Willard casually picked up a bottle of wine. "Cynthia and I have been together for years. She doesn't care about these things, but Jolene is different. She's so delicate and fragile, I have to make her feel secure."
I still stood outside the door, but my heart turned completely cold.
I hunted down every piece of furniture in our future home at discount stores across the entire city. When I was in love with the $20,000 couch at the time, Willard's face instantly darkened.
"Twenty thousand for a couch? Do you think money grows on trees? Isn't sitting on the floor just the same?"
He then chose another couch, but he was still unhappy when he paid for it, although it only cost 1888 dollars.
It turned out he wasn't stingy; it's just that his generosity had never been meant for me.
On the way home, I rolled the car window all the way down. The wind rushed in violently, stinging my face.
Three years. I'd been a fool for three whole years.
When I first said I wanted to personally design our home, he hugged me and spun me around, saying, "Okay."
At that moment, I truly believed he cherished me above all else.
He remembered, he had to remember.
He must remember that day, when a thug's knife came at him and I unhesitatingly blocked it for him, the wound only a centimeter away from my heart. It made me lie unconscious in the hospital for three days and nights while he wept at my bedside, swearing he'd love me forever.
Sadly, he never truly cared. Or, maybe in his mind, that scar was just a reason for him to be more reckless.
The doctor had warned me that extreme emotional swings could aggravate the nerves around the old wound.
So, I tilted my head back with all my might, trying to suppress the bitterness. Still, my chest felt suffocated.
Later, Willard's call came through with the blaring rock music roaring in the background. "Cynthia, tonight the brothers are throwing me a bachelor party. Go to bed early, don't wait up."
I was silent for two seconds, then answered. "Okay."
At one a.m., I found myself unable to sleep, so I decided to check my social media.
Jasper Zorn had posted a set of photos with the caption: [Celebrating my best bro's last night of freedom!]
In the center photo of the grid, Jolene Star was laughing joyously while holding a glittering bag. She's leaning almost entirely against Willard, whose hand rests firmly around her waist.
The comments section below exploded.
[OMG, isn't that the 'Starry Sky' bag? Willard, you are so generous!]
[These two look so perfect together. What a shame.]
[@Willard, you should be careful. Don't let Cynthia see this!]
I saw Willard personally reply. [Cynthia isn't petty. If she'd make a fuss over something like this, we might as well call off the wedding.]
I shut my phone off expressionlessly.
Willard knew I wouldn't dare, just as he knew I could endure him selling our house, endure him buying Jolene a million-dollar bag and endure every ambiguous excuse of "we're just friends."
But this time, the place in my heart where the knife had pierced seemed numb and I didn't want to endure it anymore.
In the end, I went to the hospital alone for a follow-up check-up.
"How many times have I told you that the wound will hurt on rainy days and that someone must accompany you to apply the medicine on time?"
Listening to the attending doctor's helpless scolding, I forced a smile. "I can manage by myself."
Shortly after leaving the hospital, a torrential downpour suddenly began.
I ducked into a dessert shop on the corner and as I turned, I saw Willard holding a spoon with a beaming smile while Jolene leaned in and took a bite of the cake he was offering.
That limited-edition platinum bag was slung across her arm, still gleaming. And the watch on her wrist was the gift Willard had claimed last week was "for an important client."
