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Gasps rippled through the crowd as I handed Jenna my nameplate. After all, I'd poured my heart and soul into this collection for years—collapsing from low blood sugar in the design studio more than once. But soon the room erupted in applause. Colleagues praised my "graciousness," calling me a true professional for stepping aside after all these years with Quinn. Only Quinn stood frozen on stage, his expression unreadable as he stared at me with lips pressed tight. Watching his awkward reaction, I almost laughed. Quinn had always insisted he didn't want his personal life in the spotlight, so we kept our relationship under wraps for seven years. I'd begged to go public countless times, but he'd always refused. When I finally got him to agree to this proposal, Jenna had to crash the moment. Now, whether he still planned to propose or not didn't matter—I wanted nothing to do with it. "Well, if there's nothing else, I'll head out. Enjoy the rest of your evening, everyone." Without waiting for Quinn's response, I walked straight out of the banquet hall. The launch was a hit because my designs had generated massive buzz—high-end clients were already lining up to place orders. I held the patents for the collection's core designs, and every late night I'd pulled at the office had led to this moment. But after this betrayal? There was no way I was sticking around to clean up his mess. Before I knew it, I was in the elevator heading down to the parking garage. I slid into my car, and there on the passenger seat sat a huge bouquet of red roses. Today was supposed to be our day. I'd bought the roses and even made dinner reservations, I was so excited. What a joke. After all that anticipation, he chose to play hero for Jenna instead. My expression hardened. I was about to start the car when Jenna suddenly appeared in my headlights. She twirled my nameplate between her fingers, a triumphant glint in her eyes, and simpered: "You know, Harper? Quinn was gonna propose to you today. But all it took was one little conversation to change his mind." "Don't tell me that hurt your feelings?" She raised an eyebrow, her face twisted with malice. Her smug little grin almost made me laugh out loud. Back in the day, her little digs used to get under my skin—making Quinn think I was the unreasonable one, sparking fights that went nowhere. But now? I couldn't care less about her games. Sure enough, the click of dress shoes echoed across the concrete. Jenna's expression did a complete 180. Clutching my nameplate, she started pounding on my car window: "Harper, please don't be upset! Quinn didn't give me your job because he favors me—I begged to learn from you! If it bothers you that much, I'll step down right now." "A position like Chief Designer needs someone with your experience! I could never fill your shoes!" Her voice quivered like I'd just yelled at her, carefully pushing the nameplate toward me. Quinn picked up speed, flinging his suit jacket onto my windshield. Thud. He barked: Harper! When someone's talking to you, you roll down the window! You could've hit her! Have you lost all your manners?" I couldn't help but snort. I rolled down the window, ready to tell them both the job was all hers. But Jenna—thinking I was about to take back the nameplate—panicked. Her fingers fumbled with the ribbon, yanking it away. Next thing I knew, she doubled over, clutching her stomach, face white as a sheet, muttering something about her period cramps. What a performance. And of course, he fell for it hook, line, and sinker. Quinn forgot all about yelling at me. He rushed to prop Jenna up, digging a heating pad out of her purse like it was a lifeline. He turned to me, flustered and frantic: "Harper, are you just going to sit there? Drive us to a hotel so Jenna can lie down!" I rolled my eyes and tried to pull away. But Quinn planted himself in front of my car, jaw set—like he'd rather get run over than let me leave. Unbelievable. I'd curled up in the office bathroom with cramps before, and Quinn didn't spare a second glance—just told me to "tough it out." Now Jenna fakes a stomachache, and Mr. Cool-as-a-Cucumber CEO turns into a panic-stricken mess—like his own safety doesn't even matter. I sighed and drove them to the nearest hotel—reluctantly. In the hotel room, Jenna claimed she felt better, and Quinn let out this huge sigh of relief—like she'd just survived a heart attack. I couldn't watch their little show anymore. I turned to go. But Quinn chased me into the hallway, grabbing my arm. I tensed up, ready for another lecture about "being nice to Jenna." Instead, he hung the nameplate around my neck and even smoothed out my dress like nothing had happened. He softened his voice: "Harper, you know Jenna—she's always joking around. We'll do the proposal another time, okay? Just be patient." "That Chief Designer title isn't something to throw around. Don't be dramatic. I'll let this little outburst slide." I hummed noncommittally. Quinn studied me for a long minute, then reluctantly held out a crumpled box—like he was doing me a favor. "Look, Harper. I saw those flowers in your car. They're nice. Why don't you put them in a vase when you get home? Actually... I got you something too." Classic Quinn move—hurt me, then try to buy me off with a trinket. The box looked familiar. I remembered Jenna posting about something similar on Instagram half a month ago. She'd "accidentally" ruined a scarf he gave her, crying about it online like it was the end of the world. Quinn commented that he'd replace it right away. I took the box and flipped it open. Inside was a cheap scarf—fuzzy pills already forming on the edges. The price tag was still stuck to it. He splurged on designer scarves for Jenna, but I got stuck with this dollar-store garbage. I didn't even bother calling him out. I just said: "Got it. I'm leaving now." As I rounded the hallway corner, I spotted a trash can and dropped the box in without a second thought. Then I pulled out my phone and called the luxury brand that had been courting me: "I'll take the job." They were a global powerhouse—had been trying to poach me for years. But I'd always said no. I wanted to build something with Quinn—our dream. The HR rep gushed about their benefits package, salary, and how excited they were to have someone with my talent. By the time we hung up, I was pulling into my driveway. Staring at the hour-long call log, I tightened my grip on the phone. Years ago, I'd turned down that dream job to build this company from the ground up with Quinn. I'd worked myself to the bone—stressing over deadlines, running on fumes, burning out. We'd gone from rags to riches together... but somewhere along the way, he'd checked out. From now on, I was done sacrificing for someone else's dream. I texted our brand partners to let them know about the design lead change. They'd signed those big contracts because of me—invested in my vision, not some random assistant. They deserved to know the truth before Jenna ran the company into the ground. Then I booked a flight for tomorrow and started packing. Digging through the back of my closet, I knocked over a photo album hidden under a coat. A picture of Quinn and me fell out. Eight years old—our first year together. We looked so young, so hopeful, just shyly leaning into each other. I picked up the album and flipped through the pages. Funny—Quinn was the one who insisted we take all these photos. "To remember where we came from," he said. "So I can always make it up to you." We'd been through so much together. Crammed into that tiny apartment, sharing popcorn and old movies. Silly fights over holiday plans, both trying to let the other have their way. Back then, those struggles felt like happiness. They kept me going. Slowly, the photos changed—nicer clothes, fancier backdrops... but fewer and fewer pictures of us together. From daily snapshots to monthly, then yearly. Once Jenna showed up? No new photos at all. Our conversations dwindled to work updates and nothing else. He stopped noticing when I skipped meals, when late nights made me sick, when I got hurt scouting locations for inspiration. But Jenna? He dropped everything to take her to dinner when she "felt off." Spoiled her like she was fragile, like he owed her something. I confronted him once, asked why the double standard. He looked at me like I was being ridiculous. "We've both been through tough stuff," he said. "I expected you to be more mature than this—not act like Jenna." He said he loved Jenna's "innocence," didn't want her to "suffer like we did." I stared at the album—once our most precious possession—and suddenly it felt like garbage. I tossed it in the trash without a second thought. I went back to packing when my phone rang. It was the fancy restaurant I'd made reservations at: "You're 30 minutes late for your reservation. If you don't arrive in 10 minutes, we'll have to give your table away." I hate Western food, but Quinn swears by it—thinks it's "classy." He took me to one for our first date, so I'd made tonight's reservation there. I'd booked this fancy spot for our post-proposal celebration—his favorite steakhouse—but he'd blown me off for her. I kept my voice steady: "Cancel it. Give the table to someone else." Quinn texted me right after I hung up: "Stuck at work. Can't make dinner tonight." Something about that text felt off. Quinn never bothered with excuses before—just stood me up and didn't care. Then it hit me. Jenna had just posted on Instagram. There was Quinn, cutting steak in the exact restaurant I'd reserved. Caption: "My hero � Quinn makes the best steak ever!" How convenient. So *they* were the "other guests" the manager mentioned. I didn't bother asking him why he lied. No anger, no sadness—nothing. I just felt... numb. All I wanted was to sleep. I washed up and crashed—first real sleep I'd had in years. But the bedroom light suddenly flipped on at some ungodly hour, jolting me awake. I squinted against the brightness—and there was Quinn, standing over my bed. His eyes were wide, like he couldn't believe what he was seeing: "Harper... you're actually sleeping?" I rubbed my eyes and checked my phone. 3 AM. He actually came home? This late? Normally, when Jenna so much as sniffles, Quinn spends the night playing nurse—afraid she might keel over or something. Now he stood there scowling, like I'd personally offended him: "Harper, I’m exhausted after working late, and you didn’t even text? Didn’t wait up? Seriously?" *I’m* the problem here? I bit back an eye roll. When I used to call to check on him, he accused me of being ‘controlling.’ When I stayed up with dinner waiting, he said I was ‘too clingy.’ Now I’m giving him space, and he’s still mad. I grunted noncommittally and reached to turn off the light. Quinn flopped onto the bed, practically draped over me like a dead weight: "Harper, I’m beat. Can’t you run me a bath?" Jenna’s perfume hit my nose—cloying, sickly sweet. Gross. I used to wait on him hand and foot without him asking. Now? He just sounded entitled. I pushed him off me. I scowled, voice sharp with sleep: "I’m tired. Do it yourself." Quinn froze, like he couldn’t process that I’d actually pushed back. After a long pause, his knuckles whitened around his belt buckle as he ground out: "Harper, I miss one dinner and suddenly you’re giving me the cold shoulder? Real mature." "You think I even wanted to come home tonight?" He stormed out, slamming the door so hard the walls shook. I heard him grab his keys and peel out of the driveway. Once upon a time, I would’ve chased after him—begged him to stay. Now I just flipped off the light and rolled over. I slept in the next morning—no alarms, no stress. Felt amazing. I was about to make coffee when I froze—Quinn was home. Normally, after a fight, he’d be at the office by dawn—no need for me to play peacemaker. He was perched on the couch, gift box on his lap, fussing with a bow. He looked up when I walked in. Quinn jumped up, grabbed my wrist, and held a necklace from the box against my neck. The metal was icy against my skin. He adjusted the pendant, nodding like he was approving a design: "Perfect. Not too flashy, just right." I recognized it from Vogue—this season’s must-have, price tag in the five figures. Before I could pull away, he snatched it back and polished the pendant with a tissue. As he tucked it back in the box, he mumbled: "Good thing your neck’s as skinny as Jenna’s. If it fits you, it’ll look great on her." I almost laughed. Right—Jenna’s the necklace girl. Why would he waste this on me? Quinn grabbed his jacket, scooped up the box, and headed for the door. I stepped in front of him: "Quinn, we’re done."