Chapter 1
On our wedding anniversary, my husband showed up at the company's annual gala with his first love on his arm and introduced her to the entire room. "This is my fiancée."
I stood in the corner, a glass of champagne in hand, watching him in silence.
A colleague leaned over. "Melissa, didn't you say Mr. Baker was married? So why does he suddenly have a fiancée?"
I smiled faintly. "I must have remembered it wrong."
That same night, I moved out of the house we once shared, taking only a single potted plant—the pothos he had never bothered to water.
He didn't know it was the last thing my mother had left me.
And he didn't know that the largest shareholder of his company was me.
And tomorrow was the shareholders' meeting.
*****
Melissa Wagner folded the last piece of clothing and put it in her suitcase just as the wind started picking up outside.
November in Branville brought a damp, biting cold.
She zipped up her suitcase, straightened up, and her gaze fell on the pothos plant sitting on the windowsill.
The pothos was thriving, its vines hanging down from the pot, long and lush, like a green waterfall.
She'd raised it for three years, starting from a tiny sprout with only three leaves, and now it looked like this.
She walked over, picked up the pot, and ran her fingers over the biggest leaf. It felt smooth and full, vibrant with life.
"Come on, let's go home," Melissa whispered gently.
Three years ago, when Melissa moved into their wedding home, her mom was still alive.
Her mom, Kaitlynn Miranda, had brought this pothos from her hometown, saying it was a cutting from her own plant.
She told Melissa to take good care of it, saying pothos were easy—just a little water and they'd thrive. "Unlike me," she joked, "I'm not so easy to keep alive."
She was smiling as she said it, but Melissa could tell it wasn't really a smile. It was fear—fear that once she was gone, Melissa would be left all alone in this city, with no one to talk to, no one to lean on.
And then, Kaitlynn really did leave this world. The day it happened, Melissa got a call from the hospital. By the time she rushed over from work, Kaitlynn was already in the ICU.
Through the glass, Melissa saw her mom lying there, eyes closed, hooked up to countless tubes, a ventilator covering her mouth, her body so thin she looked almost see-through.
Melissa stood outside the ICU for four hours, waiting for her mom to wake up. When Kaitlynn finally opened her eyes, she glanced at Melissa, her lips moved, mumbling something Melissa could barely catch.
Melissa leaned in, and finally heard her mom whisper, "Did you water the pothos?"
That was the last thing her mom ever said to her—not "I love you," not "Take care of yourself," but "Did you water the pothos?"
After Kaitlynn passed away, Melissa treated that pothos as her most precious thing.
She made sure to water it every morning before leaving, and wiped its leaves clean every night when she got home.
Whenever she had to travel for work, she'd ask someone to look after it, or if no one could, she'd just bring it along with her.
One time, Oliver Baker saw her strapping the pothos into the passenger seat with the seatbelt and asked, "Is that scrappy plant really more important than your own life?"
Melissa replied, "Yeah, it matters more to me than my own life."
Oliver didn't press her. He never asked about anything in her life, because nothing about her ever interested him.
They were a married couple, at least on paper. But in the two years they'd been together, he'd never once acknowledged her in public.
None of his coworkers knew he was married, and even his friends online didn't know he had a wife. When his mom called and asked if he was eating well, he'd just say, "I'm alone, so I just eat whatever."
He acted like he was single and treated Melissa like she didn't even exist.
Melissa dragged her suitcase into the living room and took one last look at the house she'd lived in for two years. It was a spacious duplex, over 2,000 square feet, and every bit of it was her handiwork.
She'd chosen every single thing with care, from the color on the walls to the fabric of the curtains, from the style of the sofa to the texture of the carpet.
Oliver had only ever said one thing about it. "Do whatever you want."
He didn't give a damn. To him, this place was nothing more than a spot to crash. He couldn't care less what it looked like—just like he couldn't care less about her.
She set the keys on the shoe cabinet by the entryway, dragged her suitcase, cradled the pothos in her arms, and walked out the door.
As the elevator doors closed, Melissa suddenly remembered that today was her wedding anniversary with Oliver.
Two years ago today, they got their marriage license. There was no wedding, no party, and no photos, not even a single meal to mark the occasion.
Right after they walked out with the certificate, Oliver got a call from work, said something had come up, and just left her standing there at the entrance while he drove off.
Melissa stood there, clutching that little red marriage certificate, watching his taillights vanish around the corner. She stood for a long time, then finally called a cab and went back to her rented apartment.
That night, she ate a bowl of instant food by herself and called it a celebration.
She thought that was just the start, but later she realized that was all there ever would be.