With the Wind, I Leave It All Behind

I braced myself for another stomachache right after the company meeting.

But what I saw made me freeze—one of the new male employees had cornered Stephanie in the bathroom.

“President Myers,” he said with a smirk, his hand suggestively sliding around her waist. “I heard you're still untouched. Let me help you break the ice. In exchange, how about making me the new company director?”

Stephanie was famous for her cold, ascetic nature.

I’d lost count of how many handsome men had tried this same trick, only to be sent packing with a single frosty glare.

But this time, Stephanie narrowed her eyes, smiled, tilted his chin up and kissed him.

“If you can manage seven times a night,” she murmured, “I might just consider it.”

I watched them walk away together, side by side. I told myself it was all an act, some power play she was putting on for show.

But then, at two in the morning, she called.

“Liam,” her voice came through calmly, “starting tomorrow, you’ll be transferred to the branch office as Vice President. As for the Director role… I have other plans.”

——

She hung up before I could respond.

I stared at the screen, stunned. My limbs went cold.

I fumbled to call her back. She picked up almost immediately.

“What now, Liam?” she said, a little impatient.

Then, a stifled moan escaped from her lips.

I froze, nausea rising as I fought to steady my voice.

“Stephanie… where are you? I want to talk. In person—”

Before I could finish, another man's voice interrupted, full of smug satisfaction.

“President Myers, feel that?”

“How do my abs feel? Good, right?”

It was Dean Henry. His low, teasing voice made my blood run cold.

Stephanie's tone turned dismissive. “It’s late. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Then came the sound of shuffling sheets—and the call ended.

I stood there, staring at the blank screen, heart sinking into despair.

Stephanie was my fiancée of ten years.

To the outside world, she was the ideal girlfriend—loyal, devoted, untouchable. Everyone joked she was immune to men, that her eyes only saw me.

She said she wanted to wait until marriage.

And I respected her. Every time I was tempted, I forced myself into a cold shower.

After college, she took over the family business and became a feared and admired young executive. Countless employees tried to seduce her, hoping to climb the success.

Each one was swiftly rejected.

Once, she even included them in a PPT for a company-wide meeting. “Anyone with ill intentions like this—pack up and go settle with finance.”

She ended the presentation by pointing at my photo.

“This is my fiancé, Liam Jones. I will only marry him. Ever.”

But everything changed the day Dean Henry joined the company.

She never mentioned her principles again.

Even the photo of me hanging in her office disappeared.

I asked her about it yesterday, forcing a smile.

“Where’s my picture?”

A flicker of guilt passed through her eyes, but she quickly laughed it off.

“Sweetheart, it was an old photo. I called a photographer—we’ll get a new set taken soon, just the two of us.”

Sensing my disappointment, she held my hand, coaxing.

“Don’t pout. After work, I’ll treat you to hot pot, alright?”

I nodded and went back to handling documents.

While she stepped out for something, my gaze drifted to the trash bin—and I froze.

There, dumped carelessly, was the very photo she took down. Still in its frame.

I picked it up.

My face had been slashed with a blade—dozens of cuts. Torn. Mangled.

And the back of the frame? Stained with some foul-smelling, unknown liquid.