Running From Betrayal: Goodbye to You

Yes, it seemed ridiculous, really.

Susan's birthday also happened to be Mom's death anniversary.

Yet, aside from me, no one remembered.

That included Hans, who once held me close and softly promised, "From now on, I'll accompany you to pay respects to your mom on her death anniversary. I won't let you face the past alone."

On the day of Mom's death anniversary, he chose to drive toward the bustling city instead of the desolate cemetery.

He held my hand and led me into the grand, luxurious hotel lobby filled with glamorous birthday posters of Susan everywhere I looked. Some were of her alone; others were of her and Dad in sweet, intimate embraces.

As I walked into the private room, Susan was sitting in the main seat as though she owned the place, wearing a pale purple strapless gown. Her long, voluminous curls cascaded down her back. She exuded the presence of a queen.

A diamond ring, several carats in size, adorned her slender, pale finger. It was dazzling enough to hurt my eyes.

When Mom was alive, she once told Dad that she wanted a diamond ring from him for her 40th birthday. It didn't have to be an expensive ring; just something worth a few tens of thousands would do.

And yet, Dad didn't even come home on Mom's 40th birthday.

In the end, I used my pocket money to buy her a diamond ring.

I had a ring just like the one Susan wore. Hans gave it to me on our wedding anniversary last year. It cost over three million.

I didn't want to look, but I couldn't help glancing.

I noticed Dad gazing at Susan with a doting expression. When he saw a strand of hair on her shoulder, he gently picked it off and discarded it.

Such meticulous, tender care was something Mom had never experienced.

Trembling all over, I bit down hard on my tongue.

"You're here, Yarmilla," Susan said. "It makes me happy to see you here today." Her gaze first lingered on Hans' face for a moment, then swept lightly toward me.

As she rose gracefully, her diamond-encrusted nails glinted under the lights, complementing the transparent stem of her wine glass. The crimson liquid in her glass swirled in slow, deliberate circles.

When Hans noticed I wasn't reciprocating Susan's gesture, he picked up a glass of wine from the table and drank in my place.

But before he could finish his drink, I flipped the table.

I still remember vividly the moment those exquisitely plated, outrageously expensive dishes fell to the floor. The way Hans looked at me…

Disappointment. Displeasure. Disdain.

The ever-composed Mrs. Luther had lost her composure today.

I had embarrassed him.

Come to think of it, this was the first time Hans had ever looked at me like that since we met.

When we first started dating, we were just like any ordinary couple. We hiked, watched sunsets, and camped and stargazed together.

On our wedding night, he promised me that I would never have to suffer any grievances for the rest of my life. He swore he would never force me to do anything I didn't want to.

He also vowed that he would never repeat the mistakes my father made.

Susan hadn't set her sights on Hans yet back then. It wasn't until I started noticing something off about Hans and investigated that I discovered the truth.

Since last year, Susan had been secretly contacting Hans under the guise of wanting to repair her relationship with me.

A whole year.

And Hans didn't breathe a single word about it to me.

I had thought about treating Hans as a safe harbor. I tried to trust him. But I was glad I always held back. That restraint allowed me to pull away immediately when things went wrong.

Susan's betrayal and Mom's death had long taught me to never trust anyone fully.

Because of that mindset, I had been prepared for three years. And in the end, those three years of preparation came in handy.

"Have you really thought it through?" Grandma let out a gentle sigh. She knew I was joking and that I never truly blamed her.

Still, it was clear she didn't want to see Hans and me end up like this.

"Yes, especially now when we don't have kids yet."