After that declaration, he slammed on the brakes.
He dropped me off on a dark, deserted road two kilometers from our apartment and told me to walk back alone to "reflect on myself."
He returned home first, gently coaxed Chloe to sleep, then waited—confident I would come home and apologize. For eight years, every time we fought, no matter who was at fault, I was always the one to give in first.
But this time, he sat alone in the silence all night. I never knocked on the door.
The next day, just after I got off work, I received a message from Mark's number asking me to bring painkillers for Chloe to a private room at a well-known upscale restaurant.
I didn't want to go.
But I thought about what he had done for my family during their hardships years ago—how he had stood by my side. This one act, at least, would repay that debt. We would be even.
I brought the medication to the private room, but before entering, I heard playful voices. "Chloe, did you come back from overseas just for Mark? So, when's the wedding?"
With a soft laugh, Chloe replied sweetly, "That depends on Mark. I'm fine with whatever he decides."
Mark didn't say a word—not to deny it, not to correct her.
I opened the door and saw him gently feeding her a bite of food, causing the others at the table to cheer and tease them like a couple.
The moment his eyes met mine, his expression changed, becoming cold and sharp.
"Clara, are you following me?!"
That one sentence made it all clear. The message hadn't come from him; it had come from Chloe.
But what did it matter anymore?
Without saying anything, I tossed the box of painkillers onto the table. "You messaged me about the medicine, didn't you? Don't tell me you've already forgotten."
Then I turned and walked away.
Mark was momentarily stunned. In the past, I would have rushed in to assert my presence, to stand by his side. But now, I didn't argue. I didn't fight. And somehow, that indifference unsettled him.
While waiting for the elevator, my supervisor called.
"Clara, your application has been approved. You can book your flight."
I nodded. "Alright. I'll reserve it now."
Just as I ended the call, I heard Mark's voice behind me—confused and suspicious.
"What are you booking?"
Without turning around, I lied casually. "The boss wants to treat a client to dinner. He asked me to reserve a private room."
He said nothing, simply stepping into the elevator with me, and offered to drive me home.
But the moment we got downstairs, his phone rang.
It was Chloe.
"Mark, my stomach hurts… Can you come back and stay with me?"
Without a glance in my direction, he stepped out of the elevator and rode it right back up, still talking on the phone.
At home, I began to pack.
A short while later, my phone rang. It was Mark again—this time, sounding unusually considerate.
"Aren't we supposed to take our wedding photos today? Why didn't you remind me?"
I had handled all the wedding arrangements. Every single detail. He hadn't lifted a finger. And now, he sounded offended.
While folding my clothes, I replied absentmindedly, "Well, since you're busy taking care of Chloe, we can just take the wedding photos after the honeymoon."
I didn't think that would trigger him—but it did.
"Clara!" he shouted, furious. "Do you even realize how valuable my time is? How dare you make decisions like that without asking me?! If you go on like this—just cancel the wedding altogether!"
He ended the call abruptly.
For a moment, my chest ached. The boy who once stood under fireworks, promising to make me the happiest woman in the world—was gone.
I picked up the framed photos of the two of us from the shelves and, without hesitation, tossed them all into the trash bin.
Late at night, Mark came home, supporting a drunken Chloe. He noticed immediately that the house looked different—things were missing.
Already in a bad mood, his irritation turned to anger.
"Clara, what kind of stunt are you pulling now?"