When I picked up Dennis's charm bracelet, I noticed something unusual about the charms.

Under the dim light, I examined them closely and finally saw that each charm was inscribed with a word: Camille.

In that moment, I gave up on Dennis entirely.

…

The next morning, I said to Dennis, "Let's go to the Willow family residence together."

His expression froze for a brief second before he regained his composure. "All right," he said calmly, "but let's return right after we've delivered the gift."

I knew he didn't want me to go. He was afraid I might disrupt Camille's celebration.

But I only wanted to see my family one last time. After all, tomorrow, I would begin preparing to leave.

At the Willow family residence, the place was abuzz with guests celebrating Camille's pregnancy and her selection for the international art exhibition.

In the crowd, Camille was the center of attention, surrounded by glowing admiration. Guests lavished her with praise, saying her painting submitted to the competition was certain to win a major award.

When I walked in, Camille's face briefly darkened, but she quickly masked it with a poised smile.

"Ah, Tracy my darling sister, you came too?" she said, her tone laced with mockery. "You've been so idle lately."

Ignoring her provocation, my gaze fell on the painting being displayed.

It was a work so familiar it cut me like a knife.

It was my painting, completed years ago and kept hidden as a treasured piece, never shown to anyone.

How had my painting ended up here? How had it become her "competition entry"?

Camille smiled faintly as she leaned closer, her voice soft but taunting. "Tracy, do you like this painting so much?"

I glared at her, just as I opened my mouth to respond—

She suddenly let out a startled cry, "No—!"

Before I could react, her body tilted backward. She stumbled, clutching her stomach, her face contorting in pain.

The room erupted into chaos.

"What happened?!"

"Camille is pregnant! How could you push her like that?"

"Call a doctor, quickly!"

Amid the commotion, I heard a voice shout, filled with worry, "Camille!"

Perhaps others wouldn't have recognized it, but I knew instantly.

It was Dennis's voice.

The tenderness in his tone was unmistakable, shattering the last shred of hope I had been clinging to.

Sensing my gaze, Dennis quickly composed himself.

Turning to me, his voice was calm but carried an undercurrent of reproach. "No matter what happened, Camille is pregnant now. You shouldn't have pushed her."

At that moment, news arrived that the painting had made it to the competition's finals, with a high likelihood of winning first prize.

A glimmer of undisguised joy crossed his face—a look I hadn't seen even once in our five years of marriage.

In a low voice, I asked him, "Why is Camille's painting identical to mine?"

His body tensed briefly before he regained his usual composure. "It must be a coincidence," he said lightly. "Perhaps her style is just similar to yours…"

I laughed coldly and said nothing more.

The painting had been locked away in my private gallery, with access limited to a handful of people.

How the painting had ended up here, and who was behind it, was no mystery at all.

This painting had been meant as a gift for our fifth wedding anniversary.

But now, as I thought about it, even our marriage itself was a facade. The painting no longer had any meaning.

I smiled faintly, my voice so calm it betrayed no emotion.

Dennis seemed to sense something off about me. His expression faltered briefly before he suggested, "Why don't we leave now? Find somewhere to relax for a bit."

I looked up at him, smiling faintly. "Let's take the yacht," I suggested. "A night cruise. We can watch the sunrise tomorrow."

…

In the car, he started discussing plans for the next day. "I've already prepared a birthday surprise for you. Once things settle down, let's start planning for a child. How does that sound?"

I stayed silent, gazing out the window as the city lights flickered by. I didn't respond.

The car had just started moving when his phone rang. He answered it, his brows knitting together as he spoke, a note of hesitation in his voice.

I turned to him, my tone calm. "If you've got something to handle, go ahead."

He hesitated. "Tracy, I…"

"It's fine," I cut him off gently. "I'll wait for you on the yacht."

I couldn't see the caller ID, but I didn't need to. Only one person could make him wear that expression.

…

Alone on the yacht, I took out my phone and opened Camille's social media page.

A freshly uploaded photo greeted me, captioned: [Success feels sweeter with someone by your side. Midnight snacks, late-night talks—thank you for always looking out for me.]

The comments beneath it were full of admiration.

[Your husband spoils you so much!]

[This is what a dream couple looks like!]

But my eyes were drawn to something else—the bracelet in the photo. It was Dennis's bracelet.

I dialed his number, but it was Camille's voice that answered. "What is it, Tracy? Calling so late—looking for Dennis?" Her tone was dripping with mockery.

She didn't stop there. "Give it up. He won't be coming back tonight. Why would he? I handed him over to you, and you still couldn't keep him. Pathetic."

I didn't respond. I hung up the phone, my grip tight as I turned to the yacht's crew.

"Set sail."

"Should we wait for anyone else?" one of them asked.

"No need. It's just me," I replied softly.

The yacht glided into the open sea, slicing through the waters. I stood alone at the bow, staring up at the starlit sky.

The wind was icy, cutting through me like shards of glass. The stars above glittered faintly, their light scattering over the rippling waves below.

He never came.

I sat on the deck, my gaze vacant, fixed on the endless expanse of the ocean.

Memories of the past five years swirled in my mind like fragments of a shattered mirror. His warmth, his promises, his gentle presence—they all surfaced, only to fall apart into jagged pieces.

All of it had been a lie. Every tender moment, every kind word. Now, it felt like a cruel joke, hollow and mocking.

Before dawn, I made one last call to him. This time, his phone was off.

I stared at the screen for a moment before setting up a timed release for two files: a recording of a phone call and a video of me creating that painting—the one now falsely paraded as Camille's masterpiece.

With that done, I walked to the stern of the yacht, gazing one last time at the faint glow on the horizon.

Then, I leapt into the freezing embrace of the sea.

Elsewhere, Dennis hurriedly left Camille's side. "I have to go," he told her. "I promised I'd watch the sunrise with Tracy."

Camille blocked his way unhappily. "Dennis, I need you right now too…"

He shook his head. "Not now. I can't."

Before he could leave, his assistant ran up, face pale.

"Mr. Malcolm," he stammered, "your wife… she jumped into the sea."