Night had fallen.
Debbie sat on the bed, her fingertips brushing against the rim of a cup of warm water that had long gone cold. The clock on the wall ticked steadily, marking the endless hours from midnight to dawn. Yet Armando never came back.
Before retiring for the night, the butler had explained softly, "Miss Ingram, Mr. Robbins has just taken over the company and has urgent matters to handle tonight. He may have to stay overnight at the office."
She nodded without replying, quietly turning her phone screen on and off.
It wasn't until two in the morning that a notification popped up.
It was a message from Karylle—with two photos. Both were taken at the entrance of one of the city's most exclusive bars.
In the picture, Armando slightly lowered his head, his hand gripping Karylle's waist as they kissed—deeply, inseparably. The location tag beneath the photo was nowhere near the "company" the butler had mentioned. It was halfway across the city.
Debbie's hand holding the phone didn't tremble. She rose slowly, heading toward the door. The sound of her footsteps on the floor was so soft it was almost silent.
When she arrived at the bar and found the private room from the location, the door was slightly ajar.
Inside came bursts of laughter and drunken chatter. Then, Armando's voice rang out, low and rough with alcohol, yet every word pierced straight through her.
"Debbie? She's just some street vendor girl. Who does she think she is, giving me attitude? If it weren't for the fact she waited on me like a servant for three years—cooking, cleaning, fetching tea—I'd have tossed her out long ago."
Laughter followed.
"Armando, Karylle is much more fun than her. You and her really make a perfect pair!"
Karylle's soft, sugary voice chimed in. "Arman, don't say that about Debbie. If she heard you, she'd be so hurt."
Armando sneered, slamming his wine glass onto the table. The sharp crack echoed through the room.
"Sad? She's like a wooden doll—does she even know what sadness is? Every day, she's tied to the stove. When I invited Karylle over, she'd just add more dishes and utensils—so dull! But the first time I saw Karylle... she was different. I wanted to keep her all to myself. That kind of madness, that possessiveness—Debbie never made me feel that way!"
Laughter filled the room again. Someone teased, patting Armando's shoulder.
"Armando is biased even when drunk! Debbie would cry if she heard that!"
Armando tilted his head back, gulping down more wine. His cheeks were flushed, but his eyes glinted with disdain.
"Cry? If she dares cry, I'll only find her more pathetic. If not for her fussing over me all those years, I'd have sent her away long ago. What right does she have to give me a hard time?"
Outside the door, Debbie stood still, her fingertips pressed to the cold wood. Her heart was eerily calm.
Back then, Armando had congenital heart disease. She had never let him drink, not even a sip. Every time they attended gatherings, she would watch his glass carefully, even contacting restaurants in advance to replace his wine with juice.
Now, he was sitting in a bar, drunk out of his mind, ridiculing her with every word.
And in her mind, a single thought echoed: 'The first thing the cripple did after healing was throw away the crutches that once held him up.'
Suddenly, the door swung open.
Karylle stood in the doorway, her lipstick smudged, her hair a little messy. For an instant, surprise flashed in her eyes, quickly replaced by a smug smile. She glanced deliberately toward the room.
Armando's slurred voice floated out,
"Karylle, who's at the door? Why are you standing there so long?"
Turning back, Karylle's tone turned honeyed and sweet as she spoke, deliberately raised the volume, making sure Debbie outside could hear her every word.
"No one, Arman. It's just the wind blowing the door."
Then she casually tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her fingers brushing her swollen lips, locking eyes with Debbie in deliberate provocation as if saying, 'Look, he's drunk—with only me in his eyes and heart. He doesn't even notice you standing there.'
Debbie didn't move. She just stood there, silently watching the scene inside—the laughter, the drinks, the man who had once been her whole world. She watched Armando lean close to Karylle, whispering something that made her giggle like a child.
When Karylle finally helped the drunken Armando toward the restroom, Debbie silently followed.
The corridor lights were dim. She stood before them, the light casting faint shadows across her expressionless face.
Her eyes swept over Armando, who was barely able to keep his eyes open, his steps unsteady—then settled coldly on Karylle.
Her voice was soft, but every word was as sharp as glass. "When did you get together?"
Armando felt that the person in front of him was somewhat familiar, but couldn't remember who it was, and just muttered vaguely, "Who are you...? Don't block the way..."
Karylle clung tighter to his arm, smiling, as if comforting a lover.
"We? Oh, it's been a year."
Then she leaned in, her lips almost brushing Debbie's ear, her voice dripping with mock pity and smug delight.
"For that whole year, he ate your food, spent your money—and bought me handbags with it. When you were asleep, he'd sneak out to see me. Isn't that funny?"
"You keep fighting me for a man—but with ninety nine betrayal, haven't you learned by now? The one Arman loves most has always been me."
She smiled.
"You're the obstacle between us, Debbie. So I'll remove you myself."
Armando burped beside her, barely aware of what was happening.
"Karylle... don't talk to strangers... let's go drink..."
He waved a hand dismissively, not even realizing who stood in front of him. His tone was filled with irritation, as though she were nothing more than an obstacle.
Debbie looked at them both—at the man who no longer recognized her, and the woman who had stolen everything she'd ever cherished.
Her hand rose before she even thought about it.
Slap!
Her palm struck his face hard.
"If you like picking up trash so much," she said coldly, "then I'll give it to you."
Ignoring Karylle's furious shout behind her, Debbie turned and walked away.
Every grievance, every sleepless night, every cruel word she'd just heard—each one was a blunt knife carving through her heart, cutting the last thread of attachment cleanly in two.
She walked toward the elevator without looking back, as if all the noise and laughter behind had nothing to do with her.
'So you've been lying to me all along, Armando!'
