He Is Not My Knight in Shining Armor, Just a Deceitful Opportunist

“So what if you’re his girlfriend? In a relationship, if you’re not the one loved but still clinging on, then you’re just the mistress.”

“Get out of this place. Go back to wherever you came from!”

One of Arlene’s friends, a particularly burly woman, stepped forward and shoved me hard. My head slammed against a protruding decoration on the wall, the sharp pain making me suck in a cold breath. I instinctively reached back to touch the spot and when I pulled my hand away, my palm was slick with sticky liquid. Blood.

The room spun and my vision blurred. I tried to steady myself, reaching out for support, but Arlene’s group only pushed me farther away with looks of disdain.

Arlene’s gaze flickered briefly when she noticed the blood on my hand, but the next moment, her expression shifted dramatically. She burst into tears.

“You already said you’d give Lenard to me. Now that we’re married, it’s only fair that I take charge of this place, wouldn’t you agree? Are you trying to make me look bad in front of my friends?” she said between sobs. “I know it must be hard for you. You have a lot to process. That’s why I’ll give you time. You have one day to move your things.”

Her words stirred a chorus of sympathy from her friends.

“Bless your heart, Arlene. You’re sacrificing so much for this ungrateful mistress,” one said, patting her shoulder.

“Don’t worry, Arlene. If she doesn’t leave in two days, we’ll help you move her,” another chimed in, throwing a hateful glance my way.

Arlene nodded solemnly, her face full of sorrow, as though she were the one being wronged.

I stood there, unable to speak, as they sauntered out of the apartment, leaving me alone in the suffocating silence. My legs gave out and the world around me faded into darkness.

When I woke up, the afternoon sunlight was already streaming through the windows. I gingerly touched the back of my head. The wound had scabbed over, but the pain was still sharp—a constant reminder of the humiliation I’d endured.

I’ve always been afraid of pain—always. Even the smallest injury could bring me to tears and this was no exception. My chest heaved as silent tears streamed down my face.

Lenard said he had only two sets of keys to this apartment—one with me and one with him. He must have already given his set to Arlene. He didn’t hesitate, did he? So decisive, so ruthless.

I moved into this apartment when Lenard and I officially started dating. At first, it was nothing more than a barren, lifeless space.

***

Flashback on:

“It’s just a place to sleep,” Lenard had said casually when I asked about the lack of furniture or decoration. “No need to fill it with unnecessary furniture.”

But when he saw the disapproval on my face, he waved me off dismissively. “Do whatever you want with it.”

That was all I needed. With one word of approval from him, I threw myself into transforming the place, pouring in time and effort. From repainting the walls to replacing the furniture, even down to the smallest decorations, I worked tirelessly during evenings and weekends. It took six months for me to turn the cold, empty apartment into a warm, cozy and inviting home.

Lenard didn’t say anything, but I could tell he appreciated it in his own way. On quiet evenings, he’d sit in the rocking chair I’d picked out for him, reading under the soft, amber glow of the lamp. The light softened his sharp features, making him look almost gentle.

I’d sit on the couch, curled up with a cup of milk tea, watching him quietly. My heart would swell with pride and hope.

“See? Even the hardest stone can be softened under warm light,” I told myself.

I clung to the belief that, given enough time, I could thaw his icy demeanor completely.

But reality always found a way to shatter my illusions. Every time I thought I was making progress, Lenard would crush my hopes.

Like the time I discovered he enjoyed the dry-aged steak I made him for dinner. I was over the moon to finally make him something he liked. But the next week, when I made him the steak again, he threw it straight into the trash.

“I don’t allow myself to grow attached to things I like,” he said coldly when I asked why.

The same thing happened with clothes. I bought him clothes I thought he’d like and he discarded them without a second glance.

“I only wear what she picks for me. Don’t bother doing these useless things again,” he’d said, his tone as cold as ice.

I didn’t understand. Why is it always her? Why could he never see me? Why did I always matter less than her?

Each time he rejected me, I found myself questioning my own worth. Over and over, my confidence began to crumble and slowly, I started forgetting my dreams. Day by day, I grew more despondent, so much so that I hardly noticed the seasons changing around me.

After work, I glanced up at the sky. It looked ominous—a storm’s coming, I thought. Determined to make it home, I pushed forward and sure enough, the rain began to pour mercilessly. By the time I reached my apartment, I was soaked to the bone.

That night, a high fever took hold of me. I felt dizzy and barely conscious, lost in a haze. Faintly aware of my surroundings, I noticed someone touching my forehead, as if checking my temperature. In the middle of my fevered dream, I could hear a soft, gentle voice murmuring nearby, the words blending into the haze of my thoughts.

“You really don’t know how to take care of yourself, do you?” a soft voice murmured.

“You’ve got a fever. You need to take the medicine.”