That evening, the sky looked heavy, as if it already knew what was coming. You looked at your boyfriend’s face before parting, leaned in, and kissed his cheek softly. A small smile crossed your lips—one you didn’t see fade when he wiped the spot with a look of quiet disgust.

Moments later, his phone rang. He glanced at your door, now closed, then turned and drove away.

Inside, you checked your bag—and froze. “My phone…” you muttered. It was still in his car. You quickly opened your tablet to track it. The location blinked: City Hospital.

Panic surged. An accident? Without thinking, you grabbed your umbrella and ran into the rain.

When you reached the hospital gate, you stopped dead. Under the dim white light, you saw him—with another girl. At first, you told yourself she might just be a friend… until their lips met. A slow, gentle kiss.

Your umbrella slipped from your hand. Rain hid the tears that fell silently. You stepped back, turned away, and walked off as fast as you could.

Later, Jack noticed your keychain still hanging from his car door. He knew you’d seen everything. And in his head, one word echoed: over.

At home, you didn’t cry. You simply gathered his things—his watch, his shirt, his letters, the memories that now felt like mockery.

That night, Jack came. You thought he’d explain. He didn’t. He just stood there and said coldly, “We’re done.”

You handed him the box. “I know,” you whispered.When the door closed, something inside you died with it.

The next day, you forced yourself out. You went to your favorite dessert café—the one you used to share. And like a cruel joke, he was there. With her. Laughing.

His new lover walked toward you, voice dripping with arrogance. “What’s wrong? Still can’t move on?”

You smiled faintly. “No. I just pity you. Must feel great—owning someone’s leftovers.”

Her face froze. You turned and walked away, fury and heartbreak twisting inside you.

In the parking lot, a sleek black car stopped. Behind the tinted glass sat a man—cold, refined, powerful. You recognized him instantly: Abian Stevanno, her uncle, a CEO whose wealth could buy anything—including your ex’s loyalty.

You approached the window and knocked softly. “Excuse me… my phone’s dead. I need a power bank.”

The glass lowered slowly. His gaze was sharp, assessing. His deep, commanding voice filled the rain-soaked air. “Get in,” he said quietly. “Let’s talk. I want to know the kind of girl who dares look a CEO in the eye—as if she has nothing left to lose.”