Chapter 2

This wasn’t the first time Farrah demanded an apology letter from me.

In the past, whenever I upset her, I would instantly write pages of self-reflection, promising to cherish and cater to her even more carefully next time.

Right now, staring at the blank sheet stained with my blood, I didn’t have the slightest desire to write a single word.

Late that night, my buddy Caleb texted me, saying Farrah was drunk and needed me to drive over and pick her up.

I didn’t even need to think to know this was her way of giving me a chance to make amends.

It was always the same old game.

In front of me, Farrah believed she could never be wrong―not in the past, not in the present, and not in any future we might have had.

She always thought I was the one at fault, gaslighting me with cold words and knitted brows.

Once I swallowed my pride, took the blame to soothe her temper, and handed over my apology letter, her smirk would only grow colder. “Well? Will you dare do it again?”

After beating me down, she would throw me a cheap bone, handing me a sweet gesture like a generous queen.

And I was expected to shower her with gratitude and joy.

I couldn’t even remember when our relationship had turned into this toxic routine.

Pampering her. Giving in to her every whim.

For her sake, I had ground my own pride into the dirt, staring up at her distant silhouette with anxious longing, as if I truly couldn’t live without her.

When I picked her up that night, she grumbled about why I took so long.

Glancing at the old scars and fresh cuts on my face, she let her drunken truth slip out with pure disgust.

“Whatever. It’s better that you came late.”

“Looking at this face of yours for one more second makes me want to throw up.”

Disgusting.

Those words pierced straight through my chest like a poisoned arrow.

My girlfriend would never understand how desperate and traumatized I felt a few hours ago, looking at my blood-covered reflection in the mirror.

I was never someone who obsessed over looks.

Back in college, when I was voted the campus heartthrob, or later when people recoiled at my scars, my emotions barely rippled.

Yet I couldn’t bear the thought of my girlfriend looking at me with revulsion.

Especially when this very face was ruined trying to protect her.

Back at the apartment, Farrah collapsed onto the bed and commanded, “Jonas, make sure you drive me around tomorrow, okay?”

Her personal chauffeur.

Why wouldn’t I have time to be her driver?

Over the past few years in this bustling city, I got my license and practiced driving day and night just to make her commute easier.

I even emptied out years of my savings to buy her that convertible coupe, customized down to the very last detail she fancied.

Yet Farrah still despised it.

She hated seeing the scarred side of my profile while I drove, and she complained that the car wasn’t expensive enough.

No matter how wholehearted my devotion was, it could never compete with a digital rose Landon casually saved off the internet and forwarded to her inbox.

Not hearing me reply for a long time, Farrah realized I was zoning out.

She tugged on my arm with a half-hearted whine. “Fine. Just drop me off at the hotel on time tomorrow, and I won’t hold tonight against you.”

I quietly pulled my arm out of her grasp. “Sure.”

Then I closed my eyes and went to sleep.

If she had acted cute like this twenty-four hours ago, my lips would have curved up without hesitation.

Now, my face remained entirely flat.

The next day, after I dropped her off at the hotel, she promised to spend the next few days with me once this second alumni gathering was over.

“Don’t forget to pick me up at one in the afternoon,” she demanded before leaving.

When one o'clock rolled around, she was nowhere to be found at our meeting spot.

Worried that her plans had changed, I sent her several messages.

Not a single reply came through.

After asking around, I finally reached an old classmate who was attending the same event.