Chapter 2: Day 19: The Canceled Surprise
1196 Words
The sentence on the screen felt like a slimy, venomous snake, crawling up my arm and straight into my heart. Ten minutes ago, the person sending this message was panting and entangled with another woman on his desk; ten minutes later, he could switch seamlessly, acting spoiled and needy toward me with the most innocent and dependent tone.
The cold wind of early spring swept up the fallen leaves on the ground. I stood by the trash can, staring blankly at the thermos inside. There used to be a time when just him calling out "hungry" would have me running out in a pouring rainstorm to buy him hot congee, but now, I only felt a chill in my fingertips.
I tapped open the chat box, hovered my fingers over the keyboard for two seconds, and typed a few words:
"I accidentally spilled it on the way. Just order some takeout yourself."
Sent successfully. Without any hysteria. I was past the age of needing to demand an explanation.
Philip instantly replied with an aggrieved sticker: "Okay, then for dinner I want to eat the sweet and sour spare ribs you make to make it up to me."
I stared at that line of text for a moment, didn't reply, and simply locked the screen.
When I got home, the embroidered couple's slippers we had picked out together at IKEA were still sitting in the entryway. Scattered on the coffee table in the living room were several wedding planning magazines.
I had secretly bought those a few days ago for the proposal ceremony.
I walked over and gathered those magazines one by one. The exquisite wedding dresses, the romantic island venues, the dazzling diamond rings—at this moment, they all looked like an absurd pantomime in my eyes. I found a large cardboard box, dumped all these things that carried three years of fantasies into it, and sealed it tight with packing tape.
Then, I dialed the number of that sky restaurant on the Bund.
"Hello, I'm Chloe, I previously booked the terrace private room for the 15th of next month. Yes, twenty days from now... There's no need to confirm the details, please just cancel the reservation for me."
The restaurant manager on the other end of the phone was clearly very surprised: "Miss Chloe, your deposit was fifty thousand yuan. If you cancel now, according to the contract, we can only refund half the amount, which is twenty-five thousand yuan. Moreover, you put so much thought into the flowers and the band for that day. Are you sure you want to cancel?"
"I'm sure." My voice was so steady that it felt foreign even to myself. "Please initiate the refund process as soon as possible, thank you."
Hanging up the phone and looking at the twenty-five thousand yuan refunded to my bank card, I took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled.
I'll just consider this the price of buying out my three years of blindness and stupidity.
At seven-thirty in the evening, the sound of the fingerprint lock unlocking came from the entryway.
"Smells so good, is it sweet and sour spare ribs?" Philip called out habitually while changing his shoes.
He was wearing the white shirt that had been thrown on the carpet that morning, his suit jacket draped casually over the crook of his arm. He walked up to the dining table, wrapped his arms around my waist from behind, and rested his chin naturally on my collarbone.
"I had meetings all afternoon today, I'm exhausted." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath of my scent. "It's still best being at home."
But the moment he leaned in, my body grew uncontrollably rigid.
Mixed with his usual men's cologne, an extremely faint, sweet and cloying scent of roses drilled into my nasal cavity. That was the perfume Nora wore today, exactly the same as what I had smelled outside the office door at noon.
Not only that, because of him lowering his head, I clearly saw a very faint red mark on the topmost edge of his shirt collar—one that had been hastily wiped with a tissue but not completely washed out.
A lipstick mark.
My stomach churned, and that familiar wave of nausea hit me again.
I fought down the urge to shove him away, quietly slipped out of his embrace, and picked up the soup bowl from the table.
"Go wash your hands and eat first." I deliberately avoided his gaze.
Philip didn't notice anything unusual about me. He smiled and kissed me on the cheek: "Thanks, wifey."
At the dinner table, as he ate the dishes I had cooked, he enthusiastically shared with me the happenings at the company today: "The Series C funds have fully arrived in the account. The VC firm is very satisfied with our plans for the second half of the year. Chloe, once the year-end dividends come down, let's go look at houses. Let's buy one with a garden. Haven't you always wanted a yard full of hydrangeas?"
He painted a picture of our future, his eyes sincere and passionate. If it weren't for that unbearable scene from noon still etched in my mind, I almost would have believed him again.
I watched his chewing motions and suddenly felt that the man in front of me was like a monster wearing a perfect mask.
How on earth did he manage to seamlessly switch between two women and still act so deeply affectionate?
"Why aren't you eating?" Seeing that I hadn't touched my chopsticks, Philip looked at me with some confusion.
"I'm not hungry." I put down my bowl and chopsticks, my voice as cold as ice. "The collar of your shirt is dirty. Take it off later, I'll get rid of it for you."
Philip froze for a moment, instinctively touching his collar. A fleeting, barely noticeable flash of panic crossed his eyes, but he quickly covered it up with a smile: "Oh, it might have accidentally rubbed against something when I was drinking coffee in the conference room this afternoon. It's fine, just throw it in the washing machine."
"Okay." I didn't expose his clumsy lie.
After dinner, Philip went to the study to handle emails, while I washed the dishes alone in the kitchen.
Next to the sink, two mugs sat side by side. One was dark blue, printed with his initial P; the other was light pink, printed with my initial C. This pair of cups was bought the first day we moved into this apartment. They had been used for three whole years, and the glaze on the bottom was even a bit worn.
I turned off the faucet and picked up the pink mug that belonged to me.
Once upon a time, I thought these two cups were just like us—always a pair, never to be separated.
I grabbed the black garbage bag next to me and let go.
With a muffled "clunk," the pink cup was buried by the other kitchen scraps.
This was the first thing belonging to me that I threw away.
Nineteen days left until I completely leave him.
- Writer
