Chapter 3

I was Ethan’s biggest fan. Whenever he appeared on a new program, I always watched it on time.

My mind was a mess, but I still opened the TV.

During the game segment, Ethan lost.

The host asked him to sing a song.

Without hesitation, the host said, “I want to hear ‘My Romance Is Loving You.’”

Ethan’s expression tightened.

“That song doesn’t really fit today’s mood. Can we pick another one?”

The host looked confused. “Why wouldn’t it fit? Today is May 20th.”

That was the song he had written for me on the first anniversary of our relationship.

At the time, he had been on a nationwide concert tour.

“Today is the first anniversary of my relationship with Ava Reed. I wrote a song especially for her. It’s called ‘My Romance Is Loving You.’”

The entire venue had erupted.

I’d been sitting in the front row, crying so hard I could barely breathe as I listened to him sing.

The host had turned the microphone toward the audience.

“Does everyone want to hear it?”

“Yes!” the crowd had shouted.

In the end, Ethan sang it.

I hadn’t heard him sing that song in more than a year.

In my memory, whenever someone asked him to perform it, he had never once refused.

Afterward, he would even take the initiative to share the story behind the song.

Every time he did, I felt unbelievably happy.

I had heard him sing it hundreds of times.

How could I not tell that today, he wasn’t emotionally invested? He hadn’t put his heart into the song at all.

At the end of the show, the host said, “Ethan has brought a brand-new song with him today. Please tell us about it.”

“My new song is called ‘Dancing on My Heart.’ I hope everyone likes it.”

As I watched him sing with complete passion, pain pulsed through my chest.

That year, on that day, he had held me and promised, “I’ll only ever write songs specifically for one woman in this life—Ava Reed.”

Now he had done the same thing for another woman.

And he was even avoiding the song he had written for me.

How ironic.

The bathroom door opened, and Ethan stepped out wrapped in a towel.

His sharp features. His firm chest. His sun-kissed skin.

He looked exactly as he had when I first fell in love with him.

Noticing me staring, he teased, “Are you mesmerized by my body?”

I quickly turned away and pointed at the television.

“How come you never told me you released a new song?”

He froze.

I continued, “ ‘Dancing on My Heart.’ That’s a pretty good title.”

I was smiling as I said it, but my heart was aching.

He looked as if he had just remembered something.

“I’ve been so busy lately that I forgot to tell you. It was just a song I wrote on impulse.”

I kept the faint smile on my lips.

“Oh? What inspired such a powerful creative urge from our superstar?”

He rubbed the tip of his nose.

“I watched a dance program and was inspired.”

A dance program had inspired him?

He lied so easily now.

As I watched him walk toward the bedroom, he suddenly felt like a stranger.

He was nothing like the boy in my memories—the boy whose face turned red and whose words stumbled whenever he lied.