Chapter 3

Daniel's face darkened instantly.

"Emma Reed, what the hell is wrong with you? I already told you, it's not what you think. What more do you want?"

I wasn't losing my mind. I simply didn't love him anymore.

"I don't want anything."

I bent down and picked up the glass shards from the floor.

"We broke up. Of course the house should be sold. Aren't you always worried about her safety? Now you can move in with her and protect her twenty-four-seven. Aren't you happy?"

The photo had cracked into pieces. In the broken frame, I stood at the very edge.

Daniel and Olivia were on the same side, untouched.

My calm looked like provocation to him. He was livid.

"Keep this up. I want to see if you'll come crawling back, begging me to marry you."

He sneered.

"Absolutely unbelievable."

I tossed the photo and the shards together into the trash, my voice soft as a sigh.

"I won't," I said. "I'm leaving."

Daniel stared at me, his eyes even colder.

"Fine. If you're going to run away this time, go far. I'm not in the mood to look for you."

The door slammed shut.

I watched his resolute back disappear and felt nothing stir inside me.

In the past, every time we fought, I'd deliberately run away from home. I never actually went far—just hid in the neighborhood park—because I knew Daniel would always come find me.

Then at some point, he stopped coming.

He said, "I'm already exhausted from work. Can you give it a rest? Why can't you be more like Olivia? She can talk cases with me, go on business trips with me. What do you do besides pick fights?"

After dawn, I packed my things into a suitcase and carried a box of old belongings to the backyard.

I lit a fire.

The flames reflected in my eyes.

Eight years, ten years—all of it was over.

Daniel came back just in time to see this.

He saw what was in the fire and panicked, rushing forward to pull things out with his bare hands, but it was already too late.

The flames consumed everything.

His eyes were red as he grabbed my arm.

"Why did you burn these? Weren't these your most precious things?"

"They used to be." I looked at him. "Not anymore."

In the fire were the nine hundred and ninety-nine paper cranes Olivia had folded for my birthday, and the bracelet she'd bought me with her very first paycheck.

There were also the ninety-nine love letters Daniel had written me, and the ceramic figurines we'd made together.

When love is still alive, they're memories.

When love is dead, they're no different from garbage on the street.

Daniel looked at me as if trying to read something from my face, but he got nothing.

He let go of me, awkward.

"Emma, you're doing all this because you want an explanation, right?"

He took a deep breath, his tone softening.

"The things I did with her—they're just things friends do. You think we wronged you, but the truth is, we never crossed any lines."

A tear slid down my face.

I wasn't trying to cry.

I just thought it was so absurd.

Does betrayal only count if there's physical contact?

Emotional betrayal is still betrayal.

When we went to see the snow together, he photographed the scenery—then turned around and sent it to Olivia.

When we went to Disneyland together, he bought a plush toy, not thinking about which one I'd like, but picking up another one and saying, "Olivia would probably love this."

His partner was right beside him. But he'd already stopped loving her.

"Enough."

I wiped my tears.

"You don't need to explain. I'm leaving anyway. None of it matters anymore."

My phone screen was still lit, open to the flight booking page for Northbridge.

Daniel's eyes caught it in his peripheral vision. His tone was flat.

"Business trip to Northbridge?"

He paused.

"When you get back, we'll figure out the next wedding date."

He didn't press further.

I didn't explain.

I just looked at him and asked softly, "What if I don't come back?"

Daniel's eyes were filled with exhaustion and exasperation.

"Stop this. I'm tired. I'm going inside to sleep."

A moment later, I pulled my suitcase out, shut the door behind me, and sent a message to the real estate agent.

"Sell the house at the price you quoted. Wire the money to my account."

The reply came quickly.

"Ms. Reed, this is your marital home. Are you sure you want to sell?"

I glanced back at the house.

"I won't be in Harbor City anymore. And he won't be coming back to this house either. Sell it."