Abandoned Engagement for His Leading Lady

In that moment, an overwhelming need for an explanation surged through me—for the eight years I had devoted to him. Without thinking, I rushed over and instinctively hooked my arm through Jimmy’s.

"My dear, Mom asked me to call you to the engagement party," I said, striving for a calmness I didn’t feel.

But the moment he laid eyes on me, his expression flickered with fear. Was he scared of being caught, or was he anxious about how Cynthia would react? Did he worry I’d discovered his betrayal, or was he concerned that she’d find out about our engagement?

I didn’t have to wonder for long. With a swift motion, he threw my arm off, his glare slicing through the air like a knife.

"Who told you to follow me here?" He snapped, his voice sharp. "What are you saying in public?"

His gaze darted to Cynthia, who stood frozen, her face pale and wide-eyed with shock. Panic rippled through him as he turned back to me, his voice edged with irritation.

"Do I have to go to the engagement party? Can’t you handle these things yourself? Why can’t you be more mature?"

Tears welled up in my eyes as memories flooded back. I recalled the anxiety I had felt meeting his parents, meticulously preparing to make a good impression. Now, all those efforts felt utterly worthless.

For several nights, I watched them interact, a mixture of disbelief and heartbreak churning inside me. Finally, he took the phone away, distressed and unable to convince her any longer. His eyes, usually so warm, burned with fierce determination as he said,

"Honey, can you try to rely on me? If you have to deal with everything on your own, then what's the point of having me as your husband? Huh? Be good. I’m here for you."

That phrase—“I’m here”—had been my anchor year after year, but this time, it struck a different chord. Without a second glance, I turned and walked away.

Behind me, I heard a loud slap—a resounding crack that echoed in the charged air. Cynthia had struck him. A bright red mark blossomed on his cheek, but instead of anger, his expression was filled with concern for her.

"Does your hand hurt?" he asked softly, his voice almost a whisper.

Cynthia’s eyes glistened with unshed tears as she pointed at me, her voice trembling with raw emotion. "Jimmy, I want you to say it. If you want me, do you still want her?"

Without a moment's hesitation, he replied, "I want you! She’s just a substitute. I can cancel the engagement for you anytime!"

He thought I was far enough away not to hear him, but his words pierced through the distance like shards of glass.

After I left, I finally received an unexpected call.

“Girl, you lose.”

It was my grandfather on the line. He had always disapproved of Jimmy, convinced that we wouldn’t find happiness together. Despite his warnings, my love for Jimmy had blinded me to all opinions but my own. This stubbornness led to a bet that had defined the last ten years of my life. I had wagered that Jimmy would never fall for anyone else. If I lost, I promised to return to blind dating; if he lost, he would give me a sea-view villa as my dowry.

Now, with Jimmy and Cynthia kissing live on the Internet, it was impossible for Grandpa not to know about it. I took a deep breath before responding, the weight of defeat heavy on my chest.

“Yeah, I’ll go back to blind dating, but not for another month.”

His voice erupted, thunderous and full of frustration, as if I could hear him blowing his beard in anger. “What? You haven’t given up yet! You still want to give him a chance, right?”

I understood Grandpa's protectiveness, his urgent desire to pull me away from this painful situation as quickly as possible. But the truth was, my sorrow had morphed into a relentless fire inside me. I wanted to repay the pain others had inflicted upon me, piece by piece, until I felt whole again.

The engagement party had ended abruptly, overshadowed by the absence of its main characters. I sat alone in the wedding suite, surrounded by twinkling decorations and an air thick with unspoken promises, waiting from three in the afternoon until three in the morning for Jimmy to return.

Finally, I heard the sound of a car engine rumbling to a stop downstairs.

When he opened the door and saw me, surprise flickered across his face, and he touched his nose guiltily.

"Why aren’t you asleep yet?" he asked, attempting to sound casual, but his voice betrayed him.

I stepped forward and hugged him tightly, just as I always did.

"I can’t sleep without you," I replied softly, my voice steady despite the storm brewing within me.

Seeing that I wasn’t bringing up the day’s events, he sighed in relief. But then, my gaze caught on the bulge in his trouser pockets—something that didn’t belong there. A flash of red lace peeked out, and a faint, lingering sticky smell filled the air, wrapping around my senses like a noose.

Suddenly, Jimmy pushed me away, as if I had shocked him.

"I... I need to go to the bathroom," he stammered, backing away, his eyes darting.

Curiosity piqued, I pressed my ear against the bathroom door and overheard his hushed conversation with Cynthia.

"What are you doing? You had to let me wash your things, and she almost discovered them!"

Cynthia replied with a mocking lilt, "I’ll let you wash it. It’s stained with your things!"

The reality of his betrayal hit me hard, like a punch to the gut.

“Besides, it’s better to be discovered. I just want to show her who the man you are!” Cynthia's voice echoed in my mind, laced with contempt. Jimmy chuckled, clearly caught off guard by her audacity, a weak smile gracing his lips.

“Your... your…” he trailed off, and I pretended not to hear, the weight of his words pressing down on me.

When he finally emerged from the bathroom, he found me painting on the bedside table, deliberately focused on my work to hide the turmoil roiling inside me. I pulled him over eagerly.

“Draw with me!”

Perhaps feeling guilty about what had transpired that day, he seemed unusually talkative. He nodded and settled beside me, his gaze sweeping over the chaotic mess I had created. A mix of amusement and frustration danced in his eyes as he gently patted my head with a pencil.

“Stupid!” he teased lightly.

He took my hand instinctively, guiding my strokes with his, his touch sending a shiver down my spine.

“Look, if you draw this line like this, the curvature will be natural…”

I found myself entranced, my focus drifting to the intensity of his jawline, captivated as always by his seriousness—the very quality that had drawn me in after eight long years together.

With the final touch, our painting was complete—a small garden with a family of three nestled beside it. I held it up, grinning despite the tears threatening to spill.

“How about we arrange the garden like this in the future?”

His expression softened for a fleeting moment, a wistful smile creeping onto his lips as he looked at me, lost in thought.

“Good…”

I lowered my eyes, hiding the cold calculation brewing within me. After eight years, I knew him better than he knew himself.

Once I leave, this painting will one day become a sharp blade that pierces his heart—a reminder of everything he lost.