The Audacity of Dumping Me

I took a deep breath of the cool night air, and the stifling heaviness in my chest seemed to ease at last.

Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out my phone and dialed the only number in my contacts without a name attached.

It rang once before the call was answered.

"Jamie, come pick me up."

A steady, respectful voice replied from the other end, "Yes, Miss."

Ten minutes later, a black Rolls-Royce Phantom pulled up in front of me.

Jamie Melford hurried out of the car and opened the rear door for me. He bowed slightly, his voice tinged with emotion.

"Miss, welcome home."

I gave a small nod and stepped inside.

I slipped off my work uniform jacket and tossed it casually onto the wool carpet by my feet.

As the city lights streamed past the window, everything that had just happened felt like some absurd dream—one that was quickly fading into the distance.

Only then did I take out my other phone and dial my best friend, Cathy Thompson.

"Cathy, book me a booth at VIVA tonight—the top one."

A shrill scream burst from the other end of the line.

"Holy shit! Mel, you finally decided to dump that jerk?"

I let out a soft laugh, gazing at the dazzling neon outside.

"Your girl's single again. Time to throw a party."

Half an hour later, the car stopped in front of a top-tier apartment building in the city center.

I had returned to the place that truly belonged to me—a duplex penthouse spanning the top three floors.

Barefoot, I walked into the dressing room. Rows of motion-sensor lights flickered on one after another.

Under their glow, racks of couture gowns and limited-edition handbags—long neglected and dusted with a thin layer of gray—regained their rightful brilliance.

I reached out at random and slipped into a red silk slip dress.

Standing before the full-length mirror, I looked at the woman reflected there—familiar, yet strangely distant.

Bright eyes, flawless teeth, lips as red as flame, a hint of languid confidence in her gaze.

This was Melanie Hawkins. This was who I truly was.

I gently touched my cheek and whispered to my reflection, "Melanie… welcome home."

Then I opened my contacts, found the name "Harvey Schur," and blocked and deleted every way he could reach me.

When it was done, I felt lighter than I had in years—as if I had finally pulled out a decayed tooth. It hurt a little, but the relief far outweighed the pain.

Early the next morning, Harvey was set to leave for the airport.

Perhaps because we would never meet again, his pitiful conscience made a rare appearance, prompting him to call and say goodbye.

What he didn't expect was that the familiar ringtone would no longer greet him.

Instead, a cold, mechanical female voice answered, "Sorry, the number you have dialed is no longer in service."