I glanced in the fridge—ingredients were lacking—so I placed an online order for fresh groceries.
Ethan had grown up in Seattle and preferred mild flavors. I was from Colorado and had barely known my way around a kitchen before we married. Afterward, I taught myself to cook the Cantonese dishes he liked.
After three years of practice, my cooking—at first criticized by Ethan—slowly became something he really enjoyed.
They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. That was my thinking when I learned to make Cantonese dishes.
Every time I watched Ethan eat my food with relish, I felt utterly content and happy.
I kept a notebook just to record Ethan’s taste preferences.
If he ate more of a certain dish or less of another, I’d note it. Over time I noticed his tastes shifted occasionally, but he never tired of three favorites: Cantonese poached chicken, honey-glazed char siu, and rich, slow-simmered soups.
Ethan especially loved poached chicken and honey-glazed char siu. I’d tried making him all kinds of soups, and discovered that coconut chicken soup and watercress pork-bone soup were his favorites.
I spent the whole morning picking, washing, and chopping vegetables, and only started cooking in the afternoon.
They say mistakes happen when you’re rushed. While making the honey-glazed char siu, I was supposed to brush the sauce several times over the roasted pork. One brush sent a drop of hot oil splashing onto the back of my hand. It burned fiercely; even after rinsing with cold water, a blister formed.
By 5:30 p.m. everything was ready.
Ethan usually arrived around 6:30 if he planned to come home for dinner.
While he was still out, I rushed to shower, put on a red dress and heels, and hurriedly did my makeup.
I sat at the dining table and checked my phone—6:35. Everything was set. I was delighted, waiting for Ethan to come home.
I hoped seeing the table full of dishes would whet his appetite.
I imagined he’d brought a present for our anniversary, that he’d say a few sweet words when he handed it to me, and we’d share dinner—a night maybe not wildly romantic but warm and cozy.
Minutes ticked by, and the sky outside darkened.
I called him several times; he didn’t answer.
This wasn’t the first time. He’d say he’d come home for dinner, I’d cook and wait, and then last-minute things would come up and he wouldn’t return—habitually without telling me in advance.
I hadn’t expected him to stand me up on our anniversary and let me celebrate alone.
Ethan came home around eleven that night, reeking of alcohol.
I helped him to the couch. He kept rubbing his forehead, frowning. I asked softly, “Are you not feeling well? I’ll make you some soup to help you sober up.”
He closed his eyes, shook his head, and fished a box from his pocket. He handed it to me. “Sorry, something came up and I couldn’t make it back for our anniversary. This is for you.”
Seeing the gift box wiped the disappointment from my face.
At least he’d gotten me an anniversary gift.
I took the box, smiling, and murmured, “Good thing you remembered to get me something.”
I opened it eagerly. Inside was a familiar bottle of perfume—the one I wore all the time: Rose Nocturne by Maison Riverton.
But the smile on my face froze the instant I saw it. I stared at the bottle, speechless.
Ethan opened his eyes. His slightly drunken gaze skimmed my face. “You don’t like it?”
My hand trembled holding the perfume. I forced a laugh and shook my head. “I like it. It’s just… a surprise.”
He closed his eyes again and said softly, “As long as you like it. I saw yours was almost empty, so I bought you a new one.”
Before Ethan and I started dating, he’d been in a seven-year relationship with a dancer named Hazel.
Hazel had been the principal ballerina at our Avalon Ballet Company; I’d been one of the many dancers in supporting roles.
Onstage, Hazel was always utterly focused—every movement precise. In a snowy tutu she looked like a noble, pure white swan, dignified and graceful.
Offstage she loved wearing red dresses and heels. Her long black hair was curled into big waves over her shoulders. Her full lips were painted blazing red. With that seductive, statuesque figure, people raved about her model-like proportions.
Later, Hazel broke up with Ethan to pursue an international career and moved abroad to focus entirely on dance.
When she left, the principal position opened up.
I was pushing hard for that spot. Luckily, no one was working harder than I was. I was the first to practice and the last to leave.
I watched every one of Hazel’s performance videos, determined to learn everything she did.
Admittedly, the only way I could think of to secure that position was to imitate Hazel—her every step, every expression.
One day while practicing, after everyone else had left, I ran onto the empty stage, played the music on my phone, and danced the last routine Hazel performed here before leaving: The Little Mermaid.
The Little Mermaid loved the prince but couldn’t bring herself to kill him; as dawn arrived, her body dissolved into colorful foam… I sank gracefully to the floor, my eyes full of regret and sorrow, mixed with a blessing for the prince. Suddenly, loud applause came from the audience.
Startled, I stood and realized Ethan was sitting down in the audience. His deep eyes looked through me, as if he were seeing another woman—so intense, so full of longing.
Ethan pursued me and we moved forward quickly.
Before I met him I’d never been in love; my whole heart was in dance and my dream was to be a principal ballerina like Hazel.
And I succeeded.
I won Hazel’s former principal position. With career success came love—many colleagues envied me, saying I’d won both career and romance. Of course, some mocked me behind my back.
They sneered that I’d only grabbed what Hazel left behind.
I didn’t care. I loved Ethan like a moth to a flame—willing to burn and never look back.
After we started dating, Ethan was often emotionally reserved with me. Luckily, he loved watching me dance.
When I was onstage, his gaze on me was always intense and full of feeling.
At first I didn’t get why he was so distant with me in private. I remembered how warm and natural he always looked when picking Hazel up—gentle smiles on his face.
Once he came to see my show with some friends. Afterward I went to find him and overheard what his friends were saying outside the door.
“Now I understand why Ethan chased this girl—when she performs she looks so much like Hazel!”
My scalp prickled and my body froze when I heard that. I was mortified.
No wonder Ethan watched my performances with such intensity, as if mesmerized.
It dawned on me: my deliberate imitation of Hazel’s dance moves and facial expressions not only got me the principal role, it also won me the love I thought I had.
I understood why Ethan acted so emotionally distant offstage—and why after a show, the moment I changed into a white tee and jeans, his gaze could turn so cool.
Once for my birthday he had his assistant bring me a red dress and heels and even had someone take me to get my hair styled like Hazel’s before our date. That night he was noticeably more affectionate—he held my hand, kissed me, and even took me home.
But when the truth suddenly revealed itself, I remembered how Hazel loved red dresses and heels, how her long black hair fell in big waves—like a rose in fiery red bloom, passionate and seductive.
Absurdly, instead of leaving him, I panicked and clung tighter. I feared that if I stopped resembling Hazel, he would abandon me.
I felt possessed. From then on I didn’t just mimic Hazel in dance—I copied her everyday style too.
One day after a show I overheard the younger girls from the company gossiping about me.
“Don’t you think Claire’s gone too far? I can get the imitation during performances, but now she’s copying Hazel’s offstage clothes too.”
I remember turning and fleeing, cheeks burning with shame, as if slapped hard.
Everyone knew I was copying Hazel.
I thought Ethan must notice the changes in me most of all, but he stayed silent. He only grew kinder to me—so much so that, though I knew the truth, I preferred to stay lost in that beautiful dream rather than wake up to reality.
10
Ethan and I got married three months after we started dating. There was no proposal, no wedding—his parents were pressuring him, so we just registered our marriage at city hall.
After we were married, Ethan didn’t announce it to anyone. He even insisted on using protection whenever we slept together.
Though I went from girlfriend to wife on paper, I was essentially a secret wife.
To everyone else, I was always just his girlfriend. Or maybe, in everyone’s eyes—including his—I was only a stand-in with traces of Hazel’s shadow.
Hazel was the permanent flame he’d buried deep inside. No matter how well I mimicked her, there were always moments when the act slipped.
I remember those early newlywed days clearly—they were the closest, the warmest we’d ever been.
One time I went shopping with friends and impulsively bought a bottle of perfume. That night when Ethan came home, he smelled it on me and his face changed.
He frowned, looking disgusted. “Go wash that perfume off. It smells awful.”
I’d wanted to wear a little fragrance to add some intimacy between us, but his reaction shattered all my hopes.
Later I remembered Hazel often wore perfume. I’d seen her use it in the dressing room, and whenever I was near her I could catch a faint rose scent.
I hunted through every counter in the mall, testing bottle after bottle. For a week I would gag at the smell of roses, but eventually I found the same fragrance Hazel used—Rose Nocturne by Maison Riverton.
As expected, that night Ethan buried his face in my neck, inhaled deeply, and in a low voice said, “You smell amazing tonight.”
My body melted for him in that moment, but my heart felt as if a sharp dagger had ripped it open.
11
Not long ago I overheard the company leadership gossiping—Hazel had gotten engaged overseas.
I couldn’t help but butt in, “Hazel got engaged? When was that?”
One of the managers said, “Just a few days ago… what was the date?”
For some reason I blurted, “November 20th?”
The manager laughed, “Yes, yes, that was the day.”
Her words were like a bucket of icy water dumped over my head. I went pale.
Seeing me, the manager tried to soothe me. “Hazel and your boyfriend— that was old news. Her engagement is actually good for you. Why do you look so upset?”
I forced a smile. “I’m not upset. I’m happy for her.”
After a few more polite words, I found an excuse to leave.
November 20th—our wedding anniversary.
He’d promised to celebrate it with me, and then stood me up. He came home late, reeking of alcohol, and the anniversary gift he gave me had everything to do with Hazel.
Her Perfume Was His Lie
That night he was suddenly unreachable. I called and called; he didn’t pick up. He must’ve heard about Hazel’s engagement. His “last-minute emergency” and thoughtless behavior toward me were because he’d been shaken by the news—hurt, sad, maybe even regretful.
12
I’d worked so hard to copy Hazel that it was embedded in my bones—her dance moves, her expressions, her wardrobe—but I could never copy her bold, independent spirit.
I’m naturally more reserved. The occasional shy, flustered side of me in front of Ethan never repulsed him; sometimes it made him laugh, then squeeze me into his arms and tease me mercilessly.
Hazel could choose her career over love. I would abandon everything for love—humble, even degraded—so long as Ethan stayed by my side, so long as he looked at me.
When I realized Ethan didn’t always dislike the real me, I tried to help him accept the parts of me that weren’t Hazel’s shadow.
Hazel couldn’t cook; I could.
Hazel was fiercely independent; I was obedient and gentle.
Hazel liked to link arms with him; I liked to slip my hand into his and secretly spread my fingers to lace them with his.
I used to think that as long as Ethan didn’t leave, I could mimic Hazel forever.
But I underestimated how much I wanted him.
My possessiveness twisted into wanting not just his body but his heart to belong only to me. The thought that his heart still held Hazel made me suffocate.
I buried my pain and grief as deep as I could.
Then Ethan delivered the final blow.
He suddenly told me he had to go on a business trip overseas—for about a month.
Overseas. To the very country Hazel had left him for three years ago, determined to make her name there.
13
That morning I packed his suitcase as usual, then stood in front of him straightening his clothes while we chatted.
“Is it something only you can handle?” I asked.
His eyes flickered. He smiled faintly. “If I don’t go, it won’t be resolved.”
I let my gaze drop, lips dry. My heart pounded.
After a moment, Ethan hugged me. “Thirty days. I’ll be back soon.”
A faint smile crossed my pale face, then nausea rolled through me. I covered my mouth and turned away, dry-heaving a few times.
Ethan frowned. “Are you okay? Feeling sick?”
It had been nearly forty days since my last period. Although we’d always been careful, accidents can happen.
I swallowed the queasy feeling and tried to joke, “What if I’m pregnant?”
His face went almost instinctively dark.
At the sight of that shadow in his eyes, my heart fell.
After a beat, he gave a faint smile, ruffled my hair and said, “You won’t be. I’m always careful.”
In that instant, my heart sank completely—Ethan didn’t want me pregnant.
14
Ethan left with his suitcase.
I watched his retreating back and my eyes filled with tears.
I silently mouthed, “Can’t you stay?”
But his resolute back said he had to go—because there was a woman he loved there, and if he hesitated he might lose her completely.
When the door closed, I collapsed to the floor and wept.
Soon the nausea returned. I gagged in waves, the pain raw. I cried until I sounded hoarse, then, unable to bear it, I began to laugh hysterically.
I raged like a madwoman, letting my emotions spill out—miserable and desperate. The knockoff version of Hazel that I’d been for three years was finally about to be discarded… Exhausted, I curled into a ball, buried my face in my knees like an injured kitten, licking at invisible wounds and softly whimpering.
15
I took a long leave from the troupe because I wasn’t sure if I was actually pregnant.
I even let myself imagine Ethan might change his mind and come back. Maybe he didn’t want a child now, but if there was a baby he’d slowly accept it.
My emotions swung between hope and fear. At my most helpless moment, Mia Harper—my childhood friend back in Colorado—called. She said she’d booked a tour and would be in Seattle in a few days and wanted to see me.
I poured out all my grievances to her over the phone. That afternoon she bought a plane ticket and came straight to me.
Early the next morning she took me to the hospital.
The doctor gave me two test orders, one for a blood test and one for a urine test.
The result: I was indeed pregnant.
16
Seeing the result, I felt as though my heart were being pulled in two directions. I didn’t know whether to be happy or devastated.
I decided I had to tell Ethan.
I called his number. It rang but no one answered.
I thought of calling his assistant and dialed Olivia’s line. It picked up quickly.
“Miss Bennett, can I help you?” Olivia asked.
“Is Ethan there? I need to tell him something.”
Olivia hesitated, sounding uncomfortable. “Mr. Summers is unavailable right now.”
My heart sank. I forced a calm voice, “Is Hazel not letting him take my calls?”
Olivia gave a small, awkward laugh. “Don’t misunderstand. It’s just that tonight was Hazel’s celebration party—she drank too much and Mr. Summers just took her home…”
I hung up and the tears fell, one after another.
In a daze, Mia led me to the doctor’s office.
17
The doctor read the test results with a grave expression and ordered an ultrasound. The result: I was pregnant—but it was an ectopic pregnancy.
I was stunned. I’m pregnant—a living little life inside me—how could it be ectopic?
I trembled as I asked, “Could you be wrong? Maybe it isn’t ectopic?”
The doctor turned away and softened his voice. “You’re young. Have the surgery now. I guarantee it won’t affect your future fertility. But if you delay, we might save your life but you could lose a fallopian tube.”
18
I felt nothing during the operation—the anesthesia put me under.
When it was over, a nurse in the recovery room woke me up.
The moment I opened my eyes, my mind was a blank. I stared hollowly at the ceiling. I didn't feel pain, but the tears kept falling—sudden and inexplicable.
What surprised me more was how, after walking that thin line between life and death and losing the baby, my love for Ethan Summers had inexplicably faded. Once my heart had been full of him; now it felt like someone had stabbed a hole in it. After the blood drained, only an empty void remained.
It was the second day after the surgery, midday. I was lying in bed. Mia had bought me a tablet and found a good drama for me to watch, trying to distract me.
My phone, lying nearby, suddenly rang.
The screen flashed one word: Husband.
I hit accept. Ethan’s voice came through—low, a little hoarse.
“Let’s get a divorce,” he said. “I can’t live without her.”
I froze for a beat. Strangely, when he suggested the divorce, my heart registered nothing.
What did that feel like?
Like when you’re stepping out and a neighbor you barely know calls out, “Going out?”
Without thinking, you reply, “Yeah.”
I moved my lips slightly. My heart was as still as water. Not a single tear fell. Instead there was a sense of release.
“Okay,” I said.
There was a pause on the other end.
“If there’s nothing else, I’ll hang up now,” I added.
“Mm… okay,” he replied.
As I pressed the hang-up button, I thought I heard him say, “Wait…”
But the line was already dead.
After I put the phone down, I turned to Mia, took a deep breath, and smiled. “When I’m better, take me out for spicy hot pot. It’s been three years—I’m practically starving for it.”
A month later Ethan came back, and he brought Hazel with him.
The first important thing he did after returning was go with me to the marriage registry to pick up the divorce certificate.
That day I wore a white tee and jeans. We bumped into each other right outside the office.
He visibly froze when he saw me—maybe because he wasn't used to seeing me in that outfit.
The paperwork went smoothly. I produced a screenshot of our conversation from a month earlier where he initiated the divorce and I agreed. The clerk acknowledged that our month-long divorce cooling-off period had passed, and soon we had our divorce certificate in hand.
Outside City Hall, Ethan stood beside me. “Want to grab a bite?” he asked.
“No thanks,” I said. “I already promised a friend—we’re going for hot pot.”
“Hot pot?” he repeated in surprise.
I laughed. “Yeah. Three years since I’ve had it, but I grew up loving spicy hot pot. It’s one of the things I miss most about home in Colorado.”
A cab pulled up. “That’s my ride. Goodbye,” I said, smiling.
He watched me for a long moment, some unread emotion surfacing in his eyes.
I opened the car door. Just as I was about to climb in, he called after me, “Can we still be friends?”
I looked back, smiling wider. “No.”
I used to believe that divorcing Ethan would be harder than dying.
When it actually happened, I discovered that leaving him opened up a whole sky of freedom.
Yes, I’d once copied Hazel’s style to win the company’s principal ballerina spot, but I also had my own style and insights.
New life, new beginning. I poured my own feelings into a new performance and stopped imitating Hazel. I took bold risks and danced the way I wanted to.
Before the show I thought—if I fail, I'll start over. If I succeed, I can finally escape Hazel’s shadow.
Unsurprisingly, changing my style terrified a lot of people—my teacher, our leaders, even my teammates. They were afraid I’d ruin the performance.
But when I finished, the audience gave overwhelmingly warm applause. I even heard a familiar patron say, “I never expected Claire Bennett to change her style—so stunning, so refreshing!”
I once thought dancing at Hazel’s level was the pinnacle.
I’d looked up to her, convinced I’d never reach that height.
I underestimated myself.
When I stopped copying Hazel and let my own style show, people recognized me.
To broaden my career, I started trying new types of pieces.
For Ethan’s sake before, I had been reluctant to do pas de deux—there’s a lot of intimate partnering in pair work. But now that I was free of him, I had no more reservations.
I asked my teacher for a chance to try a pas de deux. She paired me with the company’s most outstanding male dancer.
Before year’s end, our company was invited to a national ballet showcase in Beijing, and my partner and I were chosen to perform.
We picked The Butterfly Lovers as our story.
The tale is famously bittersweet; rehearsals meant a lot of close contact. At first I felt uneasy, but my partner was kind and encouraging—he never held my hesitation against me.
Our chemistry improved as we rehearsed for nearly two months, and finally the important show arrived.
From Seattle to Beijing, standing on that prestigious stage with a full house—critics, prominent teachers, and ballet stars from around the world watching—I never expected Ethan to be in the audience.
Before going on, my partner hugged me. “Don’t be nervous. Let’s give it our all.”
After two months together, we’d forged a real bond. I patted his shoulder and smiled. “Don’t worry about offending me—just perform. I’ll support you fully.”
That performance became a major turning point in my career.
At the finale, Liang Shanbo and Zhu Yingtai transform into butterflies, forever together. My partner lifted me with both hands, holding me aloft as he turned.
The move looks airy, but it requires every ounce of his strength and absolute coordination. We executed the butterfly finale flawlessly.
The audience erupted in applause and cheers during the curtain call. We hugged backstage, exhilarated. I couldn’t help crying tears of joy—we’d given everything.
Then my teacher called out, “Claire, someone brought flowers for you.”
I followed her gaze and saw Ethan approaching with a bouquet of bright roses.
He handed them to me, eyes full of a tenderness that almost hurt. “Congratulations. You were amazing today.”
I stared at him, stunned. What was he doing here?
After our divorce I’d deleted all his contact info and moved out of that house. He glanced at my partner, and that familiar, cold indifference I knew so well flickered in his deep eyes.
Everyone in the company knew we had broken up, so all eyes were on us. I frowned. “Why are you here?”
“To see you,” he said.
Back when I loved him, that line might’ve thrilled me.
Now my heart remained unmoved—only vast calm.
Not long after, my teacher sent everyone away. As my partner was leaving he patted my shoulder. “Don’t forget—I’ve got your back. If anyone messes with you, tell me.”
I smiled. “Thanks. You can go now.”
The room emptied until it was just Ethan and me.
“I broke up with Hazel,” he said.
I said nothing. The news surprised me.
He continued, “I ended it. I realized I don’t love her anymore.”
Hazel had been his permanent flame—the one mark on his heart I’d never been able to erase no matter what I tried.
And now he told me he didn’t love her. Was he joking?
He looked at me, that same inexplicable emotion from the day we left City Hall surfacing again.
“Claire, let’s remarry,” he said. “After the divorce I realized how unsettled I was. I realized you’d quietly become part of my world…”
I cut him off, lifting one corner of my mouth in a bitter little smile. “Ethan, don’t make me lose all respect for you.”
He looked at me with heartfelt intensity. “I know you don’t believe me. I didn’t either—so I gave myself two months to adjust. I failed. Every night when I came home to the empty house where you used to be, all I could see was you.”
I let out a short, incredulous laugh. “What about Hazel? You married me while waiting for her to come back. You refused to have kids because you were waiting. After she got engaged, you left me to spend a month with her overseas. You divorced me for her. You loved her so much—now you say you don’t?”
Guilt washed over Ethan’s face. “She was my obsession—I thought I loved her. Losing and getting her back made me realize how ridiculously wrong I was.”
In the three years we’d known each other, he had never humbled himself like this in front of me.
But looking at him now, all I felt was sharp sarcasm and impatience.
I frowned. "Sorry, none of that interests me. I'm leaving."
I turned to go, but he hurried after me and grabbed my wrist hard. “Just give me some time. I’ll prove it to you. After we remarry, we can have several children. I remember you asked—what if you got pregnant? You want kids, don’t you?”
He mentioned children—completely unaware that the subject was the deepest wound he could touch.
Without thinking, I lifted my hand and, with everything I had, slapped him so hard it cracked across his face.
He stared at me, stunned and bewildered.
And in that instant, I burst into tears.
“You don’t ever get to talk to me about children, Ethan Summers!”
That night, after the show, I came back to my hotel room and broke down. I cried for the three years of my reckless, self-abasing love, and for the child who would never be mine.
Ethan didn't pester me after that. I was surprised—and oddly relieved.
Then one late night my phone rang. It was an unknown number. When I answered I heard that familiar, drunken voice: “Claire, I’m sorry. Please come back. I’ll take you out for hot pot, maocai, all the Sichuan food you like, okay?”
"What are you doing calling at this hour?" I muttered.
Ethan alternated between crying and laughing. "I found a notebook at home—pages and pages of your handwriting. I didn't know. I really didn't. You're so—so good. I'm ashamed. How could I have been so heartless? How could I have treated you so badly…"
I hung up and turned my phone off, pulling the covers over my head and staying awake all night.
Not long after, Lunar New Year was approaching.
I went home to Colorado. Mia picked me up from the airport.
Mia said, "Is your ex out of his mind? No idea how he got my number—he called asking where your family lives and said he wanted to come look for you."
I frowned. "Why would he come find me? We're divorced. Everything that needed saying was said. There's no reason to meet."
Mia snorted, mockingly. "You were married to him, but you hid it from your family. In three years he never once came with you to see your parents. And now? Divorce. Don't know what he thinks he's doing. I ripped him a new one over the phone."
I blinked. "What did you say to him?"
“I told him while he was off enjoying himself abroad with his old flame, he left his wife alone to have surgery—that she almost died—and he had the nerve to ask for a divorce? What a monster. He hasn’t got a shred of decency.”
Mia blinked at me, then asked, "You told him about your surgery, right?"
I pressed my lips together and said nothing.
Mia’s eyes widened. Through clenched teeth, she said, “Why are you still being so kind to him? You should have told him sooner. He needs to know how badly he hurt you. You nearly lost your life.”
That whole thing was the deepest wound in me. I looked at Mia; my eyes were rimmed red. "Don't bring it up again. I never want to think about it."
She stuck out her tongue and tossed an arm around my shoulder. "What do you want to eat today? My treat."
"Home cooking," I said. "Haven't had my mom's food in a long time. I called before my flight and told her not to go play mahjong today. I want her to cook."
Mia laughed. "Then I'm crashing your mom's dinner too."
Even if Mia hadn't been around, Ethan could have found me if he wanted. But he didn't come—maybe Mia's rant scared him off.
My family still had no idea I was secretly married for three years. They thought I'd broken up with a boyfriend and tried to set me up. I told them I had someone, but my mom didn't believe me, so I showed her a photo of my partner. Luckily, it worked.
My partner and I kept in touch. When he found out I’d used his photo, he joked, “If you want, we could give it a try.”
I teased, “I thought we were sisters!”
He instantly surrendered. “Okay, okay, I’m not saying anything else. You’ve already changed my gender just like that.”
After Lunar New Year I flew straight back to Seattle.
On my first day back at the company, Hazel came looking for me.
We met at a coffee shop nearby to talk privately.
She was as dazzling as ever—red dress and heels, fire-engine red lips, curls spilling over her shoulders.
She was like a blazing red rose, elegant but flamboyant.
Sitting across from me, she took a small sip of coffee and said, "Ethan grew up in a really privileged family. Our backgrounds were similar. People always thought we were the perfect match."
I smiled faintly. "Yeah. You two looked perfect."
She gave me a dismissive look, a little laugh. "Then stop clinging to him. If I hadn't broken up with him back then, you never would've married him."
I set down my cup and the corner of my mouth went up. “You’re talking to the wrong person. After the divorce, I never sought him out. I deleted every contact I had.”
Her smile gradually cracked as she watched me. Dropping her poise, she suddenly unleashed a tirade, like a woman scorned. "If you hadn't chased him, how could he leave me? I broke off my engagement for him, I gave up my career to come back. Then one day he said he didn't love me anymore. When I asked why, he said he loved you. How ridiculous. If he loved you, why did he come after me?"
I looked at her and couldn't help but ask, "From what I know, your career overseas hasn't been going great these past three years. You're proud—if you could make it work, you wouldn't have come back. So tell me, did you return for Ethan, or because your work abroad collapsed?"
Her expression stiffened. My little probe peeled off her facade.
She ground her teeth. “Claire, you should know your place. Do you really think I don’t know how you became the principal? Or how you caught Ethan’s eye?”
I laughed softly. "Yeah. I got what you didn't want by copying you."
Her face flushed. "How can you say that so casually? The things you did were despicable—so low. How dare you be so arrogant now?"
My gaze passed over her weary face. “I paid a heavy price for what I did. You ask how I can admit it so easily, how I can be so arrogant. It’s neither of those things. The past, including Ethan, simply doesn’t matter to me anymore.”
I gave her a small, civil smile. “Hazel, love yourself a little more. Be the woman who was able to walk away so freely three years ago.”
She suddenly covered her face and sobbed.
"I never stopped loving him," she said. "I love him. Give him back to me. I regret it. I really regret it."
I said, "Ethan never belonged to me."
The rose I once envied was wilting before my eyes.
She shook her head, defeated. “He’s yours. I saw him—someone who usually eats Cantonese food only—he sat alone in a hot pot place and ordered a fiery chili-oil broth. He ate until he had stomach spasms! After you divorced, he was hospitalized several times—either from drinking too much or from eating food his stomach couldn’t take.”
I said nothing.
She went on as if to herself, “The doctor said he has lasting stomach problems. He can’t keep torturing himself like that. Will you go see him? Please talk to him?”
It was a clear day when I went to Riverside Medical Center to see Ethan.
He looked haggard—heavy stubble ringed his jaw. He’d lost weight; his stomach trouble had worn him down.
When he saw me, his hollow eyes brightened for a moment.
"You came. I've been waiting for you. Finally you came."
My chest tightened painfully.
Didn't he already know about my surgery? How could he still have the nerve to act like he wanted to reconcile?
In that instant I was utterly clear-headed.
Maybe he had truly loved Hazel back then. Maybe he truly loved me now. But he was a cold, selfish man with no sense of responsibility.
I met his gaze, cool and distant. "I'm only here because I sympathize with Hazel and wanted to warn you. No matter how you wreck yourself, I'm not going back. This will be the last time we see each other. Don't contact me again."
Before Lunar New Year, my partner and I had both received invitations from the Beijing ballet company. We’d agreed that after Lunar New Year we’d finish handing things over in Seattle and then head to Beijing together. I hadn’t told Ethan.
He looked at me with a greedy longing. After a long silence he said, "I'm sorry. These three years as your husband, I let you down."
I gave a flat little smile. "I should go. Take care."
I turned and left without an ounce of regret.
Life isn't particularly long, nor is it particularly short. In the past three years I took a brutal fall, but for the rest of my life I want to live properly—truly—for myself.
