That afternoon, I went straight back to the company and submitted my resignation letter to my supervisor, Layton Guerra.

"Does Ivy know about your resignation?"

Mr. Guerra was clearly surprised by my decision to leave. After all, I'd been the airline's top flight attendant for seven consecutive years, and staying with the company would guarantee a bright future.

I managed a bitter smile. "I'll tell her tonight, though I doubt she'll care."

"My, my. These past few years, you two flew new routes together and won company awards together. The CEO even attended your wedding personally three years ago. Everyone was so envious, but I suppose..."

Mr. Guerra trailed off with a long sigh, his voice full of regret.

Yes, those were indeed beautiful memories. But memories were just memories. We could never go back.

After submitting my resignation, I returned home around 10:00 pm. The house was eerily quiet and empty. On my phone, a social media post from Owen popped up because he'd specifically tagged me.

The caption read, "Special thanks to my beautiful mentor for staying by my side all afternoon. As a thank you, I'm taking her to Marcus Vale's concert tomorrow! Looking forward to it."

I knew then that Ivy, who'd said she'd come home at noon, wouldn't be returning. This had happened too many times in our three years of marriage.

After making myself a simple bowl of instant noodles, I opened my email.

Looking at the job offers from over ten airlines across different countries, my cursor landed on the one from Meridian Airways in Avalonia. Without hesitation, I clicked accept and booked a flight to Avalonia for the day after tomorrow.

Five years ago, when Ivy was flying to Avalonia, she encountered the biggest incident of her career. Since then, that word—Avalonia—had become her taboo.

Not only did she refuse to fly there herself, but she hadn't let me fly that route once.

"Ivy, once I go to Avalonia, we'll probably never see each other again in this lifetime," I murmured to myself.

The next morning, I woke up and started packing my luggage. I was halfway through when Ivy came home looking exhausted.

Following her through the door was a strong scent of men's cologne that caught me off guard.

Ivy hated the smell of cologne. Every time I used it, she would scold me. So I hadn't used any cologne for a long time. Looking back now, she didn't hate cologne—she just didn't like me using it.

Seeing me packing, she paused. "Owen sobered up too late last night. I got a hotel room by myself. That's why I didn't come home."

I looked up at her, somewhat surprised. This was the first time in three years of marriage that she'd voluntarily explained herself to me.

I nodded without speaking. She then slowly walked up to me and asked, looking down, "Are you packing because you have a work flight?"

I nodded. "Something like that."

After hearing this, she seemed to breathe a sigh of relief for some reason, then continued, "I have something to do today. I'm just here to grab something, and then I'll leave. I won't be here for lunch."

"Okay."

I didn't look up, continuing to pack my luggage. I'd originally planned to tell her about my resignation over lunch, to officially end our eight-year relationship, but it seemed there wouldn't be a chance now.

With that, Ivy grabbed a red paper bag and the clothes hanging by the door and hurried out. After she left, the photo frame that had hung on the doorframe for eight years suddenly fell to the floor.

Broken glass lay scattered in every direction.

I looked over—it was a photo from our first concert together. In the picture, our hands were clasped together, our faces full of smiles.

That day, she'd promised me that no matter how busy she got, she'd accompany me to a concert every year. But since Owen became her apprentice, she'd forgotten all about it.

The clock ticked away in the empty house.

After a long silence, I cleaned up the glass shards from the floor. Then I threw that photo, a relic of happier times, into the trash can, along with the last of my lingering feelings.

That evening, after packing everything, I lay exhausted on the bed when I received a call from my best friend, Mitchell Potter.

"What's going on with Ivy? She's going overboard. Check your socials—she's actually flaunting her love with that Owen guy.

"You two aren't even divorced yet! How can she do this?"

Listening to Mitchell's complaints, I casually unlocked my phone. Owen's latest post was at the top.

In the photo, Owen wore a Patek Philippe watch on his wrist and held the red paper bag Ivy had taken from home at noon. Only then did I realize she'd come home at noon just to get the concert gift for Owen.

Below the image was a caption.

"Three years of knowing each other. I'm so lucky to have you, Ivy. Happy third anniversary!"

At that moment, it suddenly hit me.

Third anniversary?

Right, today was our third wedding anniversary too. But we'd never celebrated our wedding anniversary, so much so that I'd completely forgotten it myself.

I let out a long breath before replying to Mitchell, "She doesn't need a divorce because we never registered our marriage."

"What? You've been married for three years and still haven't registered your marriage?"

Mitchell's surprised exclamation over the phone practically blasted my eardrum.

He was right. We'd had our wedding ceremony three years ago, and she'd unilaterally canceled our marriage registration 17 times.