Scott arrived at the hospital three days later, a bouquet of flowers in hand. He settled into the chair beside Dennis’s bed, and the two men spoke in quiet, measured tones.

When Christine pushed the door open and saw them there, a genuine smile finally touched her lips—the first in what felt like forever.

Then her gaze caught the bare skin of his right ring finger. The simple band that was always there was gone. A dull ache bloomed in her chest.

Noticing her, Dennis quickly urged them to go out for a walk. "There’s no need for an old man like me to keep you company. Scott, since you have time today, spend it with Christine."

Scott nodded and stood, his hand naturally reaching for hers. "Let’s go."

The warmth of his palm… she hadn’t felt it in so long. It was a warmth she couldn’t bear to pull away from, and she followed him out without resistance.

So easy to appease. The slightest kindness made her forget all his earlier coldness.

"Scott," she ventured cautiously, "could we… go to the beach today? Watch the sunset…"

When they were dating, he used to love taking her to the shore. She’d lean against his shoulder, watch the sun sink below the horizon, and later they’d set off fireworks in the gathering dark.

Back then, she’d been the happiest girl in the world.

Scott didn’t answer, but he turned the car toward the coast anyway.

Perhaps his unexpected compliance made her bold—reckless. The question that had been lodged in her throat for days tumbled out. "Where’s your ring?"

He glanced at his own bare finger, then at the simple band still circling hers. An inexplicable irritation rose in him. "It was cheap," he said, his voice cold. "Doesn’t really fit anymore."

Cheap?

Christine stared at him, disbelief widening her eyes. Those rings—he’d hand-filed them himself. When he’d proposed, his fingers were still nicked from the metal file. She’d cried then, moved beyond words.

And now he called it cheap.

What did that make her, then, who still wore hers like a priceless treasure? Who clung to the memory of that love every single day?

Was she cheap, too?

Or was his love for her the cheap thing?

"You can take yours off as well," Scott continued, eyes fixed on the road ahead. His words were like a blade, plunging straight into her heart. "After all, a ring like that really doesn’t suit someone of your standing." As if that weren’t enough, he added, "You’re the daughter of the Dennis family. There’s no need to lower yourself for a poor guy like me."

"I never thought that!" she denied urgently. She’d always feared their difference in status would create a barrier between them. "I’ve never thought that way."

She loved him for who he was. His wealth—or lack of it—had never mattered.

"You should think that way," Scott said, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. It seemed to mock himself.

Part of him truly wished she were that kind of person—vain, entitled. It would make hurting her so much easier, free of this gnawing guilt. But she wasn’t. She was just… good. So good it felt like a crime.

Neither of them spoke after that.

When they reached the beach, Scott saw her listless expression. He took her hand again and led her slowly across the sand into the sea breeze, toward the swing they always used. Sitting her down, he began to push, gentle and rhythmic.

Just like before.

Except Christine wasn’t laughing. She wasn’t chattering away. She sat in silence, docile as a lamb.

She didn’t know if coming here had been right or wrong.

"Scott," she said, tilting her head back to look up at him. "If something’s making you unhappy… you can tell me."

Scott’s hands stilled on the swing ropes. He looked down at her earnest face, her pleading eyes, and for a long moment said nothing.

"If it’s something I did… I can change," she pressed, slipping off the swing to stand before him. She took his hands in hers, looking up at his imposing height. "I’ll change. I promise."

It was the second time she’d asked this. The last fragments of her pride dissolved, leaving nothing but ashes in her mouth.

"No," Scott said, his tone final. "It’s not you."

Some things, once done, can’t be undone. Like a hole burned through plastic—the edges ragged, warped beyond repair.

Christine fell silent again, her head bowing.

"Give me your hand," Scott said, lifting her palm.

A tiny spark of hope flickered in her chest. He used to play little games like this—placing a piece of candy in her palm, or a tiny trinket, something to make her smile when she was sad.

Obediently, she opened her hand.

Scott gripped her ring finger. With one sharp, merciless tug, he wrenched the ring off and flung it into the sea.

Christine had no chance to stop him.

“Why?” The tears she’d fought to hold back finally broke free. “Scott—why?”

“I’ll buy you a more expensive one,” Scott said.

“I don’t want expensive. I want that one.” She struggled, lunging toward the water’s edge to look for it.

Scott caught her arm, his expression hardening. “Enough. This isn’t necessary.”

He pulled her back roughly and pushed her into the car.

He had never seen her cry like this—so raw, so hysterical. Part of him expected to feel annoyed, but the ring in his pocket only pressed against him, a dull and stubborn ache.

Tears couldn’t soften a heart. Christine finally went quiet, her eyes fixed blankly on the window.

Her finger felt empty. So did her heart.

The sudden ring of a phone shattered the silence. Betty’s name flashed on the screen. Scott answered immediately, switching to speaker, his voice softening into something tender. “Hey, Betty.”

“I’m out with friends and my feet are killing me. Can you come get me?” The voice on the other end was a sugary, pleading whine.

The girl from the wheelchair.

Christine watched as he answered gently, “Sure. Send me the address. I’ll be there.”

He turned to her, his face unreadable. “I’ve got something to take care of. Go back ahead of me.”

“There’s a bus stop up ahead. Take a cab or a bus—whatever you want.”

With that, he pulled straight up to the bus stop, not even bothering to offer a decent excuse.

Staying in the car would only make her look pitiful, desperate.

Christine couldn’t help asking, “Was it because of my dad that you went out with me today?”

Scott didn’t answer. He hit the gas and sped off.

In the rearview mirror, her shoulders slumped. She leaned against a tree by the roadside, like a puppet with its strings cut.

He told himself not to soften. This was better for both of them.

Christine truly didn’t understand. Their marriage had begun for love—so how had it come to this?

Did he not have even a shred of tenderness or respect left for her?

At this hour, the buses had long stopped running. The seaside was remote; hailing a cab was nearly impossible.

She lifted her feet and began to walk. Each step felt like walking on blades, filled with nothing but resentment and pain.

It was a punishment.

Her phone rang again in the empty night, as if mocking her weakness and misery. She jabbed the screen, hanging up on the unknown number.

But the caller was relentless.

Finally, she answered. The voice that came through was sickeningly familiar, cloyingly sweet. “Miss Christine, if I were you, I’d hurry up and divorce him. Clinging to someone who doesn’t love you—doesn’t that hurt?”

She didn’t want anyone else’s commentary on her marriage.

Her fingers tightened around the phone until they turned white. She was breathing heavily.

The voice pressed on, “Scott only loves me!”

Christine ended the call with a sharp click. She tried to steady herself, taking slow, deep breaths, repeating inside that everything would be okay.

But the truth was laid bare before her.

Christine had bet her whole life on a single promise. It was a venture where she’d lost everything.

With judgment like that, no wonder the café she’d poured her heart into kept losing money year after year.

She was the world’s stupidest businesswoman.

She laughed at herself, but the laugh tore at her heart until it ached.

Under the moonlight, she kept walking. Faster and faster, until she was running down the deserted road. She wanted to run forever—away from the humiliation, away from the sorrow and loneliness.

By the time she stood before her father again, she would be the Christine who could smile.

It took three full hours of walking before Christine finally flagged down a taxi.

The driver glanced at her sweat-drenched face. “Got guts, miss, running alone this late. Boyfriend not around?”

She shook her head.

“Well, hope you find a man who treats you right,” he said with a chuckle, stopping at a red light. He pointed toward the sidewalk. “Like that happy couple over there.”

The universe, it seemed, had a cruel sense of timing.

There was Scott, carrying that girl Betty on his back, letting her pinch his ears as they laughed and played—just like any young couple in love, lost in their own world at the night market.

As she watched, her vision slowly blurred.

The driver heard a choked sound from the backseat. He checked the mirror and saw her face streaked with tears. He quickly passed her a tissue. “What’s all this crying for?”

Her voice was hoarse. “Happiness. I’m just too happy.”

And she really was.

What a shame it wasn’t hers.

Christine was in no state to go to the hospital. Nor could she bear the thought of returning to that house.

Aimless, she drifted until she found herself outside the cafe. She unlocked the door, stepped behind the counter, and brewed a strong, bitter black coffee. She drank it down in one go—the taste so sharp it made her tongue tremble.

Up the wooden stairs she climbed, to her mother’s old room on the second floor. Curling up on the narrow bed was almost like being held. She lay there, forcing sleep, but her eyes stayed open until dawn.

The door chime rang. The cafe’s first customer had arrived.

She rose to help—and came face-to-face with Betty. Instinctively, Christine tried to retreat, but Betty blocked her path. “I’d like a coffee,” Betty said slowly, deliberately. “Brewed by you.”

“Is that not allowed?”

Her sweet, innocent act made yesterday’s provocation seem a distant dream.

Christine agreed.

She prepared the coffee and served it. Betty took one sip, then gagged and spat it out. “What is this? It’s awful. Make it again.”

Christine stayed silent.

A second cup was served. Betty found fault once more.

“Disgusting. Again.”

This time, Christine didn’t move. She just watched, quiet, as if observing a poor joke.

“Are you enjoying this?”

Betty hated that superior look. “Immensely,” she sneered. “You know, Scott stayed at my place all night yesterday. He just dropped me off here—gone to queue for my favorite matcha cake.”

“I thought cake deserves good coffee.” Betty waved her phone, sending him her location. “He still loves me. Just like he used to.”

The words tugged at a memory—a time when he had loved *her* with that same devotion.

She used to love handmade candied hawthorns, but cavities always made her hold back. Scott, somehow finding out, secretly learned to make them himself. Though sugar-free, they were so sour they made your teeth ache.

Christine’s hand rose unconsciously to her jaw, as if feeling that phantom pain.

“Fine.” Maybe it was the remembered sourness that choked her, leaving only single syllables. She turned back toward the counter.

Furious, Betty snatched up the scalding coffee and hurled it at Christine’s retreating back. Dark stains bloomed across her shirt like ugly flowers, the wet fabric clinging and burning.

For a moment, the pain was so intense she couldn’t stand. She slowly sank to her knees.

Betty seized the moment, collapsing with a cry. “My leg! It hurts so much!”

Scott walked in just then and saw the scene. He rushed to Betty’s side. “What happened?”

“I think my leg’s broken, it hurts so much,” she sobbed against his chest, clinging tightly.

Scott’s gaze shifted to Christine, raw hatred in his eyes. “Christine,” he snarled, “how much more do you have to hurt her? Do you have to drive her to her grave?”

She didn’t understand his words, but she understood his hate.

The pain on her back was nothing compared to the ache in her chest. She was the one wronged, yet he couldn’t see it.

The barista rushed over. “Are you okay, Christine?”

She bit back her tears and shook her head. Something in that gesture seemed to trigger Scott. He scooped Betty into his arms and shot Christine a look of pure scorn. “Stop the act. You’re just like your father—both of you experts at playing the victim. He pretended to be the saint to deceive everyone, and you… you’ve mastered the pitiful, helpless routine.”

He could insult her all he wanted. But he should never have spoken about her father that way.

“Scott,” she said, her eyes red, voice low and trembling. “That was my father.”