Chapter 1

Stranded and penniless on a street in Veridia, I was lost in thought, contemplating selling the ring on my finger for a ticket home.

Then I came across the video posted by Claire Summers, Ethan Rivers' ex-girlfriend.

On the screen, she stared into the camera, eyes rimmed with red, a glass held aloft in her hand.

"Seven toasts to my ex," she began.

"The first, to the boy who sold the gaming account he had built over eight years, just to pay for our first Valentine's Day when we were eighteen.

"The second, to the silver bracelet he gave me when we parted ways. I only discovered its true value when I fell ill and needed money desperately: it was solid gold, wrapped in silver."

In the end, she said, "And the last, to the man who dropped everything and crossed thousands of miles just to see me."

Then, at the end of the video, someone I knew all too well appeared beside her.

Ethan's voice choked with emotion as he held out a bouquet of jasmine to her.

"Claire," he murmured, "how have you been?"

My hands trembled uncontrollably, spilling the scalding water I held onto my lap.

But the real pain was a sharp, twisting ache in my chest.

Then, a memory surfaced.

Not long ago, Ethan and I were at the mall. He sat at a public piano and played a piece, which was surprising from a man who claimed he couldn't read a single note.

I found it amusing and recorded him, planning to tease him about it later.

Only then did I realize: the song was called "Echoes of Yesterday." Through that melody, Ethan was expressing his longing for Claire.

A bitter, hollow laugh escaped me.

Today was our fifth wedding anniversary, and also my birthday.

Just before our trip, he pulled me into his arms with a mysterious grin. "I've got a surprise for you," he whispered.

I had been dreaming about that surprise, even planning my reaction, my outfit, my makeup.

But I never imagined our first night in Veridia would unfold in that way.

He took a phone call, his face lit up with excitement, and then he abandoned me there, alone in a foreign country, with my limited grasp of the local language.

He hadn't even left me my wallet, and my phone had no mobile payment funds.

Now I watched them on the screen, falling into each other's arms as they wept.

I was left with nothing but bitterness. The warm sun on my skin was no match for the icy chill that gripped me from within.

Just then, I noticed a nearby homeless man watching me intently, as if sensing an opportunity.

I realized with a jolt how vulnerable I must have looked. Clenching my jaw, I used a lamppost to pull myself up and stumbled toward a pawnshop.

To crown my misery, the familiar cramping of my period began, a cruel addition to the pain already clawing at my chest.

In the pawnshop, the shop assistant and I managed to communicate. She held the delicate ring. "Miss, are you sure you want to sell this?" she asked gently.

I rubbed the pale mark the ring had left on my finger, then gave a firm, resolute nod.

"Some things just aren't meant to be," I murmured.

The ring had never fit me properly, but I had stubbornly worn it anyway.

I was deluding myself, believing that Ethan loved me and that we were meant to last.

But a wrong fit was always a wrong fit.

*****

When I finally returned home, Ethan was there.

He looked genuinely startled to see me.

He rushed over and pulled me into a tight embrace. "Olivia, you're so pale. I'm so sorry about what happened..." he said, his voice edged with panic.

I didn't respond. I just pulled away and walked wearily to the bedroom.

I had no interest in hearing his hollow excuses again.

It was always the same story: an emergency surgery, a critical patient...

Over the years, Ethan had used these excuses to cancel plans repeatedly, and I had always let it slide.

But now, I was done making concessions. I was done pretending to be loved.

Perhaps spurred by guilt, Ethan didn't resort to his usual silent frustration.

He went to the kitchen and brought back a steaming mug of ginger tea, along with a small bouquet of jasmine.

"Olivia. You might not feel comfortable. Drink this," he said. "And I bought you your favorite flowers."

After a frozen second, my hand shot out, sweeping the jasmine to the floor. Then I looked up, meeting Ethan's gaze. "I have always hated jasmine," I said, my voice raw. "The scent actually sickens me. I love red roses."

From the very beginning of our relationship, Ethan had always given me jasmine.

For eight years, without fail.

I had mistaken it for our own little tradition.

When friends teased me about the unwavering nature of his devotion, I would blush, clutching the flowers as a fierce, secret joy swept through me.

Yet I never allowed myself to question it.

If he truly loved me, how could he be so completely unaware of my preferences?