Chapter 3

In the car, he discussed tomorrow's plans with the enthusiasm of a man who believed his lies were still intact: "I've prepared a birthday surprise. Once things settle down, we'll plan for a baby, okay?" The casual way he mentioned children made my stomach turn. His phone rang, the sound sharp in the enclosed space. He answered, frowning with obvious difficulty, his voice carefully neutral. "Hello?" I couldn't hear the other voice, but I didn't need to. The way his jaw tightened, the way his free hand gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles went white—I knew who was calling. I turned to him, voice calm and understanding: "If you have business, go handle it." He hesitated, conflict written clearly on his features: "Morgan, I...""It's fine," I assured him, my voice gentle and accepting. "I'll wait on the yacht." I didn't need to see the caller ID to know it was Violet. The yacht was exactly as I remembered it—sleek white deck, comfortable seating areas, the small cabin below where we had spent our honeymoon five years ago. Everything looked the same, but I felt like a stranger boarding it, like I was viewing someone else's memories through glass. Alone on the yacht, I turned on Violet's Tiktok. Her latest post was less than an hour old, clearly posted while we were driving here. A fresh post showed a photo with text: "Having someone celebrate with me, bringing treats and chatting. Thank you for always caring for me, my best friend." The image showed Violet in her champagne dress, but now she was in what looked like a private room, her expression softer and more genuine than it had been at the party. There were flowers on the table, expensive chocolates, and an intimate atmosphere that suggested a romantic encounter. Comments flooded in from her followers: "Your friend is so good to you!" "What friend? Looks like a lover!" "Someone's being treated like a princess!" "Lucky girl to have such a devoted friend!" But my attention fixed on a hand visible in the corner of the photo, reaching for one of the chocolates. The hand wore a familiar bracelet—woven leather and glass beads. Undoubtedly, the bracelet on the wrist was Andrew's. So while I had been sitting in the car believing his gentle lies, while I had been graciously giving him permission to handle his "business," he had been with her. I called his number, my fingers steady on the phone despite the storm raging in my chest. The phone rang once, twice, and then a familiar voice answered. "Why is Morgan calling so late? Looking for Andrew?" Violet's voice dripped with mockery and satisfaction. The sound of her voice answering his phone was like a final nail in the coffin of my old life. "Give up," she continued, her voice sickeningly sweet. "He won't come back tonight. You can't keep a man interested, can you? I gave him to you, and you still can't hold him." The casual cruelty of her words, the implication that Andrew had been hers to give in the first place, should have hurt more than it did. Instead, I felt a strange sense of liberation. The last illusion was finally shattered. I hung up without saying a word and turned to the yacht crew: "Set sail." "Aren't we waiting for someone?" the captain asked, looking confused. I said smoothly, my voice carrying the authority of someone who had made a final decision: "No need to wait for anyone. Just me." The yacht slowly departed, cutting through the dark water with a gentle rumble of engines. The harbor lights grew distant, then disappeared entirely as we headed toward the deep waters where my old life would finally end. All night, he never came. I leaned against the deck railing, staring emptily at the water, my mind drifting over the past five years. Before dawn painted the horizon, I called him one last time. This time, his phone was off—not busy, not ringing, just dead silence that spoke louder than any words. I stared at the blank screen for a long moment, then made my final preparations. I set the call recording and my research videos to upload automatically to TIktok, timed to release after my disappearance. After that, I walked to the stern of the yacht, taking one last look at the light breaking on the horizon. The sunrise was beautiful, painted in shades of gold and rose that reflected off the water like scattered gems. It was the kind of sunrise Andrew had promised to watch with me on my birthday. Then I leaped into the icy seawater. The carefully planned details of my fake death would ensure my survival—a boat waiting just out of sight, a team ready to pull me from the water, new clothes and documents prepared for my new life. But as far as this world knew, as far as Andrew and Violet knew, I was gone forever. Much later, I learned what happened that morning. Andrew had finally left Violet's side as dawn approached, guilt and duty warring in his chest as he remembered his promise to me. "I have to go," he had said, gathering his things with obvious reluctance. "It's her birthday tomorrow. I promised to watch the sunrise with her." Violet had stopped him, her voice petulant and demanding: "Andrew, I need you now too..." Andrew had shaken his head, some vestige of conscience finally asserting itself: "Not today." But it was too late. His friend found him before he could reach the yacht, the news hitting him like a physical blow. "Andrew, your luna committed suicide!"（卡点）