Fruit of Ruin

Alan and I had known each other for ten years, and he had always known exactly where my bottom line was.

After so many years in business, he also knew perfectly well how to keep a proper distance from other women.

But now, he kept crossing that line again and again.

In that case, our marriage and the newest project I had negotiated no longer needed to exist.

I had closed a 200-million-dollar deal in Westarken that could've changed the company's future, but at that moment, it didn't matter anymore.

When I woke up the next morning, Alan hadn't sent a single message or made a single call.

I wasn't even angry.

After the follow-up check confirmed I was fine, I went straight home to a 5,300-square-foot luxury villa that Alan and I had bought the previous year.

Seven years ago, when we graduated, we squeezed into a basement room and shared a discounted sandwich.

Five years ago, when we registered our marriage, we ate at a street food stall and went home with a tiny four-inch cake.

Now, I was alone in a huge empty house, nursing my wounds by myself.

I figured I would get used to it eventually.

I was reviewing the divorce papers the lawyer sent me when Alan finally came home.

With him came a strong wave of rose perfume. It hit me so hard that I blinked in surprise.

Alan had extremely sensitive skin and was allergic to most cosmetics. He hated perfume more than anything.

Because of that, all these years with him, I never used skincare products. I picked shampoo with the same care people use when choosing a wedding dress.

As it turned out, he was only strict with me.

When he saw me lying on the couch with my tablet, he froze for a second.

"Larissa drank a little too much at the celebration dinner last night and fell, so I took her home first. Later, it got really late, and it's far out there, so I grabbed a random hotel nearby and didn't make it to the hospital to pick you up."

I nodded, terminated another partnership agreement on my tablet, and casually replied, "Okay. Got it."

Alan opened his mouth, but he got stuck for a moment.

It seemed my reaction wasn't what he expected.

After hesitating, he stepped closer and lowered his gaze.

"It's Saturday. You shouldn't be working today. I'm planning to take Larissa on a trip to Presia. Do you want to come with us?"

Seven years ago, on my birthday, Alan and I took a five-dollar photo at a small studio. The backdrop was a cheap cardboard cutout of the Presian Tower.

He promised that one day, when we had money, he would take me to Presia and take the exact same photo in front of the real tower.

Later, our homes got bigger and our business thrived, but he got busier. He kept coaxing me gently.

"Myra, this is a critical time for the company. As the head of the company, I can't just drop everything and fly overseas whenever I feel like it. You're the most understanding person I know. You get that, right?"

And I did.

So I stopped bringing up Presia and threw myself entirely into helping build the company.

But the moment Larissa wanted to go, he somehow found the time.

I opened the next client email and replied in the same even tone, "Three people traveling together feels crowded. I'm not interested."

For some reason, he let out a quiet sigh of relief.

"Alright. I'm just back to pick something up. You'll have to have lunch by yourself. We'll eat together tonight.

"And this partnership is key to opening our overseas market. I've already invited the press to a launch event on Monday. Didn't you always want to stand beside me in public? Monday's your chance. Make sure you're ready…"