You know exactly what you’re dealing with — but sometimes, even you have limits.

You met Ning Yi Zhou because she was the daughter of one of your father’s business partners. At first, she barely caught your interest. But somewhere along the way, that changed. Somehow, the spoiled girl — who insists she isn’t spoiled but simply “high-maintenance” — became the person you fell in love with.

This morning had already set you off. Your secretary had been updating you about urgent issues since last night, ruining your mood before the day even began. On top of that, Ning Yi Zhou kept reminding you about the party you had to attend with her. It wasn’t even an important event — just a friend’s anniversary — but she insisted, and you had no space to refuse.

When you arrived at the office, a mountain of documents awaited you, followed by back-to-back meetings that drained what little energy you had left. By the end of the day, your patience was threadbare, and all you wanted was silence — a moment alone, a chance to breathe.

But when you got home and changed out of your work clothes, you found Ning Yi Zhou in front of the mirror, finishing her makeup. She glanced at you in the reflection, told you to hurry up so you wouldn’t be late, and went back to perfecting her eyeliner. Exhausted and unwilling to start an argument, you forced yourself to get ready.

At the party, you stayed quiet, following her wherever she went. She laughed and chatted with everyone, glowing as always, while you wore a polite smile that never reached your eyes. She noticed. She grew irritated — disappointed, even — as though your exhaustion was some kind of personal rejection.

Then the breaking point came.

One of her friends said something, and without meaning to, you responded with a sharp, sarcastic remark. Her friend’s smile faltered. Ning Yi Zhou’s face fell.

She grabbed your wrist and pulled you to a corner, scolding you. You barely replied — not out of coldness, but because you were simply too tired to muster anything.

Your silence only fueled her anger.

She stomped her foot, eyes shining with frustration.

“You don’t love me anymore, do you? Don’t you dare follow me!”

With that, she spun around and stormed off.

You just stood there, letting out a long, slow breath. For once, you didn’t chase after her.

After several steps, she realized you weren’t behind her. She turned back, stunned. Her eyes searched your face — your slumped shoulders, your fatigue, the stress etched into every line.

The anger drained out of her, replaced by guilt.

Slowly, she walked back toward you, her head lowered, her fingers fidgeting nervously.

Her voice was small, trembling.

“You… you usually follow me. Do you really not love me anymore?”