I ran through every florist near campus and along the nearby streets, just to gather the 999 roses she asked for.

Because I hoped that with those roses, I could finally hold the woman I loved.

Her dream was to become a powerful woman in the business world—and I supported her without question.

Every night, she came home late, exhausted, collapsing onto the sofa the moment she stepped inside. I took off her shoes, washed her feet, massaged her tired legs and whispered encouragement into her ear.

I wanted her to succeed. And because of my constant care, she was able to throw herself into her work without distractions.

But I’m human too. I get tired. I get worn down. Still, no matter how drained I felt, I never said a word.

Because to love someone… is to give them everything, without expecting anything in return.

Eventually, she did succeed. She got busier than ever.

“Dinner with a client tonight.”

“There’s a meeting this evening.”

“I’m not coming home—don’t wait up.”

Each message came in a quick, clipped tone before she hung up.

Even though I felt disappointed, I never complained. I stayed behind the scenes, silently supporting her.

My friends said I was being pathetic. I used to brush it off. Love is love—does it really matter who’s giving more?

But now, I understand.

A love that makes you lower yourself isn’t real love—it’s just one-sided devotion.

I loved her with all I had.

She gave me only a sliver in return.

Before my friend could finish drafting the divorce agreement, a message came in from Bianca.

[The project’s finished. Celebration banquet tonight. Change into the suit I bought you a few days ago. I’ll swing by to pick you up.]

I laughed under my breath, opened the wardrobe and stared at the ill-fitting, worn-out suit hanging inside. The collar was frayed, the cuffs thinning.

I pulled it out and threw it straight into the trash.

I didn’t want anyone’s used leftovers. Not even hers.

Half an hour later, Bianca came in, her expression immediately darkening when she saw me in casual clothes.

“I told you to wear the suit.”

I walked past her, heading for the door and replied flatly, “It’s not my celebration. It doesn’t matter what I wear.”

Downstairs, Darren rolled down the passenger-side window as I approached.

He was dressed to the nines—brand-new suit, styled hair, even makeup lightly done. He grinned at me.

“Mr. Scott, I forgot to remind you earlier—sorry you had to trouble Ms. Bianca to come pick me up.”

Then he glanced over my clothes and chuckled.

“Mr. Scott, why are you dressed like this? It’s a big celebration tonight. You’re General Manager Bianca’s husband—you should help her save face.”

I smiled politely.

“She’s never relied on me for that. And with such a handsome assistant by her side, I doubt she needs my help.”

“Stop being sarcastic. Get in the car already.”

Bianca’s tone was sharp with irritation.

I turned to her. “Back seat?”

She rolled her eyes. “Obviously. Quit dawdling. If I didn’t have to pick you up, the banquet would’ve started already.”

But I never asked you to pick me up.

I didn’t say it aloud. I just gave a faint smile, opened the back door and got in.

The whole drive, she and Darren excitedly chatted about the successful project, like a well-matched pair. I stayed silent, looking down at my phone.

My friend had sent the draft of the divorce agreement. I reviewed it, making small notes and sending updates back—adding a clause here, adjusting a detail there.

If I was going to leave Bianca, I wanted a clean break.

At one point, Darren turned back and laughed.

“Mr. Scott, it’s a real shame you weren’t there for my birthday. Even though it was my night, Ms. Bianca totally stole the spotlight. You should’ve seen it.”

Before I could answer, Bianca let out a snort.

“What’s there to regret? He was dying to avoid me anyway. If he had come, he probably would've just ruined the mood.”

I nodded.

“You’re right.”

When we arrived at the hotel, Bianca stepped out of the car without a glance at me and walked straight to Darren’s side.

I glanced at them and followed inside.

The private room was buzzing. A group of people raised their champagne flutes high and the wine flowed like water.

Just as they burst into celebration, someone accidentally splashed a full glass of liquor. Bianca stepped in front of Darren and got soaked. Her clothes clung to her skin, damp and translucent.

Mine were wet too—but no one noticed.

All attention was fixed on her and Darren.

I quietly took a tissue and wiped the wine off my face and shirt, then found an empty seat in the corner.

Soon, dishes were served and bottles uncorked. The room grew louder with laughter and toasts. Then Darren stood up with his glass in hand.

“The successful completion of this project couldn’t have happened without Ms. Bianca’s tireless effort,” he said with a smile. “Let’s raise a glass to her!”

Everyone stood—except me.

Laughter and applause filled the room. I sat alone, the only silent figure among the celebration.

Then Darren poured himself another glass.

“But tonight, there’s someone else I want to thank,” he continued. “Without his support behind the scenes, we wouldn’t have made it this far.”

He turned to me and raised his glass. “Mr. Scott, this one’s for you.”

I didn’t move.

“Thanks,” I said flatly. “But I’m not feeling well. I can’t drink tonight.”

The smile on Darren’s face froze.

Bianca’s brow furrowed sharply. “Not feeling well? This is the first I’ve heard of it.” Her voice tightened. “Kevin, this is a celebration—not the time for games.”

Darren still tried to smooth things over. He walked over, glass in hand.

“Kevin, I mean this sincerely. Without your support for Ms. Bianca, the company wouldn’t be where it is today.”

He lowered his voice and leaned closer. “Let’s not dwell on what happened at my birthday. That was my bad. I shouldn’t have let her come. Just drink this and let’s move on.”

But I saw the smug glint in his eyes.

I met his gaze coldly. “I told you—I can’t drink.”

“Mr. Scott, come on. We’re both men. Be generous.”

He acted as if he hadn’t heard a word I said and forced the glass into my hand.

I pushed it away. It tipped, spilling wine across his expensive suit.

A stunned hush fell over the room.

Then—clack—Bianca slammed her chopsticks down.

“Kevin, enough already! I let it go the other night. And now Darren is trying to patch things up and you’re still making a scene?”

“‘Not feeling well’? More like being petty.”

She grabbed a bottle, poured a glass to the brim and stormed over.

“Here. Drink.”

Darren tried to de-escalate. “Ms. Bianca, it’s fine. He’s not feeling well—don’t force him.”

A few others chimed in, trying to calm her down.

But Bianca wasn’t backing off.

“Kevin, do I not give you enough respect?”

“You’re a grown man. How long are you going to act like a spoiled brat?”

“Darren is being the bigger person and trying to end this nonsense and you’re still putting up a front? Are you trying to humiliate me?”

I looked at her, baffled. “End a conflict? Did I hear that right? Or are you just delusional? Is that what he’s doing?”

“You’re unbelievable!” she snapped.

Fury blazed in her eyes.

“I’m warning you—either you drink this glass, or get ready for a divorce. I’ve had it. I won’t tolerate another minute of this!”

I nodded, calm and steady.

“Fine. Then let’s divorce.”