh, I remember this one!" she said suddenly, snatching the folder from his hands. "This was supposed to be handled ages ago, remember? But that other partner just wouldn't back off. Now that we've finally shaken her, you should sign it already."

Her words were casual, even breezy—but I heard the implication clearly.

That other partner. Me.

A not-so-subtle jab wrapped in bureaucratic language.

She wasn't wrong. I should've walked away from Scott long ago. I just hadn't wanted to. Or hadn't dared.

"Well, if that's all it is, I'm relieved," he said, the affection in his eyes spilling over. "You've always been thorough."

He didn't bother checking the contents again. Just picked up a pen and, without hesitation, signed his name with a flourish.

The weight in my chest sank suddenly, violently—like a stone thrown into a quiet pond.

I exhaled.

Finally. I was free.

Scott noticed the shift in me and gave me a puzzled look.

"This file… is it that important to you? Why do you look like that?"

I kept my gaze lowered.

"Of course it's important."

He glanced at the folder again. But his trust in Chloe—or maybe his disinterest in me—kept him from asking further.

Chloe let out a small groan as she pressed on her lower back. Scott turned to me again, this time with the expression of a man trying to appear thoughtful.

"Alyssa… Chloe's really uncomfortable right now. I was thinking maybe I could give her a massage. She's got a client meeting this afternoon for the company, after all…"

"Of course," I said, smiling with all the innocence I could summon. "You two are such a great team. Helping each other out just makes sense."

I'd gotten what I came for. What happened after didn't matter anymore.

He had been bracing for a fight—probably even expecting me to cry, to scream, to demand an explanation.

So when I simply smiled and nodded, he looked startled.

"You… You're serious?"

I nodded calmly. "Yeah. Like you said, without Chloe pushing the front lines, I wouldn't be enjoying the peaceful life I have now. I ought to be grateful."

There was something in my tone that made him squint, like he was trying to see through a fog. But he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

He just stared at me.

I lifted my handbag and gave him a little wave.

"Well then, take good care of Chloe. I'll head home now."

Maybe guilt finally caught up with him, or maybe it was just habit, but he coughed lightly and reached for my arm.

"I'll come home tonight. We can have dinner."

"No need," I said, smiling as I pulled my arm away. "I've made plans with a friend."

I walked away, not once looking back, leaving him standing there, eyes full of questions he didn't know how to ask.

Today is my last day in this city.

Perhaps the weather, too, felt the weight of goodbye. A cold front had swept in overnight, and the wind now bit through coats and scarves with a practiced indifference. People on the streets hurried past, wrapped so tightly they resembled something out of a deli freezer—bundled, muted, waiting to be shelved or sold. Every breath I took became a fleeting white cloud, disappearing before it could mean anything.

It seemed appropriate. I was leaving. And things like this—the cold, the fog on your lips, the finality of silence—should have a proper ending.

So I called Scott.

He didn't pick up the first time. Or the second. On the third try, someone finally answered, but his voice was laced with irritation.

"You've got some nerve calling me."

The fragile calm I'd spent the whole morning piecing together shattered in an instant. I froze.

"What's your problem?" I asked, my voice sharper than intended. "Why the hell can't I call you?"

Whatever pretense we'd maintained—whatever strained civility had remained—was gone now.

He scoffed, accusatory. "When did you start pulling this kind of dirty stunt? Chloe is alone in this city, completely helpless, and you still had to go after her? What kind of person are you?"

I blinked, stunned. Then I understood.

Another performance. Another one of Chloe's little games.

So much for saying goodbye with dignity. That hope had already crumbled.

"You feeling guilty now?" he pressed. "She could've been crippled, do you even realize that? She fell from the stairs. Are you proud of yourself?"

Funny. I hadn't expected her to go that far—not to injure herself just to win.

The more he lashed out, the quieter I became.

"You've known me for years," I said. "You really think I'm capable of that?"

His voice dropped, low and bitter. "I used to know you. But ever since she showed up, you've changed. I let it slide when you made things difficult for her behind my back. But now? This is too far."

Then came the ultimatum.

"If you still want to stay in the company, get to the hospital. Kneel down and apologize. Otherwise, pack your things and get out."

I laughed.

And once I started, I couldn't stop. It was quiet at first, then it cracked around the edges, and something warm slid from the corner of my eye.

"So this is what I get," I said, "for helping you build the company. You're using it to threaten me now?"

He hesitated. When he spoke again, his voice had softened.

"I'm trying to save you. This is for your own good."

For my own good.

If it had really been for my good, he wouldn't have strung me along for ten years. He would've married me. He would've chosen me.

But I was no longer that naive twenty-something who believed in staying just because she was asked to wait.

I was thirty now.

And it was time to think about myself.

He kept going, the anger rising again. "If you weren't someone who made contributions to the company, I'd have fired you already. You—"

"Scott," I said suddenly, cutting him off.

He stopped. "What?"

I cleared my throat. The absurdity of it struck me—saying goodbye in such a way. So clumsy. So loud.

But it had to be done.

"We're done," I said calmly. "Let's break up."

There was a beat of silence.

Then he exploded.

"This is how you handle things? Are you serious? You think you can threaten me like this? Don't flatter yourself! You want to leave? Fine, get lost! I won't stop you!"

I didn't wait for him to finish the rant. I ended the call.

The screen dimmed. The connection was gone. He probably stared at his phone for a long time, disbelieving. But I was already pulling my suitcase into the airport terminal.

The plane to New York was boarding. I handed over my ticket, stepped through the gate, and didn't look back.

Since I said goodbye, I figured I couldn't be accused of leaving without a word.

The airport was mostly empty—quiet in a way that felt almost deliberate. I made my way to my seat in first class and sat down, my hands resting on my lap.

There was no visible bump yet. My stomach still looked the same. But I laid my palm over it anyway, gently. As if it could hear me.

There was life in there.

A small, growing life. One I had to protect now.

Motherhood, I thought, would be the next chapter.

And the thought made me smile, almost involuntarily.

As I sat there, lost in that fragile little dream, a tall man slipped into the seat beside me. He reached for my hand and intertwined his fingers with mine.

"So," he said, "you think the baby will look more like you, or me?"