“One day earlier or later—what’s the difference?”

Henry asked calmly.

It was my thirtieth birthday.

The deadline of the promise he made beside my dying mother’s bed.

But that day, he needed to take his pregnant sister-in-law to her prenatal appointment.

“She’s carrying my late brother’s only child,” he said.

“Why are you fighting her for this?”

I wasn’t fighting for a date.

I was fighting for the last shred of dignity in a fifteen-year love.

The girl who once meant everything to him

Had slowly become the unreasonable one.

The sister-in-law who used to disgust him

Had somehow become the one he needed to protect.

So I smiled and said, “Fine.”

And I left.

Three days later, I turned thirty without him.

That was the day Henry Jones began to regret it.

Because soon he would learn—

The baby wasn’t his brother’s.

The betrayal didn’t start with me.

And the woman he chose to hurt… was the only one who ever stood by him.

But by then—I was already gone.

And this time,He would be the one begging.

There was one week left until our wedding.

My fiancé, Henry Jones, asked me to rearrange the date—because on our wedding day, he needed to take his sister-in-law Ann to the hospital for a prenatal appointment.

The second I said we should break up, the air in the private room froze for a few beats—then the laughter exploded, loud enough to deafen my ears.

“Seriously? She’s that desperate? Forcing Henry to marry her?”

A flash of smugness crossed Ann’s eyes, but she sighed like she was worried for me.

“Henry, don’t blame her. She’s almost thirty. If she doesn’t get married soon, she’ll be too old—of course she’s anxious.”

“And I… I have my prenatal checkup this Friday. That OB was hard to book.”

She bit her lip, voice trembling on purpose.

“If Rory is really that anxious, then… then we should satisfy her first. I can reschedule my appointment.”

As she spoke, her eyes turned red, as if she’d been wronged.

A man in a bright yellow jacket immediately laughed and chimed in:

“Exactly. Henry, everyone knows she’s been waiting for you for years. Of course, she gotta lock you down while she can. Otherwise, what if you run off? What’s she supposed to do then?”

Henry’s brows knit. He finally lifted his eyes to me.

Under the dim light, his sharply defined face—the face that once made my heart race—was now stamped with unmistakable impatience and blame.

“You know this pregnancy hasn’t been easy on Ann.” His tone was flat, like a verdict. “You also know this is the only child my late brother Ethan will ever have. As her future sister-in-law, why do you insist on fighting her for this day?”

My heart clenched so hard it hurt. Sourness spread through my chest like poison.

Of course, I knew.

Last week, when he was at the coast negotiating a deal, there was a traitor in the Jones family—someone leaked Henry’s location.

Ethan stood in front of him and told Henry to run. Ethan stayed behind and got taken. In a fit of rage, the enemy killed him.

I gripped the hem of my clothes, my voice so weak it was almost swallowed by the room.

“Do you even remember what Friday is?”

Henry clearly paused.

After a moment of silence, his voice softened a little—but the stubborn certainty remained, leaving no room to argue.

“I know it’s your birthday. I know you want to fulfill your mother’s last wish so she can rest in peace.”

He took a slow breath, as if forcing himself to stay calm.

“But Rory… people need to be flexible. Why does it have to be on your birthday? One day earlier or later—what’s the difference?”

I opened my mouth—then the words jammed in my throat.

What could I say?

Was I supposed to tell him Ann was carrying a baby that wasn’t Ethan’s, and that she only married Ethan for revenge?

Or remind him that five years ago, beside my mother’s hospital bed, he’d held my hand with red, tearful eyes and made a promise?

“Ma’am, don’t worry. I swear—before Rory turns thirty, I’ll make her my wife. The Donna of the Jones family.”

Maybe he’d already forgotten those vows.

But I’d clung to them like a lifeline. I never dared loosen my grip.

In the end, all my arguments and struggle turned into a silent tide—crashing into my heart, then retreating helplessly.

He wouldn’t believe me anyway.

He never had.

So, I only answered softly:

“Fine.”

At my response, the tightness between Henry’s brows finally eased. Relief flickered across his face.

“I knew it,” he said, voice gentler now. “My Rory is always so sensible.”

Then he coaxed me, warm and sweet, as if I were a child throwing a tantrum:

“Good. Don’t sulk. Once Ann finishes her checkup, I’ll take you to get married right away, okay?”

I made an excuse and left that suffocating room.

The moment the door shut, the laughter behind me cut off like a knife—leaving only the cold, hollow echo of the corridor.

Outside the club, midnight wind slammed into my face, sharp enough to sting.

I stood on the curb and waited for a car, my thoughts drifting back fifteen years.

When I was fifteen, my mother found out by accident that the girl my father had “taken in” was actually his illegitimate daughter.

The news shattered her in an instant.

She was pregnant then—she and the baby boy she carried died together on the operating table.

Before I could even process the collapse of my family, a woman named Betty moved in smoothly, as if it had always been her place—becoming Ann’s mother, my father’s wife, and tearing apart every scrap of stability I’d ever had with her bare hands.

Henry Jones showed up in my life during my darkest, most hopeless years.

He was the notorious playboy at school—rebellious, fearless, trouble written in his bones.

And yet…

When I hid in a corner and cried, he would awkwardly shove tissues into my hands.

When rumors and insults came at me, he would step in without hesitation and chase them away with the fiercest look on his face.

And in that uniquely impatient, stubborn way of his, he would snap at me:

“Rory Brown, what are you crying for? This weak? Lift your head!”

What surprised me most was that he really stayed.

He stayed, step by step, and dragged me out of the mud I’d been sinking in.

And what made me feel safe—almost unreal—was that he couldn’t be bothered to even glance at Ann Brown.

Ann had already learned how to act innocent and pitiful, how to win over nearly everyone in class. She would “accidentally” drop books when he passed, or stare at him with those doe eyes like she had a thousand unsaid words.

All she ever got back was Henry’s undisguised disgust… and one blunt word:

“Get away.”

In those gray years, that was one of the few things I ever “won” over Ann.

His favoritism was my only armor.

And it was only natural that we became lovers.

Not long after, Ann seemed to vanish from our world entirely.

Then my mother’s condition worsened.

Before she died, she gripped my hand and Henry’s hand tightly, eyes full of worry and reluctance.

“Henry, I’m leaving Rory with you. I hope you can marry her before she turns thirty, so she’ll have someone to rely on.”

Henry’s eyes were bloodshot. He clutched my hand and made the sincerest promise of his life:

“Ma’am, don’t worry. I swear—before Rory turns thirty, I’ll make her my only wife.”

After my mother passed, I treated that promise like my last lifeline.

I thought life had finally decided to show me mercy.

I thought everything would slowly get better.

Until half a year ago.

Ann came back.

That day, Henry and I went to a family gathering at the House estate. Ethan introduced Ann to us as his wife.

Ann walked up to Henry holding a glass of wine.

She “tripped” on a stool at just the right moment and slammed into him—spilling wine all over his clothes.

She wore an old, faded outfit, looking exhausted and pitiful. She apologized over and over.

But when she looked up and saw Henry, tears filled her eyes instantly.

Her lips trembled as if she had a thousand words to say… and yet she only whispered:

“Henry. Long time no see.”

Henry froze for a beat—then frowned, that familiar disgust returning.

“Why is it you? Can’t you watch where you’re walking?”

When we got home, he held me and complained about his bad luck, like she was just an annoying accident.

I didn’t know when they started tangling with each other again.

By the time I sensed something was wrong, Henry had made Ann his secretary—using “she’s my sister-in-law” as the reason.

I screamed, I fought, I lost control, forcing Henry to fire her.

And the way he looked at me slowly shifted—from explaining to blaming.

“Rory, being born an illegitimate child wasn’t Ann’s choice.”

“Be rational. Don’t take your hatred for your parents out on her.”

“She’s miserable right now. Ethan never gives her money—she has to earn her own.”

Every argument carved a deeper crack between us.

I watched him drift farther and farther away, powerless to stop it.

And Ann and Henry—working under the same roof—had endless time and space I could never touch.

The boy who once swore beside my mother’s hospital bed floated back into my mind, clear as if it were yesterday.

Now, there were only three days left until my thirtieth birthday.

The wind swept past, cold enough to sting me awake.

My car arrived.

I opened the door and sat inside.

No one is truly irreplaceable.

Henry Jones… I don’t want to wait for you anymore.

Late at night, Henry burst in with cold air clinging to him.

When he saw me sitting on the living room couch, he visibly relaxed.

After changing his shoes, he came over with a paper bag in his hand, his tone light—almost like he wanted praise.

“Here. Haven’t you been talking about this place’s donuts for days? I drove all the way out there. They’re still warm.”

That shop was in the old district. From our apartment, it was at least forty kilometers round trip.

As he spoke, he reached out like he’d done a thousand times—trying to pull me into his arms.

I stood up and bent over to set the donuts on the coffee table, slipping neatly out of his reach, avoiding his arm and that familiar intimacy.

My throat tightened. I forced a small smile.

“Just leave them there. I don’t really have an appetite right now.”

Henry’s arm froze midair. Then he casually withdrew it, acting as if nothing happened.

He glanced me over, expression unchanged—assuming I was just sulking—and turned toward the bathroom.

“Fine. Eat when you’re hungry. I’m having a shower.”

Water started running.

That was when the phone he’d tossed onto the couch lit up.

Like I’d been possessed, I picked it up.

No passcode.

I’d always known that—but I’d never once thought about checking.

The screen unlocked and jumped straight into his chat with Ann.

A photo filled the entire screen.

A gorgeous, elaborate cream cake.

And the logo on the cake box… was from the same shop as the donuts he’d just brought me.

Under the photo was a message:

“The cake is so— good! Thanks for recommending, Henry~ Getting to eat something this delicious before my checkup makes my belly hurt less”

So that was it.

The “special treatment” I thought required a forty-kilometer drive—was just scraps.

He’d carefully picked a cake for someone else then tossed me the leftovers on the way home.

My heart felt like it had been soaked in iced lemon water—sour, bitter, tightening with pain.

Henry came out of the shower, hair still dripping. A towel was wrapped low around his waist.

He walked over with warm, damp air clinging to him—trying to hug me again.

I shoved him away like I’d been shocked, panicking for the stupidest excuse I could find.

“Don’t… I’m on my period. I don’t feel good.”

The warmth on Henry’s face vanished instantly.

In its place came sheer impatience and coldness.

He raked a rough hand through his wet hair, rolled his eyes, and spoke with suppressed irritation:

“Rory Brown.”

He used my full name, his voice hard and icy.

“Do you really have to be like this? Always pressing. Always refusing to let things go?”

His volume rose, like my “unreasonableness” was the real problem.

“I don’t understand why you insist on setting the wedding on the day of Ann’s prenatal checkup. One day earlier or later—what’s the difference? Did I ever say I wouldn’t marry you? Are you really this desperate? Throwing a fit over this?”

Every sentence was a dull knife stabbing into my heart.

He remembered everything.

He remembered his promise to my mother.

He remembered the agreement about my thirtieth birthday.

He just didn’t care.

Just like the way he didn’t care that Ann was my half-sister.

The way he didn’t care that she and her mother’s existence indirectly led to my mother’s death.

To him, I was simply irrational—taking out my anger on the wrong person.

The pain numbed me until I couldn’t even argue anymore.

I just lowered my head and stood there silently.

My silence only seemed to enrage him further.

He stared at me, his chest rising and falling hard, then let out a cold laugh.

“Fine. So you’ve really got guts now.”

He spun around, grabbed his coat and car keys from the couch, and slammed the door behind him.

Bang—

The sound echoed through the apartment, making my ears ring.

I stared at the door, still trembling slightly on its hinges, and at the hard line of his back as he left.

And suddenly I remembered the boy he used to be—bright, reckless, burning with life.

Back then, he wasn’t the family heir.

His father only gave him small projects, scraps to manage.

Henry poured all his money into investments, desperate to prove himself.

He hated that his father wanted to hand everything to Ethan.

He ran everywhere searching for capable partners.

At night, he would do data analysis for people just to cover our daily expenses.

On my birthday, he pulled three straight all-nighters and earned four hundred dollars—just to buy me a cake.

Henry back then… he truly loved me.

In his eyes, in his words—love was everywhere.

I’d seen the way he loved me.

So, the hesitation, the wavering he had now… I could see right through it.

Not long after he left, my phone vibrated.

A text from an unfamiliar number popped up.

But the tone—one glance, and I knew exactly who it was.

The photo showed a dim corner of a bar.

Henry tilted his head back, drinking, his side profile cold and sharp.

In the corner of the photo, you could faintly see a slender hand with nude-colored nail polish resting on his coat.

“Rory, Henry looks really unhappy. Looks like you made him mad again.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll comfort him properly. Want to guess if he’ll come back to you this time?”

“Everything you have—Dad, the house, and Henry—will be mine in the end.”

“You’ll never beat me.”

My fingers trembled so badly I could barely hold my phone.

It took everything I had to type my reply, one letter at a time:

“Is that so? Too bad. Trash I don’t want is only treasure to someone like you—picking it up and acting proud just makes you look pathetic.”