While I was trapped in a burning apartment fighting not to die, he was at a world-class venue overseas, arms around his little junior, smiling as he told everyone she was his lover.
If I'd actually burned to death, he wouldn't even have known.
When I didn't speak, just stared at him with that cold, unfamiliar look, something in Les shifted. He yanked off his tie, irritated, and tossed the suitcase aside.
"Are you done throwing a fit? So you didn't get to go to the conference—so what? You're already a well-known young scholar in this country. Can you stop fighting over scraps like a child? Michelle's still young. She needs the exposure."
"I'm the one making a scene?" My voice finally came, so hoarse it scraped, but underneath it was something worse than anger. Dead calm.
"You took my conference spot. You locked me in this apartment. The apartment caught fire and I nearly died inside it. I called you over a dozen times. You were with your junior, celebrating her birthday, telling the whole world she was your lover."
Every word came out bitten off, forced through clenched teeth.
"Now you walk back in and you don't ask if I'm hurt, don't ask if I was scared, don't ask how I survived that night. All you care about is that I wrecked your precious apartment?"
Something flickered across Les's face, his gaze shifting, as if he'd only just remembered.
"I was busy, alright? The conference schedule was packed, and Michelle's birthday only comes once a year. You're mature. You should understand."
He said it like it was obvious. Like I was the unreasonable one.
"Besides, it was just a small fire. You're fine, aren't you?"
I laughed—laughed so hard the tears almost came.
Three years of feeling. Three years of giving.
I'd put him before my own future, given up chances to advance, given up the spotlight that should have been mine. And all I got back was: *It was just a small fire.*
The laugh died on my face. My eyes went cold.
"Les, I'm breaking up with you."
He froze, clearly not expecting me to say it that cleanly.
In our entire relationship, I had always been the one to bend first. To compromise. To beg him to stay.
Every fight ended the same way: me apologizing, me tiptoeing around his mood, me smoothing things over.
He was used to my obedience, used to my yielding, used to the certainty that I would never leave.