If you can't handle it, just break up

Plotting a Secret Escape

I can continue to put up with him. But I can’t let a child be born into a relationship like this.

I turned off the bathroom light and walked back to the bedroom, pulling open the nightstand drawer in the dark. Inside the drawer, tucked beneath a few half-read books, was a small notebook. I fished it out and flipped to the first page by the dim light of my phone screen. It was a list I’d written myself. The handwriting was a bit messy, but every word felt like an inscription carved in stone—

1. Confirm pregnancy (Done)

2. Schedule surgery (In a neighboring city, at a private clinic, not connected to the network)

3. Organize all personal assets

4. Find a place to live (In Susan’s city)

5. Block all contact information

6. Leave

I closed the notebook and shoved it deep into the drawer.

Then I turned on the bedside lamp, picked up my phone, and started making the appointment. A slot at a private gynecology clinic in the neighboring city, one week later. I had specifically looked up that clinic—it wasn’t connected to the public healthcare system, its records weren’t online, it didn’t require an ID, and it only accepted pre-booked appointment numbers. I took a screenshot of the confirmation text and saved it in an encrypted folder on my phone.

After doing all this, I opened the bottom drawer of my nightstand and pulled out an old cookie tin. The tin was printed with outdated cartoon designs, and the edges were worn white. Inside were not cookies, but my bank cards, passbooks, and several financial investment contracts. I spread them all out on the bed, opened the calculator on my phone, and began crunching the numbers.

Over the years, most of my expenses have been covered by my own earnings. Everything Leon gave me—designer bags, jewelry, luxury cars, and black cards—I’ve converted into investment capital. The skills I learned from him have been a huge help: reading financial reports, making investments, and seizing opportunities. My principal has more than doubled. The total of my savings and investment products would be enough to open a modest shop in a small city, cover the down payment on a studio apartment, and live a quiet, unassuming life for a long time. It wouldn’t be luxurious, but I wouldn’t have to kowtow to anyone anymore.

After finishing my calculations, I put all the cards and contracts into a waterproof bag and slipped it into the secret compartment of my backpack. Then I picked up my phone and sent a message to my only true friend.

Back in college, when all my classmates looked down on me for being poor, for always keeping to myself, and for the lingering smell of cooking oil on me from working multiple jobs every day, Susan was the only one who would save me a hot meal in the cafeteria or quietly hand me a pack of tissues when I was hiding on the rooftop crying.

“Are you there?”

She replied instantly. Susan always replies instantly. “Yeah. Why aren’t you asleep yet?”

“There’s something I want to talk to you about. It’s not convenient to text. Can we talk on the phone tomorrow?”

“Anytime. Are you okay? You rarely reach out this late.”

“I’m fine.” I paused, my fingertips hovering over the screen for a long time before finally typing a single line: “Susan, I might come see you.”

She sent a hug emoji, then typed: “You’re always welcome. I’ve kept the key for you.”

I put down my phone, turned off the bedside lamp, and curled up in the cold sheets. It had started raining outside; the raindrops pelted the floor-to-ceiling windows in a dense downpour, like countless tiny pebbles striking the glass. I closed my eyes, resting one hand on my lower abdomen, feeling my heartbeat pulse from my chest to my fingertips.

A long, long time later, I finally drifted off to sleep amid the sound of the rain.

The next morning, Marcus called to apologize. His voice was hoarse from a hangover and tinged with caution as he explained that the signal had been poor at the club last night, and he’d ended up calling a designated driver to take Leon home. He apologized for making me make the trip for nothing.

I told him it was fine.

He asked, “You’re really not mad, are you?”

I said, “I’m not mad.”

After hanging up, I leaned against the kitchen island and slowly finished the cup of black coffee in my hand, which had gone completely cold. Outside the window, the city in daylight revealed a different side—noisy, bustling, with everyone hurrying along the streets filled with traffic. This city has millions of people; every day, countless people meet and part ways. One more or one less makes no difference.

A little past ten in the morning, I dialed Susan’s number.

Her voice was hoarse from just waking up, and I could hear a cat meowing and the sound of a coffee machine running in the background. “What happened to you last night? You scared me so much I almost booked a flight over here.”

“I need your help,” I said, my voice calm, as if I were outlining a work plan. “Two things. First, help me find a studio apartment where you live. It doesn’t have to be big—just clean and safe. It would be better if it’s close to your dessert shop. Second, I’ll be there in a week. Pick me up at the airport.”

There was a silence on the other end for two or three seconds, then Susan said, “Are you finally leaving him?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened?”

I held the phone, my gaze drifting through the floor-to-ceiling windows to the skyscrapers lining the distant skyline. The sunlight was making them glisten, like peaks made of glass.

“It’s a long story,” I said. “I’ll tell you all about it when we meet. It’s not really convenient to discuss over the phone.”

“Okay.” Her voice took on a serious tone, shedding the earlier languor. “Leave the housing to me—I’ve got it covered. There happens to be a vacant unit for rent in our complex right now; I’ll go check on it for you. When are you coming over? Send me your flight number, and I’ll drive to the airport to pick you up.” She paused. “But Vera—are you okay?”

I was silent for a moment.

“I’m okay,” I said. “I just need a little time.”

After hanging up, I walked into the walk-in closet. Two entire walls of wardrobes were filled with clothes, bags, and shoes from all sorts of brands. Some were gifts from Leon, some were bought with the allowance he gave me, and some were chosen to his taste when I accompanied him to parties. Standing amidst these clothes, I suddenly felt as though they were exhibits in a museum of strangers.

I began sorting them. The clothes that truly belonged to me occupied only a small corner—a few cotton T-shirts slightly faded from washing, a pair of well-worn jeans, a pilled cardigan, and a tracksuit. I folded them neatly and put them in a canvas duffel bag. As for those expensive trophies—the silk evening gowns, the cashmere coats, the limited-edition chain-strap bags—I didn’t touch a single one.

They belonged to “Leon Castro’s girlfriend.” And I was no longer that person.

By the time Leon returned, it was already late into the night of the following day.

Half-asleep, I heard the lock turn, the electronic door lock emit a low “beep,” and then the sound of leather shoes on the marble floor. He walked into the bedroom without turning on the light, but the dip in the mattress told me he had already lain down beside me.

The familiar scent of cologne filled my nostrils, mingled with the perfume of another woman. That scent wasn’t mine—my perfume has a sweet, rose-like note, while this one was a cool floral fragrance with a sharp white musk finish. I kept my eyes closed, pretending to be fast asleep.

He pressed himself against me from behind, resting his chin in the crook of my neck, his lips barely brushing my earlobe. His breath still carried the lingering warmth of whiskey. “Why didn’t you come pick me up last night?” His voice carried a hint of petulance, like a cat accustomed to being brought home by its owner, purring in discontent.

“I wasn’t feeling well.” My voice was steady—I’d rehearsed it countless times in the dark. After living with someone you don’t love for five years, you learn how to make your voice sound completely convincing. “I might have caught a cold.”

He was silent for a few seconds.

“Did you take any medicine?”