A lot of people warned me. Maybe his attention was just a fling, or he had some other motive. Some were jealous; some genuinely wanted to protect me.
But he kept proving them wrong with his actions.
Three years of steady care and affection: he remembered every anniversary, was always kind, never neglected me because of work. Even our first time happened only after he asked for my opinion.
Everything looked perfect, harmonious.
If I hadn’t gotten curious and checked his phone.
I’m a big-hearted girlfriend. Countless people told me to watch my man—he was too outstanding, bound to attract attention—but I never let them bother me. He didn’t seem like the type to chase after others. Besides me, he wouldn’t get close to any other woman. Even his friends asked what trick I’d used to make him so faithful.
I said maybe he just loved me enough.
So he told me he was going to his college reunion and might be late. I didn’t mind—I told him to have fun. I didn’t question why a man who hated socializing and had barely kept in touch with his college classmates would go to a pointless reunion.
That night we had a lot of firsts: his first time home after midnight, his first time drunk, my first time digging through his phone, my first night of sleeplessness.
He’d been a perfect boyfriend: even when he had to socialize, he’d never come home past midnight, never get drunk—at most tipsy. I even wondered if he just had a high tolerance.
Now I see I was foolish. No one is immune to getting drunk; maybe he just hadn’t had a reason to drink enough before.
Before, after events, whenever he came home slightly buzzed he’d bury himself in my arms and whisper those flirtatious lines that made me melt. I used to wonder what would happen if he actually got drunk.
Now I know. He still knew how to stir my heart, still whispered those lines—only the name on his lips wasn’t mine.
In three years I’d never heard that name—from him or anyone else.
He’d protected that name carefully. If he wasn’t drunk, he would never have let it slip.
Rosie. It was a very pretty name.
That night I helped the drunken man into bed and heard him murmur, “I love you.”
I couldn’t help laughing—three years later and still so corny. Before I could answer, he said the name.
“Rosie.”
“I love you, Rosie.”
I knew it wasn’t just drunken gibberish—he said it over and over.
“Rosie, I miss you so much.”
“Rosie, I really love you.”
“Rosie… Rosie… Rosie…”
Even if I were a fool, I could put the pieces together.
The reunion was for one person; the drinking was for one person.
That person wasn’t me.
On impulse, I picked up his phone.
He’d always been a good boyfriend—no password on his phone, so I could check anytime. Of course, I was also a good girlfriend—this was the first time in three years I opened it.
I read thousands of messages. Well, thousands sent—one-sided.
Messages he sent to Rosie, messages she never replied to. From five years ago onward.
Every day he texted her a few lines: what he’d done that day, the weather, how much he missed her. He never stopped.
“Rosie, I saw a girl today. She looks so much like you.”
On my first day at the company.
“Rosie, I’m going to pursue her.”
The day he started courting me.
“Rosie, would you get jealous?”
The day we became a couple.
“Rosie, I moved into a new place. It has a wide sunny balcony, a huge screen, and a waterbed—you’d love it.”
The day we moved in together.
“Rosie, she in that red dress looks just like you.”
Six months in, he bought me a closet full of red dresses.
“Rosie, we had a fight today. She got mad the way you do—saying you don’t love me anymore.”
Our first big fight—only after I said “You don’t love me” did he come and make things right.
“Rosie…”
“Rosie…”
“Rosie…”
Just pressing the letter r, the keyboard would predict Rosie. How many times had he pressed it? Only he knew.
No wonder he kept backing up his chats—I thought it was important files. No wonder he liked me in red dresses. No wonder he made me wear makeup that didn’t suit me, or wanted my hair down. No wonder his eyes lit up like stars whenever he looked at me.
Those things belonged to Rosie; I was the usurper.
I didn’t cry. Not a single tear. I tossed every red dress, chopped my hair short—cut away anything that reminded me of Rosie. Everything except my face.
I found photos of him with Rosie, carefully hidden at the bottom of his album. Rosie wore a bright red dress, cute makeup, hair down, flashing a peace sign at the camera. He stood beside her, turning toward her with all that familiar tenderness.
I couldn’t deny how striking their resemblance was. If I didn’t know my mother had only ever given birth to one daughter, I might have wondered if Rosie was my twin.
The next morning I made a hangover soup and waited for him to wake. Everything looked the same—and yet everything felt different.
I didn’t ask why he’d gotten drunk or who Rosie was. He, however, demanded to know why I’d cut my hair.
I ran my fingers through the uneven ends and said I wanted to try short hair.
It looked terrible—I knew—because I’d clumsily cut it myself in the bathroom with a rusted pair of scissors. Seven years of long hair gone.
He didn’t say more, but I could tell he was angry. He didn’t start a fight, just kept his resentment in. But he couldn’t keep it entirely down.
He found the wardrobe empty of red dresses. He asked where they’d gone.
“Thrown out.”
He smashed household items, raised a hand—then, seeing my face, put it down. That face was useful.
He gathered himself and soothed me with gentle words: it was okay, he’d buy me new dresses; I could get extensions, or grow it out again. I refused.
I told him clearly: no more long hair, no more red dresses.
He exploded, blurting the sentence he’d never said aloud.
“Don’t you know! You look— You don’t look at all like—”
He stopped, realizing himself. Even if he didn’t finish, I knew the rest: I didn’t look like Rosie anymore.
He stormed out and didn’t return for a week.
I kept working, came home, cooked, slept—life went on as if only the person at my side had been temporarily removed.
A week later he came back and apologized, not sincerely. I could still see his bottled rage in his eyes. I knew he’d return because of my face.
I said nothing. We fell back into our routine. But I avoided anything that reminded me of Rosie. If Rosie liked red dresses, I’d wear pants. If Rosie had long hair, I’d wear mine short. If Rosie liked cute makeup, I’d wear bold, Western-style looks.
I didn’t confront him because I wasn’t weak—I wanted to give us a chance. If he could accept me as myself rather than as Rosie’s replica, I’d pretend it never happened and keep loving him.
At first he resisted, still angry. Over time he seemed to accept the new me. He took me to buy pants, accompanied me to regular haircuts. His gaze lost that faraway adoration. I was relieved—he was no longer looking through me toward someone else.
The messages to Rosie dropped in frequency, too. I still peeked at his phone sometimes—no password. His messages went from many times a day, to once a day, to once a week, to once a month. Eventually, he hadn’t texted Rosie in three months. Finding the thread took a long scroll.
Everything was slowly getting better. Rosie hadn’t shown up, and we were starting to fall in love all over again.
In our fifth year, he proposed.
Like the day he confessed—flowers everywhere—but this time, instead of the roses Rosie liked, he covered the floor with the baby’s breath I preferred. He knelt on one knee with a sizable diamond ring, friends cheering. I said yes.
The ring was beautiful; I heard men only ever bought that brand once in a lifetime.
That night I stared at the ring and grinned foolishly for a long time. To me it wasn’t just jewelry; it was proof. I was almost certain I was no longer Rosie’s substitute. My boyfriend—no, my fiancé—was with me because he loved me.
Ten days before the engagement party he was tense, rehearsing every moment with me over and over. I was exasperated and amused—the little free time I had was commandeered for rehearsal, but it showed how much he cared about the event, and I was happy.
If not for that text.
That night he wrapped his arm around me like always, letting me rest my head on his chest while he toyed with my hair.
His phone buzzed out of nowhere. He reached for it without thinking.
Just one second—only one second—I felt his body stiffen, go a little…off.
I asked him what was wrong. He mumbled that he needed to use the bathroom, slowly slid his arm free, and took his phone with him.
He wasn’t in there long—about the time a man needs to pee—but there was no sound of flushing.
He came back out looking exactly the same as always, no change at all.
Too bad women’s sixth sense never lies.
That night I had to work to get his phone out from under his pillow.
He’d never before put his phone under the pillow.
I opened their chat with Rosie—no new messages there.
On impulse I checked his text messages.
At the top was a text from the number he’d saved as Rosie.
I’d never seen this number or that contact name before. Looks like they’d reconnected.
"Ethan, I’m flying back the day after tomorrow. Are you free?
I want to talk."
"Is that you?
Rosie?"
"Yeah."
"What time is your flight the day after tomorrow?
I’ll pick you up."
"No need to trouble you. I’ll send you the meeting spot when I land. I have something to deal with now. See you."
He sent a couple more messages, but she didn’t reply—probably busy.
Before this, I’d always assumed Rosie was someone who would never show up—dead, or lost to some circumstance that would keep them apart forever.
That was why I stayed. I thought my love could pull him back to me.
After reading the texts I closed the phone and stared at my fiancé sleeping beside me for a long time before slipping the phone back under his pillow. I cuddled him and fell asleep.
The night before Rosie came home, my period started.
I’ve had a weak constitution since I was a kid; the pain always knocks me out. Monthly cramps were torture, but this time felt different.
Dragging myself through the pain, I took a cold shower and decided to gamble with my body.
Sure enough, I ran a high fever the next day.
I wanted to see: with his fiancée feverish with cramps, and his white moonlight arriving from a flight—who would he choose?
In the end, he chose his white moonlight.
I could bear the bone-deep pain and the fever, but his white moonlight couldn’t get out of the airport without someone to carry her bags.
All my five years of devotion were gone in an instant.
Before he left, the only things he cared about were whether his hair was messed up, if his clothes fit, and whether his cologne smelled right.
I’d never seen him like that—so cautious, so delighted.
Delighted enough to forget there was a fiancée curled up in agony at home.
I canceled the engagement party. Feverish and exhausted, I packed up everything I owned and moved out of the house we’d shared for four years.
I cleared every trace of myself from the place as if I had never existed, tossing whatever I couldn’t take.
I left only a note—and that ring.
The ring he could buy only once in his life. It wasn’t meant for me.
After a month of wandering and getting myself together, I started at a new company.
Honestly, I should thank him in a way. Being with a CEO had its perks—he taught me things regular employees seldom learn.
With my degree plus what he’d shown me, I climbed the ladder fast.
Companies had been courting me for years with better offers, but I’d refused them all because I wanted to be with him.
That no longer mattered. I began a new life. In fact, the day I learned of Rosie’s existence, I’d already taken out a loan to buy my own place.
So even after the breakup, I had a home, savings, and a job. I was still the woman people envied.
"Then what happened? Did he try to find you?"
"He did. But would I let him find me? If I was leaving, I was leaving clean."
"What if he was just going to talk to Rosie, clear things up, and never contact her again? Isn’t that how novels go?"
"Novels are novels. Fairy tales are fairy tales. The moment he left a feverish, hurting me for his white moonlight, we were finished. We were never coming back."
"Ah—"
The woman in front of me sighed and pouted. "Weren’t you sad? You’d been together five years."
I smoothed my short hair and smiled. "I cut off seven years of long hair—what’s five years of a relationship in comparison?"
The girl still looked dissatisfied and was about to argue when I cut her off. "Okay, no more gossip. Is today’s work done? If it’s not, you’re not coming to dinner tonight."
"No, no, I’m on it. I’ll finish before we leave!"
After watching Maya go, I let out a long breath. Relief washed over me.
Maya is a new intern. The company put her under my wing. Fresh out of school, she’s bubbly and naïve in an endearing way—reminds me of myself back then.
Maybe that’s why we hit it off. We gossip at lunch when we’re free, and sooner or later the conversation turns personal.
She’s nosy but not a blabbermouth. She kept asking, so I told her everything.
As I watched her walk away, something like satisfaction warmed me.
It’s been over half a year since Ethan and I split.
At first I was miserable—drinking to drown the sorrow sometimes. But time did its work. Now, mentioning him raises no ripple in me.
Time is the best cure.
That evening, during the company’s monthly dinner, everyone was in high spirits when the restaurant suddenly went dark.
I was about to call a waiter when a single spotlight shone up in the center of the room, illuminating one person.
I followed the light. Henry Chase.
Seeing him made me frown automatically.
Henry was my senior and now my boss.
When Ethan and I broke up six months ago, I went abroad to recover. Somehow Henry learned I was there, flew over himself, and invited me to join his company.
I hadn’t planned to come. First, I didn’t want to work for someone I knew. Second, he’d once courted me.
Back in school, Henry’s name was everywhere—not because he was outstanding, but because he was famously loose with hearts.
He changed girlfriends as people change clothes. Most of us wear a piece of clothing for months; Henry wore women the same way he’d wear and discard an outfit. He was a textbook rich playboy.
Still, girls flocked to him because he was charming, handsome, and wealthy.
He ruined half the female population in our major within a year. Few said anything bad about him afterward, but everyone agreed he was a cad.
Then he met me.
Honestly, I still don’t know what he saw in me. We met at orientation and he launched into full-on pursuit.
I had heard his reputation, so I refused him—at first.
I thought a playboy would give up after a few rejections, but Henry only pressed harder. For three years of college he never left me alone, threatening anyone else who dared pursue me. A few guys tried and gave up quickly.
When he graduated, I thought I was free. But he still waited outside my dorm, sent flowers, and whispered romantic lines that sounded ancient.
Unattainable things make people restless, and Henry had never lost at chasing girls—until me. I was the first to make him taste defeat, and I never thought he had any real heart for me.
That changed after Ethan and I got serious.
After graduation, his habit of waiting for me moved from my dorm to my office. One day I walked out hand in hand with Ethan. Henry stood stunned but still offered me flowers. I refused and lifted our joined hands. "I already have a boyfriend."
I Wasn't Her Substitute, I Was His Reckoning
We’d known each other almost five years, but that was the first time I saw him look hurt.
He'd always been a smirking playboy. I'd thrown his flowers away countless times; he'd buy more. I'd said awful things to him, but nothing hit him like "I have a boyfriend."
His smile froze. His eyes flickered; he handed the flowers back and left.
I didn't see him again until after the breakup. He'd tracked me overseas and begged me to come to his company.
Now he stood before me holding a bouquet of baby's breath.
I knew exactly what he wanted. My brow tightened.
I lowered my voice so only we could hear. "You said we'd only talk about work."
Half a year ago abroad he'd promised me that—when he invited me to his company, he'd seemed to understand my reservations and swore he only admired my talents and wanted me professionally. If I didn't believe him, he said, I could work a while and see for myself.
I couldn't resist his persistence or his sincerity. I checked his company and saw real upward potential, so I accepted the job.
As he’d said, after a while it turned out he really hadn’t given me any special treatment. I made mistakes, and I’d get yelled at and docked pay like anyone else.
So I felt even more justified staying.
What I didn’t expect was that I’d just signed a five-year employment contract last week, and this week he’d slip back into his old habit.
It was all part of his plan.
He grinned and said, “Then as compensation for not keeping my word, I’ll give myself to you.”
I laughed, exasperated. “Big brother, is that supposed to be compensation?”
He flipped his hair. “Isn’t it? Where else are you going to find such a handsome boyfriend?”
We murmured to each other for a moment. In the end, egged on by everyone at the company, I laughed and accepted the bouquet Henry Chase handed me.
The instant I took the flowers, out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw a figure slip past outside the restaurant. The silhouette looked familiar, but when I turned to look, whoever it was was already gone.
I didn’t dwell on it. I took Henry’s hand and sat back down.
Not long after the dinner, the company atmosphere started to feel off.
My coworkers weren’t as warm as usual. Their looks were vague and unreadable. A few of them opened their mouths like they wanted to say something, then clammed up.
A few awkward days passed like that until Maya barreled into my office. “Sis! Someone’s slandering you online!”
I was organizing files, confused. “Huh?”
She was out of breath. “It’s… it’s your ex. He posted something online… saying you—”
“Say what? Don’t panic, tell me slowly.” I patted Maya’s back and told her to sit.
“He said you’re promiscuous! That you dumped him for your future and money, and you hooked up with our boss!” Maya finally finished, gasping.
I frowned. I was annoyed. We’d broken up six months ago. Why, if he couldn’t make things work with his Rosie, was he digging me up to slander me now?
Maya found the original post and sent it to me. It had been posted a week earlier; at first it only caused a small stir, nothing viral. But somehow the views and shares had spiked these last few days, like someone had quietly pushed it.
A few lines in and I knew Ethan Carter must have paid handsomely to have this written.
It twisted facts, blurred right and wrong, and though it read like Ethan’s personal memoir, the piece steadily smeared me.
It detailed our meeting, our courtship, private moments from our relationship—even the gifts and red envelopes he’d given me during holidays were described in lavish, salacious detail. The whole post boiled down to two takeaways for the public:
One, Ethan loved me.
Two, I—an inexperienced intern fresh out of school—rode Ethan’s coattails to success, then dumped him and hooked up with another man.
The gist was—he loved me so much he’d rip his heart out for me. We were supposed to be engaged, but I’d abandoned him for someone “better,” cancelled our engagement party, and proven myself a fame- and money-hungry vixen. Ethan was cast as the poor, devoted man wronged by me.
The post included screenshots of my chats with Ethan and some intimate photos. Resourceful netizens matched details to find me, Ethan, and Henry Chase.
Mostly they went after me. To them, I’d become the villain, while Ethan and Henry were just unfortunate victims fooled by me.
Once my identity was dug up, the crowd grew even more excited—waving righteous banners and demanding justice. I noticed Chase & Co.’s stock plummeting too.
Just as I was stewing, my phone rang. I answered without thinking. The first call was a string of insults—vile, hateful words—and I hung up, irritated.
That was only the beginning. Calls kept coming one after another, and each time the line was filled with abuse. Apparently my private information had been scraped and spread—maybe leaked by Ethan himself.
Whatever the cause, my phone didn’t stop all morning: calls, texts, messages. I couldn’t turn it off for fear of missing an important client call. By the end of the day I was exhausted.
When I finally left work, expecting to go home and rest, a crowd had formed at the company entrance.
I didn’t notice at first. Only when someone shouted, “There’s the bitch!” did I realize a mob had gathered, phones raised, snapping pictures of me like paparazzi on a feeding frenzy.
I thought of those scenes in old dramas where prisoners are paraded through the streets, pelted with rotten vegetables and eggs. Back then people used physical force; now they used words. Which was worse? I couldn’t decide. Either way, it hurt.
The security guards were overwhelmed. People thrust phones inches from my face. Someone shoved me—I didn’t have time to brace—and I tumbled backward.
I closed my eyes, bracing for a hard fall. But the anticipated pain never came. I landed in a reassuring embrace.
I opened my eyes. It was Henry.
Before I could speak, he helped me up. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, then took my hand.
He led me to the parking garage and we ran until we shook off the pursuers. He was breathing hard. I thought of the stock crash and the mob at the entrance and sighed. “I’m sorry.”
He steadied himself and asked, “Why apologize?”
I blinked. “Because of me… the company’s in trouble because of me—”
He smiled as he stepped closer and ruffled my hair. “It’s not your fault.”
I pulled away. “If not for me, the stock wouldn’t—”
“It’s not because of you.” He cut me off, hands on my shoulders. “This is all because he slandered you. I know that.”
I looked up into his eyes. “You believe me?”
He nodded. “I do.”
Heat flooded my chest in a way I couldn’t explain.
“Besides, you never agreed to be my girlfriend, so whatever they wrote isn’t true anyway.” He murmured that last part, but I heard it loud and clear.
“So you believe me because of what he wrote not being true?” I teased.
“No—no!” He waved his hands. “What I mean is, I know he lied. It would just be nice if you were with me for real…” He trailed off.
I couldn’t help laughing. I had indeed accepted Henry’s flowers that night, but not because I agreed to be his girlfriend. I took the bouquet to spare him embarrassment in front of everyone.
After he walked me home, I’d been clear: I’d just come out of a failed relationship six months ago and wasn’t ready for something new. He smiled and didn’t argue; he sent one text after I got home—We’ve got time.
“Lost in thought?” Henry snapped his fingers and brought me back from my memory.
“Nothing,” I said, smiling.
“Get in the car.” He opened the passenger door.
“Where are we going?” I buckled my seatbelt.
“My place.” He said it casually.
“My place?” I froze with the buckle halfway through my fingers.
“Don’t overthink it.” He slid into the driver’s seat. “I’m worried your home address might be leaked too. It’s not safe. Stay at my place for now.”
“I can stay at a hotel.” I refused.
He reached across, buckled the belt for me. “A hotel isn’t safe either.” Then he hit the gas and drove straight for the exit.
In the end I moved into his house—well, one of his houses. He’d bought a brand-new villa at some point, never lived in it, and suddenly I became its first guest.
He left me at the door with a key and a few essentials, then walked away without coming inside. That surprised me.
I opened the door and brightened. The villa’s decor was the Nordic style I loved—minimal, natural—exactly my dream home.
After unpacking a little and showering, I found more spam texts and missed calls. I sighed and ignored them.
I lay down and opened my phone’s file manager. There was a folder tucked away with many items—photos of Ethan and me, snippets of our life together. I’d meant to delete them after our breakup but couldn’t bring myself to. I’d hidden the folder in a corner of my phone.
Luckily I hadn’t deleted it: in that folder were not only our photos but also some chat logs between Ethan and Rosie. I can’t remember why I saved them, but I had the feeling they might be useful someday. Apparently that day had come.
I opened my laptop and started to type when my phone rang. Irritated, I grabbed it to turn it off—but it was Maya calling.
“Have you seen it?” she asked, breathless.
“Seen what?”
“Our boss posted something too! Didn’t you know?”
“No—” I was puzzled.
“Hold on—I’ll send it to you!”
A moment later Maya sent the link. The headline hit me before anything else:
[I’m Henry Chase. Let me tell you a different story.] Intrigued, I swiped to read.
I have to say, Henry wasn't great at telling stories. He could spend hundreds of words on a tiny detail and breeze over the important parts. The whole thing read a little muddled—but it was heartfelt.
He told a long story, from the first time he and I met up to now.
How he fell for me at first sight, how he chased me, how I rejected him, his sadness when he learned I had a boyfriend, and the joy when he found out we broke up.
He even wrote about how he "tricked" me into joining his company, and how I refused his confession again a while back.
He said that without me, he might still be that wasteful rich kid who wasted his life away.
The day I told him I had a boyfriend, he contacted me once after we parted.
He asked, "What's wrong with me compared to that man? I'm richer, I'm better-looking, I can treat you better—I'm better in every way. Why don't you choose me?"
Henry said he'll never forget what I told him that day.
"You are richer, yes, but that money came from your parents. The face you take pride in, the sports car, the house—everything was given to you by your parents. Did you ever think, if you hadn't been born into that family, what would you be now? Could you still say you're better in every way?"
That day was the first time Henry hung up on me. After that—until I broke up—he never showed up again.
He thought about it for a long time. He was, undeniably, a trust-fund rich kid; he couldn't shake that label. But he could choose what kind of trust-fund kid he wanted to be.
So he became the Henry he is today.
He founded his own company—someone who could stand on his own. He preferred this Henry to the old playboy version.
He was tired, but happy and fulfilled.
Most important, Henry doubled down on his old conviction: he was better than Ethan—by a lot.
The story ended there.
For some reason, reading his post made me curl my lips into a smile.
Thinking about it, he really had changed a lot over the years—I just hadn't noticed.
My first impression of him was that stubborn playboy, and I naturally stuck that label to him. So every time I saw him, I'd think of that label and instinctively distance myself. I never truly tried to understand him.
But the real Henry wasn't that guy. The real him took responsibility, had talent, was kind—my prejudice had just been too strong to see his good side.
I didn't read the comments on Henry's post. I knew what his intent was: to tell people I wasn't with him for money, and that I wasn't the villain in Ethan's post.
I quietly liked his post, then closed my phone and dove back into work.
The internet is a strange place. It can destroy someone—or save them. Small things can swell into scandals online, and big things can be buried.
I disliked how some people acted online, but I had to use the internet to put the truth out there.
Ethan had already framed the narrative, and he'd even hired people to smear me. I had no idea what my odds were, but I had to try.
Not just for me—if this didn't get handled, Henry and the company he'd worked so hard to build could be dragged down with me.
I didn't dissect every petty detail like Ethan did, nor did I write Henry's long, sweeping defense. I simply posted the story of how we met and fell in love, and the shock and hurt I felt when I discovered I was a stand-in.
I figured Ethan probably still didn't know I'd realized I was a substitute.
When I broke up with him, I left a note saying we didn't fit. I wanted to leave him dignity after so many years together. If I'd known my softness would lead to this, I wouldn't have done it.
But it's not too late now.
I didn't write much. I added a few screenshots of texts between Ethan and Rosie and posted everything.
I didn't know how many people would see it or believe it. Those few thousand words took everything out of me.
I replayed so much in my head—how Ethan and I met, how he courted me, the birthdays he planned, the time we moved in together, the proposal… I like to think I'm someone who can hold on and let go, and I did let go. But honestly, five years isn't easy to forget.
Before this happened I still harbored a sliver of fantasy about Ethan. I wanted to believe he had loved me once, that he hadn't meant to hurt me.
But with that post out, the last of my illusions evaporated.
Maybe I should thank him—thank him for burning the last bit of hope. At least now I can start a real new life.
After posting, I went to sleep without checking the replies. I knew some wouldn't believe me; these things aren't settled with a single post.
But the next morning everything flipped—radically.
It had something to do with my post, but not much. It was Henry—he'd found Rosie.
Henry updated his post with a video. At a glance, I almost mistook the girl on the thumbnail for myself.
She looked that much like me.
The only person I've ever seen who resembles me that closely is Rosie—Ethan's Claire.
I clicked the video. A pretty red dress filled the screen, then Rosie's face.
She got straight to the point, telling everyone about her history with Ethan and what she'd just learned.
In short: she and Ethan were each other's first loves. They broke up after something happened, and Rosie went abroad. She initiated the split—Ethan clung to her, even when she left the country.
Rosie stayed overseas for years, only coming back once—half a year ago, the day Ethan and I broke up.
She came back for two reasons: to visit old friends, and to be honest with Ethan—she was getting married. She knew Ethan hadn't let go, so she brought her fiancé back to make sure Ethan would stop hoping.
Rosie didn't know Ethan had found a lookalike stand-in—she'd changed her contact info, and she hadn't seen a single message. She only found out about everything yesterday—of course, I guessed Henry had told her.
I don't know how he tracked her down or convinced her to film that video; it must've taken a lot of effort.
Either way, it was a bombshell. Even without anything else, Rosie's face being so similar to mine convinced a lot of people.
Overnight, the tide turned. I went from being the gold-digging villain to a pitiable, innocent girl; Ethan went from devoted, loving man to a liar who stole someone's feelings and then blamed her.
All the attacks shifted onto Ethan.
I closed my phone, not sure what to feel. He'd brought this on himself—no one to blame but him.
I calmed myself and got ready for work.
Just as I was about to leave, my phone rang with an unknown number.
I hesitated and hung up.
A few seconds later it rang again; I hung up again.
Usually these kinds of spam calls fizz out after a couple tries, but this caller was persistent—kept ringing without pause.
On impulse I answered and put the phone to my ear.
It was silent on the other end, so quiet I thought the call dropped. I held the phone up to my face to confirm it was connected; no one spoke.
I murmured a hello. Still nothing.
I was about to hang up when a familiar male voice came through, soft and low—Ethan.
"Ruo Ruo, it's me."
For a moment my heart stopped.
I hadn't heard him call me that in a long time.
I said nothing.
"I'm sorry," he said.
There was a long pause after that.
"I thought I was being careful enough that you wouldn't find out," he went on. I knew what he meant—using me as Rosie's substitute.
"So I blamed you for leaving, never looking for the fault in myself. Then I saw you with Henry and felt nothing but jealousy and hate. I was jealous that he was by your side and angry you so quickly had someone new. I'm sorry."
I remembered that dinner—we'd seen a familiar silhouette then. I thought I was mistaken. It was him.
"Are you done?" I asked. "I have to go to work."
He seemed surprised by my reaction. "Ruo Ruo, can you forgive me?"
"No," I said directly, then hung up.
I wasn't that merciful anymore. After being hurt so much, I couldn't force myself to pretend I didn't care.
When I pushed open the estate's gate, Henry was waiting outside.
He had a bag of breakfast and smiled at me. For some reason, seeing him lightened my mood.
I took the breakfast and slid into the passenger seat.
"Did you know Ethan was fired?" Henry asked.
I popped a soup dumpling into my mouth and chewed, answering, "I know now."
"Aren't you going to ask why?"
"Why ask?"
Henry brightened. "Your ex—don't you care?"
"I'm not interested."
I continued chewing. Henry raised his eyebrows. "Alright. Word is, after you left, his performance tanked. Over the past six months his company grew unhappy. Then he kept self-sabotaging, so the company let him go for the sake of their image. Now no other company will touch him."
As he spoke he kept glancing at me, seemingly trying to catch some shift in my expression.
But I showed nothing. I only gave a quiet, "Oh."
This isn't me pretending — I truly don't care about him anymore.
Henry looked a little bored and shrugged.
Life slid back into its old groove. The waves had come fast and gone fast; people moved on and soon forgot.
My headache now was the demanding client sitting across from me.
Several people at Chase & Co. had chased him before. He was picky and hard to please, but when he paid, he paid well.
I’d chased him for three whole months, always on call, until I finally got him to come to the office to talk contract terms.
We talked the whole afternoon, and only then did I get that contract signed.
After the client left, I slumped back in my chair.
Before I could catch my breath, Henry pushed the door and walked in.
“Tough day, my Rosie?”
I rolled my eyes. “Not really. Just doing my job for the company.”
He laughed at me. “Come on.”
“For what?”
“I bought a new car. Let me take you for a spin.”
When I saw the car, my mouth twitched.
It was a nice car, but for some reason Henry had painted the whole thing pink.
I hesitated, then asked, “You really like pink that much?”
He shook his head. “My girlfriend likes pink.”
Hearing that made my heart skip a beat. I couldn't name the feeling.
When I didn’t answer, he asked, “What, you don’t like it?”
I pointed at myself with one finger. “Me?”
“Yeah.”
“You just said your girlfriend likes it. I’m not—”
I realized what I’d been about to say and rolled my eyes.
He grinned. “Soon enough.”
I used to like pink, back in college. My clothes and bags were all pink then. Once I started working, people said pink wasn’t professional, so my wardrobe turned black and gray. Years passed and I almost forgot I liked pink at all.
But Henry remembered.
The interior of the car was pink, too, every inch of it.
Watching Henry drive so attentively, a ripple warmed my chest.
“A grown man driving a pink car — aren’t you worried people’ll laugh?”
“What’s there to worry about? As long as you like it.”
I couldn’t help smiling. Being noticed felt good.
Henry didn’t drive fast. A breeze slipped in through the slightly open windows and it was comfortable.
“Oh, Rosie,” Henry said suddenly. “The board had a little meeting today. We all agreed to give you some equity.”
“Why?” I asked, puzzled.
He looked puzzled at my confusion. “To keep you.”
“To keep me?”
Henry turned and glanced at me. “Don’t you know? Companies are practically fighting over people like you right now.”
“Fighting over me?” I frowned.
At first, after I left my old job, a few companies had reached out with generous offers, but it wasn’t exactly a bidding war like he made it sound.
Henry sighed. “You didn’t know? If I had known, I wouldn’t have told you.”
He sounded sour. “Actually, you should thank your ex.”
I blinked. “What?”
“He started that rumor online, remember? Some bored netizens dug up your resume after that. They found out how impressive you are. You used to be known in a small circle — but because of Ethan, everyone knows you now. So they’re all trying to poach you.”
“I don’t think it’s that extreme,” I said, frowning.
“How not?” Henry got fired up and his voice went up a notch. “Ask around. People your age — not just women, even men — few of them have your résumé.”
“Who says?” I raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you the same?”
“Come on, I’m only where I am because of my family’s money.” He shrugged. Then he stopped the car, turned to me, and said seriously, “Rosie, you’re the most talented and hardest-working woman I know. I’m not flattering you — I mean it. You deserve this.”
He looked at me so earnestly that the car hummed with a strange, tender tension.
I coughed and turned away, opening my phone to check the spam blocker.
Sure enough, my junk folder filled with unknown calls and invitation texts. Since that mess with Ethan I habitually turned on the spam filter. Only people I knew and clients could get through.
I skimmed the messages and snapped the phone shut.
Henry must have noticed and teased, “So? Feeling tempted?”
“Tempted about what?”
“Those offers. I saw some online — some companies are offering far better positions and pay than ours. It’s natural to be tempted.”
He shrugged.
I shook my head. “No. I was checking one thing.”
“What?”
“Whether the equity I’m getting is something I earned, or whether you’re just giving it to me.”
Henry puckered his lips. “Please. I don’t want to give it.”
“Why not?”
“Rosie,” he said a little sadly, “sometimes I wish you weren’t so damn good.”
“Huh?”
“I’d like to be better than you. Then you could depend on me, come to me for help. But you never do. You carry everything yourself. You never ask. If you don’t know, you study until you do.”
He gave a small, rueful smile.
I shook my head. “You’ve helped me a lot. With Ethan’s mess, you were a big part of sorting it out.”
“That’s true,” he said, “but even without me, you would’ve handled it fine, right?”
I bit my lip. “Maybe. But you really did help. I owe you a thank-you.”
He smiled. “Then you can owe me. I’m honored.”
I smiled back. He released the parking brake and was about to take off.
A question I’d been meaning to ask popped up.
“Henry, do you think I look like Rosie — you know, like the other Rosie?” I hadn’t meant to make it weird, but the name came out.
He was putting the car in gear and didn’t look back to answer plainly, “No.”
“Why not?”
He stopped what he was doing, glanced at me, and laughed. “Why should there be a why? You are you, she is she. You’re unique to me.”
Satisfied, I tried to stifle my grin, then asked the question I should have asked long ago.
“Henry, why do you like me?”
He set the brake again, turned to look straight into my eyes, smiling.
“You finally asked.”
I blinked.
He smiled wider. “I’ve asked myself that, too. My answers change. Because you’re beautiful? Because you’re accomplished? Because you work so hard? I thought of many reasons, but each one feels like both an answer and not an answer. I still don’t truly know.”
He drew the word out. “Maybe this is a question I’ll need a lifetime to answer.”
I raised an eyebrow. “And?”
“So, Miss Rosie,” he held out his hand, “will you help me find that answer?”
I pretended to think it over. “Can I return you if I’m not satisfied?”
He beamed. “You can try, but you’ll never get the chance.”
I laughed and took his hand.
“Where are we going?”
“Home.”
“Home?”
“Yeah.”
He nodded. “Do you remember that estate — the one you used to live in?”
I nodded.
“I bought it to be our wedding house.”
“When did you buy it?” I was stunned.
“When you broke up,” he said. “I thought, this is my chance. I can’t miss it.”
“You didn’t need to buy it so early. Besides, I own a place.”
“I know, but I wanted everything ready. What if you said you were getting married? I didn’t want to scramble on the house or renovations.”
I almost laughed. “Do I seem that eager to marry?”
He shook his head. “It’s not that you’re eager. It’s that I want to marry you too much.”
For some reason I thought of Eileen Chang’s line from “Red Rose, White Rose”: Every man has two women in his life — a white rose and a red rose. If he marries the red rose, the red becomes a mere speck on the wall over time; the white remains the moonlight by his bed. If he marries the white, the white is a little grain on his shirt, and the red is the vermilion mark on his heart.
I told Henry that. He listened seriously and admitted he’d had some flirtations in the past. He didn’t deny it. But whether white rose or red rose, white moonlight or vermilion mark — to him, they were all me and me alone.
