I didn't argue with him again. I turned around, walked back to the bedroom, and started packing.
He followed me in, his voice edged with anger.
“What are you doing? Running away from home again?”
“Marilyn, do you have to pull this every single time?”
I ignored him and kept folding my clothes into the suitcase, one piece at a time.
That finally got to him. He grabbed my hand and pressed it down.
“I told you it's a misunderstanding! What do you want me to say?”
I looked up at him, then leaned in close, resting my chin against his chest.
“Rod, you smell like peach perfume.”
“You used to hate that kind of sweet, cloying scent. Said it gave you a headache.”
His grip went slack.
I kept going, my voice soft and perfectly steady：
“The passenger seat in your car was moved forward three centimeters.”
“Your phone passcode used to be my birthday. Now it's 0618.”
“You never used to drink boba. Now you bring home a low-sugar pearl milk tea every night after work.”
With every line I spoke, another shade of color drained from his face.
By the end, he just stood there. Not a single word.
I zipped the suitcase shut and stood up.
“I don't want to hear another excuse.”
“Starting today, we're done.”
I dragged the suitcase to the door.
He didn't stop me.
Only when I pulled the door open did he say, low and quiet：
“You walk out, don't regret it.”
My steps faltered for half a second. I didn't turn around.
“I won't be the one with regrets.”
I sat in the convenience store downstairs all night.
The rain outside came and went, stopped and started again.
I stared at our photos on my phone.
From eighteen to twenty-five. Seven full years of my youth.
So seven years of love really meant less than an intern he'd known for three months.
I drank, and every minute of that night stretched longer than the last.
At five in the morning, his message came through：
“Wednesday, 7 PM. Westside Bellevue Hotel. Sterling Group's celebration banquet.”
“This is the project we spent three months grinding out together. Mr. Lambert asked for you by name.”
“Stop acting like a kid. Work is work.”
I stared at those words for a long time.
In the end, I typed back a single “OK”.
Not because I'd gone soft.
Because I'd poured too much of myself into that project to walk away from it now.
Back when we were fighting to land the Sterling contract, I'd slept three hours a night for a solid month, drinking with Mr. Lambert until my stomach bled and I ended up in the hospital.
Rod had sat by my hospital bed, holding my hand, and said：
“Mari, once this project goes through, I'm marrying you.”
The project's long timeline was over now.
That promise never was.
Wednesday evening, I put on a simple black suit and light makeup.
I arrived at the hotel ten minutes early.
The moment I pushed open the door to the private dining room, I froze.
Emma Fox was sitting right beside Rod, in the main seat at the head of the table.
She had a teapot in her hand, pouring for Mr. Lambert.
Every gesture, every posture, like she was already the woman of the house.
The second she saw me walk in, she stood up, her smile dripping sweet：
“Mari! You're finally here! We've all been waiting so long for you.”
“Mr. Gilbert said you were stuck in traffic. He was so worried about you.”
Rod glanced up at me. His face showed nothing.
“Sit down.”
Mr. Lambert waved me over with a broad grin：
“There she is! Come, come, sit down. You've got to have a few drinks tonight. This project wouldn't have happened without you. You're the real MVP!”
I managed a thin smile and sat down in the only empty seat left, tucked away in the far corner.
