Chapter 2

I barely made it onto the morning flight to Paris.

Once I sat down in my first-class seat, a wave of dizziness hit me. I had skipped breakfast in my rush.

Instinctively, I reached into my handbag. Sure enough, my fingers brushed against a box of artisanal chocolates.

Ever since I had fainted at a high-society gala years ago due to severe stress-induced hypoglycemia, Alexander had made it a strict habit to slip a box of chocolates into my bag before any major event.

As the sweetness melted on my tongue, the dizziness quickly faded.

But right after, a lingering, suffocating bitterness rushed up my throat.

Seven years together.

How did Alexander and I end up here?

In the beginning, I truly believed his excuse—that Sophia was just a family friend he had to indulge for the sake of business.

That was why Alexander always kept his distance from me in public, introducing me merely as his "Executive Assistant," while treating Sophia with utmost care as his "family sister."

When the manager of the Wright Group’s European division made my life a living hell at work, Alexander did nothing. But when someone slightly inconvenienced Sophia's project, that person was fired the next day.

People in their wealthy circle secretly nicknamed Sophia "the future Mrs. Wright." They said it right to my face—the face of the "assistant" who was never publicly acknowledged.

I forced myself to understand his pressure. But that "special treatment" eventually bled into our private life.

Alexander stood me up again and again, canceling our dates the moment she called.

Our first explosive fight happened on a cold night a year ago.

I was scrolling through Instagram and saw a grid of photos posted by a mutual friend.

Alexander, who had told me he was locked in a grueling, all-night global board meeting, was actually attending the Monaco Yacht Show with Sophia.

I had begged him for months to take me to that very show. He had rejected me coldly: *“Those events are mindlessly superficial. It’s not appropriate for you to attend as an assistant.”*

I remembered tugging on his sleeve back then, teasing, *“But I heard they’re debuting a limited-edition yacht this year. Can’t we just go look?”*

Alexander hadn’t even looked up from his tablet. *“Going to those vanity shows is a waste of time.”*

Yet in those Instagram photos, he was the picture of elegance, smiling warmly at Sophia.

There wasn't a single trace of annoyance on his face.

When Alexander finally came home that night, I asked him in a flat, dead voice:

"How was the Monaco Yacht Show?"

A flash of surprise seemed to cross his eyes.

Or maybe I was just hallucinating.

Because a second later, his face became completely blank, devoid of any guilt. "Did you hire someone to stalk me?"

My heart felt like it was being squeezed by a giant, icy hand. I couldn't breathe.

"Do I need to stalk you?"

"The pictures of you and her at the show are all over social media!"

My chest heaved violently as I struggled for air.

"Alexander, if you want to break up, just say it! You don't have to lie to me like this!"

Alexander’s expression didn’t even change. He was as calm as a detached spectator.

"If you don't even have basic trust in me, then I have nothing to say."

"Zoey, I’ve been networking all day. I don't have the energy to fight with you."

No guilt. No explanation.

Compared to my hysterical, messy self, he was so painfully dignified.

He didn’t even forget to place the yacht show's souvenir brochure neatly on the coffee table.

The luxurious yacht on the cover felt like a sharp blade, stabbing straight through my chest.

All the resentment and humiliation I had suppressed for years suddenly boiled over. The last thread of my sanity snapped.

In a fit of rage, I grabbed the brochure and hurled it at the floor.

The envelope wasn't sealed.

The items inside tumbled out, scattering across the hardwood floor with a soft clatter.

I didn't even look down. I just stared at Alexander with bloodshot eyes.

We glared at each other, like two enemies on a battlefield.

After a long, agonizing silence, he grabbed his coat and slammed the door as he left.

I stood there like a statue, frozen in the cold apartment.

Until something rolled against my foot.

I looked down. My breath caught.

It was chocolate.

A scattered mess of handmade, customized chocolates.

My heart softened again.

I decided I wanted to talk to him. To fix us.

***