For a long time after that, I deliberately avoided every place where I might run into him. I never looked for him again.

But then the truck driver who killed my mom tracked me down. He said the accident cost him his job, buried his family in debt—that I'd ruined his entire life.

Red-eyed, he spat his hatred at me.

During that period, I was a walking corpse. Desperate beyond words. I climbed to the rooftop, ready to end it all.

James heard somehow. He came tearing up those stairs like a madman and grabbed my arm so hard it bruised.

Eyes rimmed red, he kept repeating that none of this was my fault. He said the way I'd protected him back then was the bravest thing he'd ever seen—that I was his hero.

Later, when I found out I was pregnant with that monster's child, he stayed by my side through every hospital visit.

Later still, when our careers took off, he helped me gather evidence. Together, we put that truck driver behind bars.

But now he was using these secrets as a blade, driving it straight into my chest.

I kept asking myself: how did the man who walked me through my darkest years become this?

Before I could process anything, my phone buzzed again. A video this time. From Michelle.

I tapped it open. My stomach lurched.

James and Michelle, tangled together on screen.

She faced the camera with a provocative smile, enunciating every word:

"James, all that stuff about Scarlett online? I leaked it."

"You won't blame me, will you?"

He paused mid-motion. Clearly caught off guard. Then continued anyway.

"Not next time. I'll handle it."

Violent nausea slammed into me. I stumbled to the bathroom, gripped the toilet, and vomited until nothing was left. My stomach was empty but I couldn't stop heaving. Acid and bile burned up my throat, choking me until tears streamed down my face.

In the spinning darkness, my phone rang again. Another message from Michelle.

A photo this time. She was wearing stilettos, one heel pressed against James's face, her expression dripping with triumph.

The caption read:

"Back then, I could step on James Vance. Now? Same story."

I stared at those words. No tears came. Even the pain had gone numb, like the body being carved apart wasn't mine.

No anger. No breakdown. I just mechanically pressed and held the screen, saving every video, every photo, every message she'd sent.

When I finished, I opened the booking app and bought a ticket. Tonight, 11 p.m. A city I'd never been to.

I just needed to escape this place drowning in betrayal.

The moment payment confirmed, wind howled outside. Rain hammered the glass like fists, and within seconds it became a downpour.

A notification popped up:

Due to weather, your flight is delayed by 12 hours.

I stared at the screen, hollow as a puppet with its strings cut.

After a long while, I opened my photo album. Starting from high school, I deleted every picture of us together. Every shot I'd once treasured like it was priceless.

One by one.

Until none remained.

Those photos—it took me two full hours to delete the last one.

Rain still hammered against the window. Inside, nothing but my own breathing broke the silence.

My eyelids grew heavier, and eventually I drifted off against the couch.

I didn't know how long I'd been out when I heard a key in the lock.

Before I was fully awake, cold arms wrapped around me.

A strange perfume invaded my senses, and I had to fight the urge to gag.

I shoved James away without a word.

"You reek. It's disgusting."

He went rigid, guilt flooding his face. He stumbled back a step.

"Scarlett, I'll shower right now. I'll wash it off, I promise."

He bolted for the bathroom. The water started running almost immediately.

I didn't watch him go. I just lifted my eyes to the window—lightning still tearing through the sky.

When he finally came out, wrapped in a bathrobe, he approached me with careful steps. His voice had that pleading edge.

"Scarlett, I'm clean now. No smell. Nothing."

I didn't respond.

"Scarlett, let's have a baby. What do you say?"

The phone on the coffee table buzzed.

The screen lit up—Michelle.

I only glanced at it, but I still caught the words.

James, the thunder is so loud. I'm scared all alone. Can you come over?

His gaze flickered. He reached over and turned the screen off.

He crouched down, took my hand, made his voice even softer.

"Scarlett, it's nothing important. Let's not talk about unpleasant things. I—"

The phone erupted again, vibrating nonstop.

The screen lit up, went dark, lit up again. Message after message.

James, I'm really scared. I think I hear footsteps outside.

James, where are you? Answer me!

Someone's knocking on my door. James, help me.

After that last one, the phone went dead silent.

James snatched it up. His fingers were shaking so badly he almost dropped it. He dialed her number instantly.

It was like he'd forgotten I existed. Forgotten that seconds ago he'd been promising me a baby, promising me a future.

He pressed the phone to his ear and shouted.

"Michelle! Pick up! Michelle!"

No answer. He didn't even finish dressing—just ran for the door barefoot.

Only at the entryway did he freeze, like something finally clicked.

Oh. Right. I was still sitting there.

He turned, glanced at me.

"Scarlett, something came up at work. I'll head over first. Get some sleep, don't wait up. I'll bring breakfast in the morning."

I didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stared at the door after it closed, listening to the thunder grow louder.

A while later, my phone buzzed.

Michelle again. This time, just a photo.

James was on his knees, arms wrapped tight around her.

She was smirking at the camera.

See? He still came. He's holding me and crying so hard he's shaking.

I stared at that photo. Numb. Long-pressed the screen and saved it to the same album as all the others.

The rain fell all night. I just sat there on that couch, not moving, from dark until dawn.

When sunlight finally broke through the glass, the rain had stopped.

The clock on the wall ticked past eight in the morning.

I stood up and braced myself against the couch for a long moment before dragging the suitcase I'd packed ages ago out the door.

At the airport, I still had time before boarding. I found a quiet corner, opened the folder I'd prepared on my phone, and sent everything—videos, photos, screenshots proving James cheated and that Michelle knew exactly what she was doing—to every work email I could find for both of them.

The "sent successfully" notification popped up. Then I opened social media and uploaded it all: Michelle's high school bullying, those videos, everything.

The caption was four words:

"Locked together. Blessings."

I watched the notifications refresh, then pulled up my suitcase and walked toward the boarding gate.

After the plane took off, James's work group chat exploded.

At first, he swiped the notifications away impatiently—until that photo of him sobbing in Michelle's arms appeared. He froze.

Michelle grabbed his arm, screaming. "It has to be Scarlett. She sent it. She's insane! James, do something!"

But James looked like every drop of blood in his body had turned to ice.

He suddenly remembered the night we first got together. I'd stood on tiptoe, hooked my arms around his neck, and told him: "James Vance, if you ever betray me, I'll dump you so hard—then I'll make sure the whole world knows you're a scumbag."

Back then, he'd laughed it off. Pulled me into his arms. Said he never would. Not in this lifetime.

Now every word had come true.

He finally understood. I wasn't throwing a tantrum. I wasn't waiting to be coaxed.

I was done.

"No way..."

His face went white as paper.