Eight Years of Passion Can’t Compete with First Love

I stared at Sam, unimpressed by his demand. We had been together for eight years and in that time, he had given me very little—barely any gifts, let alone clothes. I was always stitching up old dresses, refusing to buy new ones. I had worn the same outfits for years, quietly mending and patching them because I didn’t want to burden him.

But this dress—this wasn’t for me. The expensive fabric, the high-fashion cut—it was Jane’s style, not mine.

Sam ruffled his hair in frustration, perhaps realizing that he had never once given me anything this beautiful. He muttered, “Forget it. I’ll figure it out myself. You’re useless.”

I looked at the dress for a moment, then raised my head. “I’ll have it ready for you by five tomorrow afternoon, but on one condition.”

He paused, narrowing his eyes. “What condition?”

“Approve my resignation. Let me leave the company.”

Sam froze, disbelief flashing across his face. He clearly didn’t expect me to ask for this again. His eyes darkened, filled with anger as he spat, “You’re still thinking about leaving? Fine! You want to quit so badly? Come to me tonight and I’ll approve it.”

His voice grew louder, dripping with venom. “I want to see what kind of life you think you’ll have without me! Who do you think will want you? A used-up, broken woman!”

The rage in his voice, the way his eyes burned red with hatred—it was clear he had lost all control. But I stood still, unmoved, despite the way his words stabbed at my heart. For eight years, I had lived in this nightmare, where I was nothing more than a servant, a doormat. I had endured his disdain, his cruelty and the endless insults from our coworkers at the office, who treated me like I didn’t belong.

I couldn’t help but grip the sewing needle tighter, my fingers trembling as I stabbed it into the fabric. The needle pricked my fingertip and a drop of blood stained the cloth. It wasn’t just the dress that needed mending—my whole life had been unraveling for years.

I felt the tears welling up but held them back. I picked up the phone and dialed Tom’s number, my voice shaking as I spoke.

“I can’t stay here any longer…”

He comforted me, his voice calm and reassuring. “I’m coming. Just hold on.”

I focused on sewing the last stitch, feeling an odd sense of relief. This was it. I had fulfilled my end of the deal and now, there was nothing left tying me to Sam.

I texted Sam to ask where to send the dress. His reply was as cold as ever: “You can keep it. I don’t want it—it’s too dirty for me now.”

I stared at the text, my heart heavy. It was always the same with him—every message, every conversation, it was always me reaching out, me trying to bridge the gap. In eight years, I had never felt like we were equals. I had given so much of myself and he had given nothing in return.

I didn’t respond. A few minutes later, more texts arrived, this time laced with frustration.

“Didn’t you see my message?”

“I don’t want the dress, I said. Keep it for yourself.”

“Are you deaf or blind? I don’t want it!”

I blocked his number and, instead of replying, sent a photo of the finished dress to Jane. Her reply came quickly, soft and sweet, just like always.

“Oh, so you’re the one who sewed it for me! Sam told me a maid would take care of it. I’m so sorry—he insisted on giving me that dress because it was from the first time we met. I told him I didn’t want it anymore, but he can be so sentimental!”

The words stung like salt in an open wound. I was nothing to them, just a servant, cleaning up their messes. Her last message was like a final slap to the face.

“Could you bring it to the Drunken Colors Bar? Oh, and could you pick up some condoms on your way? Thanks so much!”

My stomach churned, but I did as she asked. I grabbed my bike and rode across town, feeling the cold air sting my skin as I approached the bar. When I arrived, I spotted them immediately—Sam and Jane, dancing closely together, their bodies entwined as if they were the only two people in the world. Around them, many of our coworkers laughed and cheered, all too familiar faces.

Sam spotted me and his expression turned to fury. His brows furrowed and he stormed toward me, yelling, “What the hell are you doing here? Are you that desperate?”

Jane, ever the actress, pulled him back with a soft laugh. “Come on, Sam. She was kind enough to sew my dress. Why are you being so harsh?”

She turned to me with that sweet, fake smile. “I asked her to bring the dress. It’s important to us, after all.”

Sam immediately softened, his anger replaced with a doting expression. “Whatever the little princess wants,” he said, pinching her cheeks affectionately.

I watched in silence as he turned to me, his eyes cold and indifferent. “What else do you want?”

I straightened my posture, keeping my voice steady. “I did what you asked. Now sign my resignation.”

The entire room went silent. All eyes were on us and I could feel the weight of their judgment, their curiosity. Sam’s face contorted with anger, clearly not expecting me to confront him like this, especially in front of everyone.

For a moment, he seemed stunned, unsure of what to say. The whispers around us grew louder.

“Wow, she’s really standing up to him.”

“Yeah, they must have something going on. She’s not just any employee.”

Sam’s rage boiled over. He grabbed the resignation papers from me and scribbled his signature on them, thrusting them back at me with such force that they scattered to the floor.

“Fine! You want to leave? Go ahead! You’ll regret this—you’re nothing without me!”

I bent down, calmly picking up the papers. As I stood, something small and shiny was thrown at my feet. It was our matching wedding ring.

Jane smiled sweetly, her voice dripping with innocence. “Oh, Mia, don’t forget this. Sam said it was old, so he replaced it with a new one for me. You don’t mind, do you?”

Before I could respond, a firm hand grabbed mine, pulling me to my feet. The ring was kicked away, back toward Sam’s feet.

“You have hands and feet. Throw away your own trash.”

I turned and looked up to see Tom standing beside me, his face a mask of controlled anger. He had arrived faster than I expected.

Sam’s expression went from shock to fury the moment he recognized him. “What the hell are you doing here? Mia is mine!”