Chapter 3

"Noah, your photos are absolutely amazing!" Lily's voice dripped with honey, each word ending on a flirtatious note.

Hearing Lily call him that made my stomach churn. When did I start competing with a 19-year-old girl for my boyfriend's attention?

What's more ridiculous was that Noah actually enjoyed this worship.

More and more work "required" them to work together one-on-one, and I was being deliberately excluded. Every time I questioned it, Noah would snap impatiently: "You're just jealous because she's young."

Jealous? Me? Ella? Jealous of a 19-year-old?

But watching Noah's increasingly cold attitude, I began to wonder... maybe I really was getting old, maybe I really had lost my appeal.

The most painful part was the details.

During shoots, I noticed his hand always habitually rested on her waist. Not the professional, work-appropriate kind, but the kind where his fingertips gently sank into her soft flesh—intimate, possessive, practiced.

"Lily, tilt your head a bit more." Noah's voice was so tender it gave me goosebumps.

He walked over to adjust her pose, his chest pressed tightly against her back, his hand sliding from her shoulder to her waist, finally stopping just above her hips. I watched Lily blush, her breathing quickening.

Another time, he used his fingertip to wipe the corner of her mouth, the movement so slow it didn't look like wiping at all—more like caressing. That look in his eyes... I knew it too well. That was desire.

"Can you two please be more professional?" I couldn't help but speak up.

Noah shot me an impatient glance: "Ella, stop being so paranoid, okay?"

Paranoid?

I clenched my jaw, telling myself maybe work stress was making me too sensitive.

That night, Noah reached out to hold me for the first time in months.

"Ella, you're the one I love." He whispered in my ear, his hands beginning to unbutton my clothes.

I closed my eyes, wanting to believe him. Wanting to believe this was his love and guilt.

But the body doesn't lie.

His movements were hurried and rough, lacking his usual tenderness and patience. When he kissed me, his eyes were empty. When he entered my body, it felt like he was completing a task. No loving gazes, no gentle caresses, he didn't even call my name once.

Five minutes. Hastily finished.

He rolled over and fell asleep, leaving me alone in the darkness, listening to his even breathing.

I suddenly remembered many years ago, our first time making love. Back then he would call my name over and over, would kiss every inch of my skin, would hold me afterward and say "I love you."

And now, he was just using my body to get off.

I touched my still-trembling belly, tears silently falling.

Two weeks later, the pregnancy test showed two lines.

I stared at those two red lines, my emotions too complex to describe. Joy, panic, anticipation, anxiety... all mixed together.

I wanted to tell Noah, imagining he'd lift me up in happiness.

Just then, the brand proposed an Iceland shooting plan.

I agreed almost immediately. This was a perfect opportunity—to tell him the news under the northern lights, in that pure place, perhaps we could rediscover our initial feelings.

I even secretly prepared a small box, planning to put the pregnancy test inside and give it to him at the most romantic moment.

But when I discovered those photos on Noah's laptop, all fantasies shattered.

Lily wearing my pajamas, taking selfies in our RV; text messages where he called me "aesthetically fatigued"; bank transfer records showing he bought her the necklace I had wanted but he said was too expensive...

Then I saw that message.

"Baby, can't tonight, I'm on my period... can you hold off?"

Sent by Lily, just a few hours before.

My hands began to tremble.

So that was it.

He came to me that night not because of love, not because of guilt, but because Lily was on her period, he "couldn't hold back," and needed somewhere to release.

And I was just a convenient outlet.

I rushed to the bathroom, my stomach heaving. After vomiting, I looked at my pale reflection in the mirror and suddenly laughed.

That laugh was so shrill it even scared me.

Now, sitting on the plane to Los Angeles, I touched my belly.

"I'm sorry, baby." I whispered, "Mommy couldn't give you a complete family, but mommy will give you all her love."

Eight years of relationship, ended just like that.

From the initial flutter to the final death of the heart, so love does have an expiration date.

The plane continued flying forward. I closed my eyes.

Life without Noah might be very difficult.

But at least, it would be real.

And isn't authenticity what I've always insisted on?

That Ella who said in the college café that "authenticity never goes out of style"—she was finally coming back.

The air conditioning at LAX snapped me back to reality.

The taxi drove toward downtown, and I watched the familiar streets outside. This city witnessed our journey from having nothing to success, and also witnessed my transformation from naive to completely disillusioned.

At the apartment entrance, I stopped. As I inserted the key into the lock, my hand trembled slightly.

The door opened.

In the empty living room, sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating those once-beautiful memories. The photos on the wall, the trophies on the bookshelf, Noah's birthday gift on the coffee table...

Every item seemed to mock my foolishness.

I set down my suitcase and walked toward the baseball bat Noah kept in the corner.

"CRASH!"

The first photo's glass shattered. In front of the Eiffel Tower, our smiles turned into spider-web cracks.

"CRASH!"

The trophy fell, the metal collision piercing. The words "Best Couple" were smashed beyond recognition.

"CRASH!"

The Maldives beach portrait, the Nepal snow mountain photo, the Thailand water festival souvenir—each carried our "eternal vows," now all shattered to pieces.

I swung the baseball bat, each strike precise and powerful. No tears in my eyes, only coldness.

"Habit..." I sneered coldly, pointing the bat at the largest photo frame, "So eight years of true love was just a habit to you."

The final strike, the photo frame crashed down.

The room was a mess, but this wasn't enough.

I sat on the sofa, pulled out my laptop, and logged into the first joint account.

"Balance: $500,000." I quickly calculated, "Half is $250,000."

Click. Money transferred to my personal account.

Second account. Third. Fourth.

Noah thought I didn't know the passwords? Too naive. For eight years, I'd managed all our finances. I set the password for every account.

"Investment account... $1.8 million. My share is $900,000."

"Property fund... $3.2 million. Based on contribution ratio, I'm entitled to at least 60%."

With every transfer, I took screenshots and saved them. Noah wants fresh blood? Then let him struggle on his own.

I emailed my lawyer:

"James, need you to process our business separation immediately. The other party may obstruct, please prepare all necessary legal documents. Also, initiate intellectual property protection procedures. I want to ensure the content copyright of 'Wanderlust Souls' is clearly attributed."

Send.

I leaned back in the chair, watching the numbers in my bank account continuously increase.

Noah, you thought betrayal only hurt feelings? I stroked my phone screen. You're about to learn just how expensive betrayal can be.