Chapter 1
On Valentine's Day, I picked up a part-time job on the beach writing personalized greetings—and unexpectedly, I got an order from my boyfriend.
He typed: [Miss you.]
I lifted the corner of my mouth, ready to switch accounts and video-call him, but his next message sent me straight into an ice-cold shock.
[Vivian,] he added.
What he wanted me to write was: [Miss you, Vivian.]
Vivian Shaw was his secretary.
*****
My boyfriend, Christopher Bennett, had been away on a business trip for a week. On Valentine's Day, bored and restless, I decided to take on a small freelance gig writing messages on the beach.
I didn't want to clutter my personal WhatsApp with strangers, so I made a new account just for this.
Most of my clients were young couples. Each message they wanted me to write was different, but all of them dripped with sweetness.
I couldn't help but envy their love. After taking a short break, a client reached out to me—one I never expected.
It was my boyfriend of five years, Christopher.
Christopher was straightforward. He admitted this message was for someone important.
I glanced at his text and smiled to myself, instinctively thinking that it had to be me.
I typed back: [Sir, what do you want me to write for her?]
[Miss you,] he replied.
I pouted a little, partly annoyed but mostly happy. Christopher had been at Sincbear for several days without calling me once. Whenever I messaged him, he'd say he was busy. I never imagined he might be secretly preparing a surprise.
I grabbed my coat and ran to the beach, unable to hide my smile. Once I finished the task, I would immediately video-call him.
But Christopher's next message plunged me into a freezing chill. [Vivian.]
He wanted me to write: [Miss you, Vivian.]
Vivian Shaw was his secretary.
It hit me like a hammer blow. I sank onto the sand, the sea breeze whipping past my ears, but it couldn't blow away the words: [Miss you, Vivian.]
I curled up on the bed, hugging my knees. The lights were off; the room was pitch black.
The darkness amplified my unease.
Trembling, I opened Christopher's Twitter.
The glow from my phone stabbed my eyes.
Christopher loved photography, and most of his posts were his own photos.
I scrolled through his following list and found Vivian's account.
I clicked on it—and unsurprisingly, her IP was also in Sincbear.
Vivian's first post read: [Made it just in time before Valentine's Day. Thankfully, not too late.]
I threw my phone across the room in frustration, fingers clawing at my hair, my chest pierced with a stabbing pain.
Before Christopher left, I had just come back from grocery shopping.
In the apartment, he looked anxious, hurriedly packing his bag.
The open suitcase lay on the floor in disarray. Normally, I would pack his clothes, folding each piece neatly into the closet. But now, he shoved a tangled heap of clothes into the suitcase, leaving the wardrobe a mess.
"What's going on?" I asked, setting down the groceries, worried.
Christopher's tone was casual. "I've got a last-minute business trip."
"Why so suddenly?" I asked, puzzled.
"A client at Sincbear ran into some issues. I have to get there," he explained.
Since Christopher started managing the company, he had been so busy that he often skipped meals and rest.
"You should eat first. I'll make some soup for you tonight," I said, concerned.
"No, I'm running late," he waved me off.
I frowned. "Do you have to leave now? Tomorrow's Valentine's Day—and our fifth anniversary."
"Can't be helped," he said gently, lifting his hand to stroke my head, like he was soothing a little kitten. "I'll be back as soon as it's done."
"Alright," I sighed.
Before he left, I hugged him from behind. "If anything happens at work, you have to tell me. Don't keep everything bottled up."
Christopher turned to me, his eyes complex, faintly guilty.
"Nothing to worry about. You just stay home and relax." He grabbed his suitcase and left in a rush.
I reached out to catch his hand, but missed. My freshly done nail decorations caught on the suitcase handle.
Christopher left so quickly that my nail got slightly separated from the nail bed, blood gushing out, and pain shooting through me.
I instinctively wanted to tell him, but when I looked up, he was already gone.
"Christopher, it hurts," I murmured, holding my finger, tears welling up, speaking helplessly into the empty air.
That day, I bandaged my finger alone and couldn't wait to message him. I had checked Sincbear's weather forecast in advance, asking if he had packed appropriate clothes, if he was eating well, and sleeping properly.
While I was full of worry, he was happily spending Valentine's Day with Vivian.
Ironically, at that moment, I was foolishly waiting at the door, hoping he would finish work early and surprise me.