If you can't handle it, just break up

Using Oneself as a Pawn

I nodded. This was the first time we’d stood face to face since the summer we graduated. We’d lived in the same college dorm for two whole years, and every morning at seven o’clock sharp, she’d stand in front of the mirror and cheer herself on in a sweet voice: “Good morning, Isabella. You’re the warmest little sun. Do your best today, too.” Back then, she came from a wealthy family; her father ran a manufacturing plant of moderate size, earning enough profit each year to support all her daughter’s pretensions and arrogance.

She looked down on Leon. At the time, Leon was so obsessed with pursuing her that the whole school knew about it—roses were strewn from the dormitory building all the way to the school gate, and luxury goods were showered upon her like candy. But she insisted he was a snob who’d forgotten who he was just because he had a few stinking bucks, calling him uneducated and saying he knew nothing but money. Then she turned around and fell for a penniless jock who could only charm her with sweet talk, pouring her heart and soul into him and emptying her wallet for him.

That winter before graduation, that man absconded with the last of her savings and ran off. At the same time, her father’s factory went bankrupt due to a cash flow crisis. The family’s house and car were repossessed by the bank, and overnight, the once-respected upper-class family was reduced to abject poverty.

Now she wears worn-out high heels and carries a mountain of paperwork as a lowly clerk at Leon’s company. Her monthly salary probably isn’t even enough to buy a single pair of the shoes she used to buy.

And I—I’ve become the very type of woman she used to look down on most: a trophy wife kept by a wealthy man.

Her gaze drifted from my face to the handbag I was carrying, then back to my face, back and forth several times. Her lips trembled a few times, as if she were weighing her words, but in the end, she could only manage to say, “You’ve changed… so much.”

Before she could finish, a voice came from behind us.

“Vera. Where are my documents?”

Leon strode over, his leather shoes tapping out a confident rhythm on the marble floor. He casually wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me slightly closer to his side—the gesture carrying a hint of deliberate display. The movement was as intimate as that of lovers who’d done it a thousand times, his chin almost brushing the top of my head.

“Thanks for making the trip. Next time, I’ll have the driver pick them up from my place.”

His voice was unnaturally gentle as he spoke, the corners of his mouth curving slightly, but his gaze swept past my shoulder, carrying a hint of undisguised amusement and scrutiny, settling firmly on Isabella’s face.

In that instant, I understood everything.

He was using me to hurt her.

Five years ago, when he was pursuing her, I shared a dorm room with her—I was the person closest to her, the one she was most likely to see. That’s why, when he waited downstairs to deliver flowers, he chose the spot where I was standing. Five years later, he was still using me as a gun, the bullet chambered, the barrel aimed at the same target.

Nothing had changed. Only I had grown up and finally understood the rules of this game—I had never been the heroine, nor even a supporting character. I was merely a prop, a human weapon, a pawn he used to provoke another woman. It was true then, and it remains true now.

Isabella’s face flushed white then red, red then white, like a malfunctioning traffic light. She bit her lower lip, her knuckles turning pale from the pressure as her fingernails dug into the file cover.

“You two…” Her voice was soft, as if she were speaking to herself, “You haven’t broken up yet. I remember back in college, Leon was clearly just…”

Her words trailed off again. Today, no one let her finish a single sentence.

Leon tilted his head slightly, his gaze lingering on her face for a moment before the corners of his mouth turned up. The smile didn’t reach his eyes; the coldness in his gaze remained unbroken from start to finish.

“Isabella, aren’t you supposed to be organizing files in HR? What are you doing here?”

He said this in a tone as casual as discussing the weather, but the implication was crystal clear—you shouldn’t be on this floor. This isn’t a floor an employee of your rank should be on.

Isabella’s face went completely pale; even the color drained from her lips, leaving them ashen. Her fingers tightened around the files, her knuckles protruding from her slender bones like bare branches in winter. She took a half-step back and forced a smile that looked even more painful than crying.

“I… I’ll go back down to work now. There are still so many documents left to sort.”

She turned and walked away quickly, her back as stiff as a plank. Her worn high heels tapped out an irregular, crisp rhythm on the marble floor, like a string of frantic footsteps fleeing in panic.

I watched her back disappear around the corner of the elevator lobby, then gently but firmly shook off Leon’s hand wrapped around my waist.

“The documents are delivered. I’m heading back now.”

“Wait a minute.” He grabbed my wrist—not too hard, but firmly. “Let’s grab dinner tonight. I know a new French restaurant that just opened; they poached the chef from Paris.”

“I have a baking class tonight. I’ve had it scheduled for a while; it’s not really convenient to reschedule.”

“Can’t we go another day?”

“Another day is fine.” I looked into his eyes, my tone calm. “But I have a commitment tonight—the instructor was brought in from out of town.”

He raised an eyebrow and let go of my wrist. “Alright. Then come back early.”

I turned and walked toward the elevator. I heard him say something behind me—probably just to himself—but I didn’t turn around to check.

The moment the elevator doors closed, I leaned against the wall and exhaled a long breath I’d been holding for ages. My blurry reflection appeared on the elevator wall—a woman in a simple white shirt, her face serene, her posture upright, looking perfectly fine.

Only I knew what kind of undercurrents lay hidden beneath that calm exterior.

Had he noticed anything?

I didn’t know. But I didn’t care anymore.

Our fifth anniversary had finally arrived.

I say “finally” because I’d been counting down the days on my calendar for a week. Not out of anticipation, but because I intended to use it as a final test. If he could disappoint me to a whole new level that night, then I’d truly have no reason left to delay or hesitate.

Leon booked the most expensive French restaurant in the city. High up on the 80th floor, floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city’s dazzling skyline; under the night sky, office towers and shopping malls glowed like pieces on a chessboard. The table was draped in crisp, starched white linen, every fold pressed into perfect order. A deep red velvet rose stood in the center of each table, casting a faint, mysterious glow in the candlelight. Crystal stemmed glasses held champagne-colored sparkling wine; fine bubbles rose slowly up the sides of the glasses, emitting a barely audible hiss.

I wore the black evening gown he had given me; the satin sheen glowed subtly in the candlelight. My hair was styled into an elegant French chignon, secured with a pearl hairpin. He sat across the table from me, dressed in a suit and tie, the top button of his shirt undone, revealing a hint of his collarbone. The lighting cast just the right shadows on his face, making his already flawless features look as though they’d been cut straight from a magazine cover.

Everything was perfect. It all felt unreal.

The appetizer arrived: foie gras with roasted figs, accented with blackcurrant sauce. I cut off a small piece and put it in my mouth—it tasted like chewing wax.

“I asked Isabella to come over,” he said suddenly.

My fork froze mid-air, suspended somewhere between the plate and my lips.

“What’s the big deal?” he laughed. He leaned in, his finger gently brushing my ear, tucking a stray strand of hair that had slipped from my bun behind my ear. The gesture was utterly natural, his fingertips carrying just the right warmth, creating an illusion of tenderness like a slow-motion scene in a movie. “I just want her to take a few couple photos for us. It’s our fifth anniversary, after all. Let’s have a keepsake.”

“Inviting an ex to take our anniversary photos?” I looked into his eyes. “Don’t you think there’s something wrong with that?”

“An ex?” He chuckled, a brief laugh. “What kind of ex is she? I chased her all over town back then, and she never even gave me a second glance. Now her dad’s factory has gone under, that jock boyfriend who embezzled the money has vanished to hide from creditors, and she’s working as a lowly clerk at my company—do you know how much she makes a month? Not even enough for you to get a single manicure.”

He didn’t finish his sentence, but I already understood what he meant.

He didn’t call Isabella here to rekindle old feelings. He wanted her to see with her own eyes what the playboy she once looked down on now possesses—wealth, status, and the beautiful woman standing by his side. He intended to use my presence to wound her, our old photos to humiliate her, and her current misfortune to soothe his wounded pride.

I was a tool. I was one five years ago, and I still am.

“Look at what?” I asked, feigning ignorance.

He leaned back in his chair, a smile curving his lips—one I knew all too well: slack, slightly roguish, and smug in the belief that everything was under his control. “Look at how well I’m doing.”

He said “I,” not “we.”

In his subconscious, I’ve always been a part of “me”—an arm, an organ, a passenger in the front seat, the most prominent trophy on his display shelf. I am his property, not his partner.

I set down my fork and took a sip from my glass. The icy liquid slid down my throat, suppressing the turmoil in my chest. I needed to stay silent. I needed to keep playing the role of the well-behaved woman who understood nothing and asked no questions, until the day I was ready arrived.

Isabella arrived.