“So what if you’re his girlfriend? In a relationship, if you’re not the one loved but still clinging on, then you’re just the mistress.”
“Get out of this place. Go back to wherever you came from!”
One of Arlene’s friends, a particularly burly woman, stepped forward and shoved me hard. My head slammed against a protruding decoration on the wall, the sharp pain making me suck in a cold breath. I instinctively reached back to touch the spot and when I pulled my hand away, my palm was slick with sticky liquid. Blood.
The room spun and my vision blurred. I tried to steady myself, reaching out for support, but Arlene’s group only pushed me farther away with looks of disdain.
Arlene’s gaze flickered briefly when she noticed the blood on my hand, but the next moment, her expression shifted dramatically. She burst into tears.
“You already said you’d give Lenard to me. Now that we’re married, it’s only fair that I take charge of this place, wouldn’t you agree? Are you trying to make me look bad in front of my friends?” she said between sobs. “I know it must be hard for you. You have a lot to process. That’s why I’ll give you time. You have one day to move your things.”
Her words stirred a chorus of sympathy from her friends.
“Bless your heart, Arlene. You’re sacrificing so much for this ungrateful mistress,” one said, patting her shoulder.
“Don’t worry, Arlene. If she doesn’t leave in two days, we’ll help you move her,” another chimed in, throwing a hateful glance my way.
Arlene nodded solemnly, her face full of sorrow, as though she were the one being wronged.
I stood there, unable to speak, as they sauntered out of the apartment, leaving me alone in the suffocating silence. My legs gave out and the world around me faded into darkness.
When I woke up, the afternoon sunlight was already streaming through the windows. I gingerly touched the back of my head. The wound had scabbed over, but the pain was still sharp—a constant reminder of the humiliation I’d endured.
I’ve always been afraid of pain—always. Even the smallest injury could bring me to tears and this was no exception. My chest heaved as silent tears streamed down my face.
Lenard said he had only two sets of keys to this apartment—one with me and one with him. He must have already given his set to Arlene. He didn’t hesitate, did he? So decisive, so ruthless.
I moved into this apartment when Lenard and I officially started dating. At first, it was nothing more than a barren, lifeless space.
***
Flashback on:
“It’s just a place to sleep,” Lenard had said casually when I asked about the lack of furniture or decoration. “No need to fill it with unnecessary furniture.”
But when he saw the disapproval on my face, he waved me off dismissively. “Do whatever you want with it.”
That was all I needed. With one word of approval from him, I threw myself into transforming the place, pouring in time and effort. From repainting the walls to replacing the furniture, even down to the smallest decorations, I worked tirelessly during evenings and weekends. It took six months for me to turn the cold, empty apartment into a warm, cozy and inviting home.
Lenard didn’t say anything, but I could tell he appreciated it in his own way. On quiet evenings, he’d sit in the rocking chair I’d picked out for him, reading under the soft, amber glow of the lamp. The light softened his sharp features, making him look almost gentle.
I’d sit on the couch, curled up with a cup of milk tea, watching him quietly. My heart would swell with pride and hope.
“See? Even the hardest stone can be softened under warm light,” I told myself.
I clung to the belief that, given enough time, I could thaw his icy demeanor completely.
But reality always found a way to shatter my illusions. Every time I thought I was making progress, Lenard would crush my hopes.
Like the time I discovered he enjoyed the dry-aged steak I made him for dinner. I was over the moon to finally make him something he liked. But the next week, when I made him the steak again, he threw it straight into the trash.
“I don’t allow myself to grow attached to things I like,” he said coldly when I asked why.
The same thing happened with clothes. I bought him clothes I thought he’d like and he discarded them without a second glance.
“I only wear what she picks for me. Don’t bother doing these useless things again,” he’d said, his tone as cold as ice.
I didn’t understand. Why is it always her? Why could he never see me? Why did I always matter less than her?
Each time he rejected me, I found myself questioning my own worth. Over and over, my confidence began to crumble and slowly, I started forgetting my dreams. Day by day, I grew more despondent, so much so that I hardly noticed the seasons changing around me.
After work, I glanced up at the sky. It looked ominous—a storm’s coming, I thought. Determined to make it home, I pushed forward and sure enough, the rain began to pour mercilessly. By the time I reached my apartment, I was soaked to the bone.
That night, a high fever took hold of me. I felt dizzy and barely conscious, lost in a haze. Faintly aware of my surroundings, I noticed someone touching my forehead, as if checking my temperature. In the middle of my fevered dream, I could hear a soft, gentle voice murmuring nearby, the words blending into the haze of my thoughts.
“You really don’t know how to take care of yourself, do you?” a soft voice murmured.
“You’ve got a fever. You need to take the medicine.”
When I regained consciousness, I was already at the hospital. Lenard stood by the bed, his face set in a deep scowl. The moment he noticed I was awake, he let out an annoyed snort.
“Are you a kid or what? You had a fever and you couldn’t take the medicine? You had to let it get so bad you ended up in the hospital?”
I blinked at him, gauging his tone and expression carefully. “Did you just worried about me?”
His eyes darted away and he crossed his arms, feigning impatience. “Who’d be worried about you? I just don’t need you causing me more trouble.”
Despite his words, I felt he was just being contrary. A smile spread across my face. “I’ll take it as a yes.”
He opened his mouth, as if ready to argue, but then hesitated. After a pause, he sighed and muttered, “Think whatever you want.” and he returned to his indifferent demeanor.
But I knew—or at least, I hoped—that somewhere deep down, buried under his sharp words, was a sliver of care for me. Maybe even… a little bit of love.
I’d make him love me for real one day. I know love couldn’t be rushed—it needed time.
That hope carried me for a moment, but when reality pulled me back, it hit hard.
Flashback off.
***
I stood in the living room, staring at the mess left behind. The wreckage felt like my own heart—once cherished, now trampled into the ground. I packed my things in silence, my mind made up. It was time to go.
Just as I was zipping my bag, the doorbell rang.
At the door stood a courier, holding a package.
“Delivery for you. Sign here, please.”
I signed and shut the door behind me. When I opened the box, my breath caught. It was my wedding dress—or what was left of it.
The pearls I had so carefully hand-sewn were ripped off. The lace was shredded, the edges cut jaggedly and the pristine white veil was stained with smudges of color that had no place on it. The rest of the dress was no better.
My phone buzzed with a message. It was from Arlene: [The dress is ruined. Just make another one.]
Her tone was blunt, dismissive—no apology, no remorse. Just arrogant entitlement.
My hands tightened around the phone, but I didn’t reply. Instead, I took photos of the destroyed dress and pulled out my receipts. Materials, labor—all the costs I’d tallied while designing it.
Then I uploaded everything to my social media and tagged Arlene. “Consider the dress sold to you. $3,000. Who’s paying for it?”
The reaction was swift. Within seconds, my phone lit up with a call.
“What the hell are you doing?” Lenard’s voice thundered through the line. “It’s just a wedding dress! How could it cost that much? Delete that post right now! I don’t want Arlene seeing it and—”
