Ending My Seven-Year Relationship with My Secret Boyfriend

Jason's deep, dark eyes showed a hint of anger mixed with concern—emotions he himself probably hadn’t realized.

Yves sauntered over, raising a brow as he teased, “Zoey, do you think those two might get back together?”

His voice wasn’t particularly loud, but it was enough for Jason to hear.

Jason looked up abruptly at Yves’s words. When his gaze fell on me standing not far away, a fleeting trace of guilt appeared in his eyes.

“I never thought about getting back with her,” he explained, his voice hurried. “She was just drunk...”

I smiled faintly and shook my head. “Jason, I understand. Shairine seems really drunk. You should take her home.”

He frowned slightly, seemingly displeased with how I addressed him, but he didn’t reject my suggestion.

As he led Shairine away, he even turned back to instruct Yves, “Don’t let her wander around too late. Take her home early.”

Watching their departing figures, a sharp pain pricked my heart. Yet, at the same time, I found it painfully ironic.

In my past life, I had married Jason as I had always dreamed, but I didn't get the happiness I wanted.

On my birthday, I wished for nothing more than to spend a quiet day with him. Instead, he told me, “Celebrating birthdays is a waste of time. I’m busy; I don’t have time for that.”

Later that day, I saw photos on Shairine’s social media of them hiking and camping together.

When my stomach ulcer flared up, and I asked him to accompany me to the hospital for a check-up, he said, “I’m not a doctor. Having me there won’t make you better. Don’t bother me.”

Yet I found out later that he had taken Shairine to the hospital for nothing more than a mild cold.

When I was eight months pregnant and suffered massive bleeding from a car accident, the doctor called him urgently, asking him to come sign the consent form for surgery.

However, his reply was as cold as ice. “Is she dead? If not, don’t call me.”

As his words echoed through the phone, I heard Shairine’s excited voice in the background. “Jason, this concert was totally worth it! They’re finally on stage!”

The call ended, and blood soaked the sheets beneath me, spreading rapidly until half the blanket was stained red.

The crushing pain in my heart from my death in my previous life felt suffocating as I remembered it. Clutching my chest, I let out a bitter smile.

Jason, if you never loved me, then I won’t love you anymore either.

That night, Yves took me home just in time to meet the curfew our father had set.

The next morning, I woke up groggily and reached for my phone to check the time. What greeted me instead was a message from Shairine.

She sent a photo of Jason sleeping at her house, along with the caption. [Jason stayed at my place last night to keep me company.]

Seeing her message, I felt nothing. I replied curtly with an “Oh.”

I ignored her after that, but she wasn’t willing to let it go. Soon, she sent another photo—this time of breakfast.

[This is the breakfast Jason made for me this morning.] She wrote. [He even made me heart-shaped fried eggs, my favorite.]

Jason had never once stepped into the kitchen when he was with me. He always said the kitchen was a woman’s domain, and men shouldn’t enter.

So, for him, I—a person who had never cooked before—enrolled in a cooking class just to learn. As long as I was there, he always had warm, home-cooked meals waiting for him.

But seeing how much effort he put into Shairine, I realized just how ridiculous I had been.

I glanced at her messages, didn’t reply, and calmly set my phone down to continue eating breakfast.

Five minutes later, a message from Jason popped up.

He didn’t mention last night at all, instead saying, [The yam and pork rib soup you made last time was pretty good. Make some for me today and bring it to the office.]

[Oh, and don’t add scallions this time.]