In less than six months, Cassandra Blake’s childhood sweetheart had visited our bridal chamber nine times, each visit taking something away. Furniture, appliances, even potted plants and paintings.

I wanted to call the police, but Cassandra stopped me every single time.

“Derek’s family isn’t well off. He just started working and can only manage the down payment. The house is empty,” she’d say.

“I agreed to lend him these things. It’s not like he won’t return them.”

“Why are you in such a hurry?”

I gritted my teeth and bought replacements.

The tenth time, Derek Langston took my figurine cabinet. Inside were treasures I’d collected for years—worth tens of millions.

I snapped. I chased him to his home.

Inside, everything was a mirror of my bridal chamber: the furniture, the layout, even the decorations. And on the wall of the bedroom hung a massive wedding photo of him and Cassandra.

Silently, I pulled out my phone and sent a message to the homeowners’ group chat: “Everything in Room 801 is free. Need anything?”

——

Cassandra didn’t come home until eleven that night. She kicked off her heels, peeled off her stockings, and rubbed her ankle, her voice soft and drawn out.

“I’m exhausted. I really don’t want to work overtime.”

I didn’t answer, my gaze fixed on the dancing shadows across the TV screen.

Two hours ago, Derek had updated his Instagram post. A close-up of a movie ticket stub, the dim theater in the background, and a pair of hands tightly clasped together. On the girl’s wrist was the same bracelet Cassandra had worn when she left the house that morning.

I had been waiting six months for that movie, asking her out three times. The first time, she had a project. The second, her friend was in a bad mood. The third, the day before yesterday, she had frowned and declined.

“What’s so good about those sci-fi movies with all the fighting and killing? They’re so noisy. I’d rather stay home and rest.”

It wasn’t the movie—it was who I could watch it with.

Now, she sat beside me.

“Rub my legs! They’re so sore.”

The faint, sweet scent of popcorn butter, mixed with a hint of men’s cologne, filled the air. I didn’t move.

“Lucas, I’m talking to you. Why aren’t you responding?”

She nudged me with her elbow, her usual irritation in her tone.

“Yeah, I heard you,” I said flatly, devoid of emotion.

She paused, tilting her head to study me. But her good mood quickly overpowered her suspicion. She rose and headed to the bathroom.

“I’m so tired! I need a shower first.”

Afterward, she slipped under the covers, damp with the floral scent of her shower gel, and curled up against me. Her hand rested on my chest, fingers unconsciously tracing small circles.

“Dear…”

Her voice softened, the last syllable rising in that sticky, pleading way she always used when asking for something.

“Hmm?”

“Today Derek recommended a large Italian-style round bed. It’s absolutely beautiful! The design is luxurious, the genuine leather headboard looks high-end—it would be perfect for our bridal bedroom.”

Her eyes sparkled in the dim bedside light, full of longing.

“Can we change beds? The old one felt too ordinary and uncomfortable.”

I looked into her eyes, catching the reflection of the ceiling light, but it couldn’t reach deeper.

The room was silent, quiet enough to hear her shallow breathing. I didn’t answer immediately, as usual. But I didn’t refuse either.

I stared at her, calm and steady.

“Why not buy two?” I asked.

“I’ll have one sent straight to Derek.”

The air froze.

Cassandra’s fingers on my chest stiffened. The coquettish charm she had been weaving a moment ago drained from her face. She snatched her hand back and shifted half an inch away.

“Lucas, what are you talking about?!” Her voice was sharp, defensive.

“Why bring up Derek out of nowhere? You’re being completely unreasonable!”

Her brows knitted; her lips pressed into a tight, angry line.

“I just saw a bed I liked and wanted to change ours. Are you really that petty? Derek’s working so hard on his own—what’s wrong with me helping him as a friend?”

She gave a small, incredulous laugh.

“You’re a grown man, yet you make a scene over every little thing.”

The words landed exactly as she meant them to. She was turning it on me again.

Petty. Nitpicky. Overreacting.

Every time she used that same tone—disappointment, accusation, a touch of disdain—until I began to doubt myself. Maybe I was too narrow-minded. Maybe I was overreacting.

Derek had it hard. Derek just graduated. Derek’s family wasn’t well off.

So of course, it was acceptable for him to strip our wedding room bare.

Of course, my wife could hand out my belongings as if they were nothing.

In the past, seeing her like this, I’d fold. Tell myself it wasn’t worth arguing over things. Swallow my frustration and move on.

But not this time.

Under the light, her cheeks were flushed with excitement; in her beautiful eyes was a naked protectiveness that had nothing to do with me. I felt it then—a heaviness deeper than anger, sharper than disappointment. A hollowness that drained even the desire to argue.

The longer I stayed silent, the more her temper rose. She leapt to her feet, voice rising:

“Lucas, do you even think I’ll marry you?

If you keep acting like this, we’re done!”

It was her usual weapon. Before, the mere hint of a breakup had been enough to make me apologize, compromise, cave.

But this time, I simply looked up at her and said, calm as a still pond,

“Alright. Then let’s break up.”

She blinked, stunned, as if she’d misheard. The fury on her face faltered. Then her cheeks flushed red, a storm of shame, disbelief, and rage.

“Fine! You’re amazing, Lucas! Don’t regret it!”

She grabbed her clothes and makeup, dressing furiously. Ten minutes later she stormed out with her bag, the door slamming so hard the walls shuddered.

I took out my phone and dialed my father.

“Dad,” I said quietly, “I’m not getting married. Please ask the Lane family if the engagement Grandpa arranged is still valid.”

There was a pause—no questions, no advice. Finally, my father sighed.

“Son, I told you. You must find a wife of equal status.”

I gave a bitter smile.

A little after one in the morning, my phone lit up. A message from Cassandra’s best friend:

Lucas, come quickly.

Cassandra’s drunk—she keeps calling your name.

She even said she’s going to slit her wrists!

Attached was a video.

In the dim glow of poolside lights, Cassandra sat slumped, hair disheveled, a ghost of the woman I once thought I loved.

The pool water was stained mostly red.

I stared at the screen for ten long seconds, then grabbed my car keys and left.

When I arrived at the bathhouse’s private room, shrill laughter greeted me.

Cassandra lounged in a chair, wrapped in a towel, half a glass of fruit wine dangling from her hand, a smug smile curving her lips.

Her friends erupted into laughter the moment I opened the door.

“Look who it is—the great lover Lucas! So quick! Didn’t you run a red light?”

“See, Cassandra? I told you he couldn’t let you go.”

“Just pour some red wine in the pool next time; you’ll trick him even faster!”

Cassandra stood and sauntered over, her tone light, almost teasing.

“Since you’re so worried about me, I’ll forgive you this time.”

I said nothing, my gaze fixed firmly on her.

The door opened again. Derek stepped in, carrying a bag of milk tea. He walked straight to Cassandra, producing a cup. His voice was honeyed, smooth enough to drip:

“Cassandra, iced drinks aren’t good for you during your period, so I ordered it room temperature.”

She took it, her smile instantly softening, a touch of shyness coloring her cheeks.

“Thank you, Derek, you’re so thoughtful.”

The girls around them whispered and giggled, eyes wide with envy.

“Look at Derek! So considerate!”

“Exactly! Better than a serious boyfriend who’d just make Cassandra angry.”

“Cassandra, you really need to rethink—he might not be the best match!”

Derek’s gaze flickered toward me. He gave a flawless smile, but his eyes were sharp, venomous under the surface.

“Lucas, you’re here too?” His tone was familiar, casual, yet his gaze lingered pointedly on my clothes before settling on my watch.

“Such good taste in this outfit… and this watch. Cassandra always has an eye for fine things.”

Soft words, like knives cloaked in silk. Every compliment on items I once cherished—some of which Cassandra had given me during our engagement—was a subtle reminder: they had perhaps already passed through her hands, now shaded by another man.

Cassandra seemed blissfully unaware. Flattered by Derek, she took his arm and glared at me with mock severity.

“Lucas’s taste is truly awful. If it weren’t for my guidance, our wedding room would have looked ridiculous. He’s so petty and inconsiderate.”

Derek placed a hand gently on hers, his expression calm and understanding.

“Cassandra, don’t say that. Lucas’s just conservative… a little careless. He actually loves you very much.”

Each word he spoke “excused” me, yet simultaneously tightened the noose. My position felt more desperate, more exposed.

My best friends shook their heads quietly. I watched the scene unfold, detached.

Cassandra nestled against Derek, smiling genuinely, her dependence on him clear. And suddenly, I wanted to laugh—not at them, but at myself. Laugh at my gullibility. Laugh at my endless tolerance, my repeated willingness to believe the lies.

Derek’s voice broke the moment, calm, measured.

“Lucas, I understand why you argued with Cassandra.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Because I lent you something without asking?”

He looked at me squarely, unflinching, without a hint of guilt or evasion.