Daphne laughed until her shoulders shook, as if savoring the collapse and despair she expected to see on my face.

Instead, I only looked at her quietly and nodded.

"Mm. I know."

Daphne's laughter cut off abruptly. She stared at me in disbelief, as though she had seen a ghost.

"That's all the reaction you have?"

"What else should I do?" I asked calmly. "Cry and beg you to give Geston back to me?"

"You—" She was left speechless, her face flushing red with anger.

I stood up and looked down at her from above.

"Daphne, I'll give you everything you want. I just hope you can hold on to it."

With that, I didn't spare her another glance and turned to walk out of the ward.

Behind me came her shrill, furious screams and the sound of something shattering.

After that, Geston came home less and less often. He had to tend to his fragile first love, while also dealing with the crushing workload at the company. His entire person withered at a pace visible to the naked eye.

He thought he was simply exhausted and never once suspected something was wrong with his body. I had no intention of telling him.

He grabbed my hand, a trace of vulnerability and pleading in his eyes.

"Vi, I feel terrible…"

I pulled my hand back and handed him a glass of water.

"Drink more warm water."

I returned his old, dismissive words to him exactly as he had once given them to me.

His expression darkened instantly.

But he said nothing, only drank the water in silence.

From that day on, there was an added note of scrutiny and unease in the way he looked at me. He seemed to sense my change, yet couldn't put his finger on it.

He didn't know this was only the beginning.

The day Daphne was discharged from the hospital, Geston deliberately took time off to pick her up. He left early in the morning, saying he was going to buy her a bouquet of her favorite champagne roses.

As I watched his cheerful figure disappear, I pulled out the suitcase I had already packed. Then I went into the study and took three items from the drawer.

A divorce agreement with my signature already on it. A medical report diagnosing Geston with late-stage uremia. And my own abortion medical record.

I placed them side by side in the most conspicuous spot on the desk.

Sunlight streamed in through the window, casting clear shadows across those thin sheets of paper.

When everything was done, I dragged my suitcase and took one last look at the place where I had lived for three years. It had once held my most beautiful dreams—and given me my deepest despair.

Now, I was finally leaving without the slightest trace of attachment.

I boarded a flight bound for overseas.

Just as I took out my phone to turn it off, the screen lit up.

Caller ID: Geston.