At that moment, the food delivery arrived.

Andrea, in a rare display of domesticity, opened each container one by one. She picked up a strawberry and placed it on Ethan's plate.

"Ethan, you're still growing. Eat more," she said.

He smiled sweetly. "Thanks, Andrea. You're the best."

Andrea picked up another strawberry and set it on my plate. "Eat. Don't be petty. Let's drop what just happened."

I looked at the bright red fruit on my plate.

I was severely allergic to strawberries. My throat would swell, and I would go into shock. In the past, Andrea would not even use strawberry-scented perfume. There were never any strawberry products in the house. Now she had put a strawberry on my plate.

"You forgot I'm allergic to strawberries?" My voice was light.

Andrea froze for a moment. A trace of awkwardness crossed her face. "Oh, I forgot. Ethan likes strawberries, so I ordered it without thinking. You can just pick it out. A little bit won't kill you."

"Come on, eat. Don't ruin the mood," Ethan chimed in. "Mr. Reed, these strawberries are really sweet. It'd be a waste not to eat them. Are you refusing just because I like them?"

As soon as Andrea heard that, she slammed her fork onto the table. "Daniel, are you done? Competing for attention with a kid who just graduated? Aren't you embarrassed? Eat it or don't. If not, get out."

I looked at her face. There was no remorse. Seven years of love could not compare to one provoking remark from Ethan.

I stood up, picked up the plate, and threw it hard into the trash right in front of her.

The crash was loud. Ethan screamed and buried himself in her arms.

She startled, then immediately exploded. "Daniel, are you insane? You dare throw things? You've got some nerve!"

I ignored her.

I turned and went to the bedroom, pulled out a suitcase, and began packing. I took only my documents, my laptop, and the financial records from the past few years. I left behind the clothes and shoes she had bought. I didn't take a single piece.

Andrea followed me in. When she saw me packing, she let out a cold laugh and leaned against the doorframe with her arms crossed. "Alright, stop acting. Aren't you tired of playing hard to get? Apologize to Ethan now, and I'll forgive your little tantrum tonight. Otherwise, if you walk out that door, don't even think about coming back."

I closed the suitcase, pushed past her, and walked out.

Behind me, Andrea shouted furiously, "Daniel! If you leave, then die out there. I'll see how long you can keep this up!"

I walked out the door and drove off.

After a while, something felt wrong. While packing, I must have gotten strawberry juice on my fingers from the plate.

Then I touched my lips without thinking.

My throat began to itch. The swelling followed, as if someone were squeezing my neck. Breathing became difficult. I needed to get to a hospital immediately.

My vision blurred, and my limbs went numb.

I pulled over to the side of the road and tremblingly took out my phone.

Instinctively, I dialed the most recent contact: Andrea.

The phone rang for a long time before someone picked up. Loud music blared on the other end. It sounded like karaoke at a bar.

Ethan's excited voice rang out. "Andrea, that's amazing! Open another bottle!"

I struggled to speak. "Help… me… Allergy… medicine…"

Andrea's voice was full of impatience and disgust. "Daniel, are you done yet? First you smashed a plate, now you're pretending to be sick? Do you think this is funny? Ethan's at the best part of his song. Don't ruin it!"

The call ended.

I tried calling again.

"The number you have dialed is unavailable."

I looked at the bustling night outside the window. So this was what a dead heart felt like.

Before I lost consciousness, I used my last bit of strength to reach out to a passing patrol officer.

…

I woke to pain. My throat felt as if I had swallowed blades, and tubes covered my body.

The doctor told me that if I had arrived five minutes later, I would have suffocated from severe anaphylactic shock.

I had been in emergency treatment for four hours. During that time, my fiancée had been opening champagne for her male assistant at a bar.

I lay on the hospital bed and stared at the ceiling.

My phone vibrated on the bedside table. It was the company's legal director, my college classmate, Zach Valto.

"Daniel, I heard you were hospitalized. Are you okay?"

My voice was hoarse. "I won't die."

"Andrea… We can't reach her. There's an urgent document that needs signing."

"No need to contact her." I closed my eyes. My mind had never been clearer. "Zach, initiate Plan B."