On my twenty-ninth birthday, my husband gave me a bottle of perfume.

I sprayed it on without thinking—and ended up in the ER with an anaphylactic reaction.

After surviving that close call, Wesley came to visit me in the hospital, bringing along his childhood sweetheart, who was carrying a basket of flowers.

Calmly, I asked for a divorce.

His little sweetheart rushed to shield him, crying as she apologized, "Emerie, please don't blame President Abrams. The perfume was my idea. I just thought the scent would suit you."

Wesley wrapped his arm around her, comforting her while turning to me impatiently. “Don’t come to regret this.”

——

The next time I saw Wesley was a month later.

After I was discharged, I stayed at my apartment to recover before returning to the villa.

The housekeeper told me that Wesley had only come back once since I was hospitalized. He hadn’t returned since.

I wasn’t surprised.

This wasn’t his only home—he had another one, with Jessica.

I took a USB drive to the study and printed out two copies of the divorce agreement. I signed my name and called Wesley.

He didn’t come back until late that night, carrying a gift bag.

When he walked in and saw me on the sofa, he casually ordered, “Make me a bowl of hangover soup. I had dinner and drinks with Director Brown tonight. My stomach hurts.”

Without waiting for a response, he tossed the gift bag on the sofa and headed upstairs to shower and change. When he came back down and saw that I hadn’t touched the bag, he handed it to me.

“A belated birthday gift.”

I didn’t take it, so he placed it on my lap instead. I stood and set it aside.

“Aren’t you going to see what it is?”

I tugged at the corners of my lips, but couldn’t manage a smile. I looked up at him. Our home was full of gift bags like that one. I didn’t need to look inside to know what it was.

Since our marriage and the birth of our child, he had never put any thought into gifts. It was always skincare products, handbags, or jewelry—always the same styles, the same designs.

It probably didn’t take him more than three minutes to choose one.

He never noticed that sometimes I left his gifts unopened for months.

The only exception was that bottle of perfume. Its packaging was different. I opened it and gave it a try—only to instantly regret it.

It was rose-scented.

And I was allergic to roses—so much so that I couldn't even bear the smell.

I picked up the divorce papers from the coffee table and handed them to him.

“My lawyer drafted this. Take a look. If there are no issues, please sign.”

He hesitated, not taking the papers right away. Instead, he asked, “Did you start the hangover soup? I’ll go check.”

I let him go into the kitchen. Moments later, he came back out with gloomy expression.

“You didn’t make it.”

“I’m tired. Didn’t feel like moving.” I shrugged.

Maybe his stomach really hurt—he pressed on it with a wince before sitting down on the sofa.

I pretended not to notice.

He scooted over, wrapped an arm around my waist, and said softly, “Emerie, I’m sorry. It was my fault this time. I’ve been so busy, that’s why I asked Jessica to help with your gift. How about this—I’ll book a nice restaurant, and we can celebrate your birthday properly tomorrow?”

I shook my head and gently removed his hand, putting some distance between us.

His expression darkened. “This is all over a bottle of perfume?”

But this wasn’t just about the perfume.

It was because the author had stopped writing.

The romance novel had ended.

He had started thinking differently—and so had I.

We were no longer the perfect couple in a sweet love story.

The day after our wedding, I regained my memories.

Turns out, I was the female lead in a fluffy romance novel.

Fair-skinned, beautiful, with long legs and a cold, aloof aura. A top student and campus belle—with only one flaw: an allergy to roses.

Wesley was the male lead—cool and handsome, with a chronic stomach condition, endlessly devoted to me.

We dated for four years in college, sickeningly sweet and inseparable. After our graduation party, we got a hotel room. Wesley lost control, and I got pregnant.

My morning sickness was severe. Wesley doted on me, urged me not to work, and promised to take care of me and the baby.

During the tough pregnancy, he would even scold the baby in my belly. “Stop tormenting your mom, or I’ll spank you when you come out.”

Not long after I regained my memories, Jessica returned from studying abroad.

She joined Nexus Corporation and became Wesley’s personal assistant.

That was when I learned her parents were close friends with the Abrams family. After they passed away, the Abrams took her in.

She and Wesley had grown up together, and she had always loved him.

And that was when I first heard her name—Jessica, a character who had never existed in the original sweet romance.

She only appeared after the story ended.

But I couldn’t blame Jessica. She had confessed her feelings to Wesley long ago. He knew how she felt—and still kept her close.

His reasons? I had no idea.

During my pregnancy, they went on business trips together. They drank together. They attended their high school reunion—together.

At first, I was jealous. Wesley would laugh it off and tease me.

Eventually, I stopped bringing it up. Jessica just quietly inserted herself between us—and never left.

Now he was asking if I wanted a divorce because of a bottle of perfume.

I found it laughable—and sad.

“The perfume was just the last straw.”

“Wesley, I’ve wanted a divorce for a long time.”

His brows furrowed, and looked at me coldly.

“Emerie, is there someone else?”

“I won't allow it!”

I was just about to call him insane when he lunged at me, pinning me to the sofa.

"Wesley, stop it!"

I struggled to push him off, but he had his full weight on me. When I saw his hand reach downward, I slapped him hard across the face.

That slap made him freeze.

His eyes turned bloodshot, laced with fury. "Emerie, don’t forget—you’re still my wife. I can’t even touch you now?"

As I remembered the surgical abortion. My entire body trembled.

“You disgust me.”

Our eyes locked, but I didn’t back down.

Finally, he got off me, sliding down to the carpet, letting out a bitter laugh.

“So that’s why you want a divorce. Now it all makes sense.”

“Who is it?”

I said nothing.

Wesley grabbed his coat from the sofa and stormed toward the door.

"Emerie, you want a divorce? Keep dreaming!"

"You better hide him well. If I find out who he is, I’ll kill him!"

I stared at his retreating back.

A sharp pain pierced my chest.

I called out to him.

“Wesley.”

He stopped but didn’t turn around.

I asked, “Do you love me?”

He stayed silent. So I went on.

“If you loved me, would you keep Jessica—the girl who’s been in love with you for years—by your side?”

“If you loved me, would you have let your mother take our son away from me, take him overseas?”

“Wesley, the day you agreed to let your mother take our child, that’s when I started doubting your so-called love.”

He finally turned to look at me, confusion gleaming in his eyes.

“Didn’t we agree to send our son with Mom so we could have some time for ourselves?”

“That was your idea, not mine.”

“I carried that child for ten months. I would never send him far away just for the sake of some ‘alone time.’ I’m not that kind of person.”

He shook his head slightly.

“We also said we’d try for a second baby.”

I suddenly laughed.

“There won’t be a second baby. I went into anaphylactic shock from the perfume. I lost the baby.”

There are no words to describe the look on his face.

“Why didn’t you tell me when I went to the hospital?”

He questioned me, voice tight.

“I planned to tell you that night—on my birthday. But you didn’t come. You had Jessica deliver the perfume instead.”

“Wesley, what would it have changed if the hospital told you?”

He went silent for a long time, then said flatly, “We can always have another child.”

“No, Wesley. I’m done. I want a divorce.”

“If we don’t get divorced, I can’t promise what I might do.”

I picked up the divorce papers and walked over to him.

“Sign it.”

He took the papers, eyes fixed on me. “What about you, Emerie? Do you still love me?”

“I’ve let go.”

“This time? Or a long time ago?”

I didn’t answer so he continued, “It was a long time ago, wasn’t it? You stopped clinging to me. When I went on business trips, you stopped telling me to stay safe. When I drank, you didn’t tell me to take it easy. I was in Moscow for ten days once. You never even messaged me. Just like tonight—my stomach was killing me, and you didn’t care at all.”

“Emerie, you stopped loving me first.”

“I stopped clinging to you because Jessica was always there. There was no space for me. I stopped asking about your trips because she’d post your photos together. I stopped warning you about drinking because you were always shielding her from alcohol. And that trip to Moscow? I didn’t message you because you and Jessica were dancing in a bar. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“As for tonight? You’re right. I really don’t love you anymore.”

“I’ve made room for Jessica. I wish you two the best.”

Wesley clutched the divorce agreement, his eyes bloodshot. Then, with a roar of rage, he tore the papers to shreds and stormed out.

I asked the housekeeper to clean up the mess and went to the study to print ten more copies.

An hour later, I saw Jessica’s latest social media post.

Wesley was asleep in bed. She sat on the edge, took a selfie, and posted it with a caption.

[The man I love never learned to love himself. If you don’t love him, why won’t you just let him go? Why keep torturing him?]

I grabbed the stack of divorce agreements, got in the car, and drove straight to Jessica’s home.