Chapter 3

The slap echoed in the room.

Hearing the noise, Clara shot up from the sofa. She stumbled over and backhanded me across the face, the force of it whipping my head to the side.

"Who the hell do you think you are? You think you can just hit Ronan whenever you want?"

"You should take a good look at yourself and see what you're worth."

My cheek was instantly on fire. I instinctively raised my hand to strike back, but Ronan grabbed my wrist and shoved me violently aside.

My lower back slammed into the doorknob. A sharp pain shot up my spine to the top of my head, and I sucked in a sharp breath.

And he, the first thing he did was pull Clara into his arms.

"She's drunk. Why are you picking a fight with her?"

"Aurora, just go outside and cool off." He did not even look at me, his hand patting Clara's back in a steady rhythm. "Even this drunk, you're still trying to play the hero."

I stared at him, stunned.

I watched his nonchalant expression, as if I were just an insignificant outsider, not even worthy of a second glance after being slapped.

Clara sobbed into his chest, her shoulders shaking with perfectly timed tremors.

Ronan whispered to her, his voice soft, as if coaxing a frightened kitten.

All his gentleness was reserved for her.

From beginning to end, he never once asked if I was hurt.

I used the doorknob to pull myself upright, the spot on my lower back numb with pain.

I didn't say another word. I just grabbed my suitcase and walked out alone.

In the few dozen seconds it took for the elevator to descend, I started leaving the group chats from Ronan's circle, deleting them one by one.

Aside from the pointless prank messages, most were from colleagues asking why I hadn't clocked in for work, or gossiping and teasing me about whether I was already wearing an engagement ring.

My heart felt like it was being squeezed tight, a wave of sorrow washing over me.

I sent a single, blanket reply: "We broke up." A profound exhaustion immediately washed over me. The notification sounds kept ringing.

Some in the group treated it as a post-party joke. Others exclaimed in disbelief, even telling me not to be difficult just because I didn't get a proposal ring.

After all, to outsiders, Ronan always presented a calm and elegant facade, a man who could control any situation. A seemingly flawless lover.

But what they couldn't see was this: this same man would charter a yacht to stage a fake romantic proposal, all so Clara could have the fun of pressing a loaded Browning to my temple.

For our fifth anniversary, he knelt before me with a trick ring given to him by Clara, a ring with a hidden blade that sent me to the clinic for emergency treatment that night, nearly severing the nerves in my right index finger.

He did indeed have the power to handle anything, but the person he protected and shielded was never me.

In the past, I always deceived myself, filtering out these moments, desperately telling myself that as long as Clara was not involved, he was passionate and generous with me in our private life.

Only now, with a clear head, did I see the truth: a relationship like this, even if it led to marriage, would never last.

I pulled my lips into a bitter smile, but my fingers, out of habit, swiped open my social media feed.

Clara had posted a new update.

A nine-photo grid: at an underground shooting range, she was in a black bodysuit holding a gun, with Ronan standing behind her, his hand over hers, helping her adjust her stance.

The next photo was from a private poker game, chips piled high, with her sitting by Ronan's leg, smiling without a care in the world.

The caption read: "Best day ever."

Those were places I had once mentioned wanting to go.

Each time, he would smile and stroke my hair, saying those places were too chaotic, not suitable for a girl like me.

He said he didn't want me to be tainted by that kind of atmosphere.

At the time, I thought he was protecting me, that it was a unique part of his gentleness, so I suppressed all my little fantasies about adventure and excitement from my first love.

It was only now, seeing the wild, relaxed smile on his face as he held a cigar between his lips, that I realized it was not that I was unsuitable.

It was that he already had someone more suitable to accompany him.

The comments below were a flood of "A match made in heaven."

Everyone in that circle had liked the post, the number of likes several times higher than when we had first announced our relationship.

I was about to lock my screen when a new message popped up.

It was from Ronan.

"Don't overthink it. I was just taking her out to clear her head. Come back when you've cooled off. She said she wants to apologize to you in person."

My brow furrowed. I was just about to type "No need."

A package delivery notification popped up at the top of my screen.

The delivery address was our apartment.

I stared at the line of text for a moment, deciding that some things were better said in person.

And the key. I should return it to him as well.

It had been six years. A clean break was more dignified for everyone.

I changed my clothes, fixed my hair, and took a cab over.

The door was unlocked.

But as I pushed it open, a pungent, chemical-smelling liquid sprayed into my face, so acrid that tears immediately welled in my eyes.

"Surprise! The party's not over! I've been dying to wash that cheap perfume smell off you!"

Before I could even open my eyes, Clara lunged at me.

She was holding a spray bottle, aiming it right at my face, her smile utterly vicious.

A burning pain began to spread across my skin, growing more intense by the second. It was mixed with a searing, agonizing itch, as if a million venomous ants were gnawing at my bones.

The pain was so violent it felt like my skin was being peeled from my face.