Monica

Elroy has severe OCD. In the ten years we've been together, he's never allowed me to eat in his car.
On our tenth anniversary, we made plans to watch the stars together.
But just as I reached the mountaintop, my phone rang—it was him.
"Something came up at work. I can't make it tonight. You go ahead and enjoy the view."
The moment he hung up, I saw his female classmate's post about returning to the country.
Catalina was sitting in his passenger seat, holding a half-eaten piece of cake in her hands.
【Someone was afraid I'd get hungry coming back so late, so he specially brought me this little cake～】
Another picture showed Catalina's shoes—still on—planted firmly on the passenger seat.
【He says I'm the only exception to his OCD～ I can do whatever I want in his car, hehe.】
I looked up at the twinkling stars above me, a bitter smile tugging at my lips.
This was the tenth time he'd abandoned me.
Every single anniversary without fail, this "female classmate" of his would show up.
I once tried to gently tell him: "I don't want to be interrupted like this every time."
Elroy looked at me with displeasure. "Interrupted? Catalina is my friend. Can you not be so petty?"
The cold wind howled across the mountaintop. Catalina's words stuck in my heart like a thorn, stinging until my eyes grew wet.
After ten years, I'm done with this relationship.

On the day of our seventh wedding anniversary, I tried to send a work email using my husband's account, but the connection was too poor to go through.
When I clicked into the drafts folder, a glaring message caught my eye:
"Tingzhou, I've prepared a new battle outfit~ Ready to drain you dry."
Seconds later, that draft vanished, replaced by a new one:
"Naughty girl, get the ultra-thins ready and wait for me."
Only three people knew the password to this email account: me, my husband, and his first love...
Watching their increasingly explicit flirtations,
tears streamed down my face uncontrollably.
Turns out, no matter how many years you spend by someone's side, it all crumbles the moment their first love returns.
I steadied my trembling fingers, sent the email, and cleared the history.
Then I dialed a number that had been dormant for seven years.
"I give up. I'm willing to come home for the arranged marriage."
On the other end came my godfather's familiar, authoritative voice,
"Get rid of anything that shouldn't be left behind. Make it clean."
My hand trembled as it touched my lower abdomen. "Okay."
"Someone will pick you up in three days."

As the most cold-blooded and ruthless Mafia don, Twain Hall had doted on me like the apple of his eye for ten years.
But on the very day we were discussing our wedding, the ring his subordinate delivered had another woman's name engraved on it—not mine.
I pretended not to notice and turned to Twain.
"Did they bring the wrong ring? Who's Dorothy? I've never heard of her."
Twain's expression didn't change. He pulled me into his arms with that familiar, indulgent look.
"My people weren't careful. Made a fool of themselves."
"I'll have them exchange it right away. Can't keep my queen waiting."
I smiled. But the moment I turned away, my face went cold. I dialed a number.
"Didn't you say you'd pay any price to marry me? Twain Hall betrayed me. I want his head!"