Roman Sterling was the undisputed king of New York’s elite social circle. Drinking, women, street racing, and bar fights—he was a master of them all. But after we started dating, he gave it all up. He treated me like I was his entire world. What he didn't know was that I had already seen his texts: "I’m honestly bored to death with her. I’ve been looking at the same face for seven years; it’s beyond stale." "The one I really want right now is you, my little songbird." 01 The sun was scorching as we pulled up to the luxury bridal boutique. Roman took the umbrella from the chauffeur and held it over me himself. He was a Sterling. In his world, people existed only to serve him. But with me, he was the one doing the serving. In the beginning, his friends thought I was just a new flavor he was trying out. But as seven years passed, his devotion only grew more meticulous, leaving his inner circle in a state of perpetual shock. The boutique assistant greeted us with a voice full of envy. "Mr. Sterling, you and Ms. Thorne are truly goals." Hearing this, Roman looked at me and flashed a boyish, seeking-praise smile. My heart felt like it was being pricked by a needle. I ignored his gaze and walked straight to the dressing room. Roman had pre-ordered fifteen of the latest couture gowns, each one hand-picked by him based on my specific tastes. As I went through the fitting, he leaned against the doorframe, his eyes so focused it felt like I was the only person in existence. One dress after another. I was losing my patience by the end, but he remained rapt, even offering the designer specific notes for alterations. He wouldn't settle for anything less than perfection. The assistants gathered around me, whispering in hushed, envious tones: "Ms. Thorne, usually when guys come in for fittings, they’re on their phones by the third dress. I’ve never seen a man stay this focused from start to finish." "You’re so lucky. He clearly adores you." Adores me? I turned to look at Roman. When our eyes met, his expression melted into a soft, tender smile. It was a look of pure, watery devotion. He was a completely different person from the cold, ruthless "Prince of Wall Street" portrayed in the media. This was his "special treatment" for me. But if he really loved me, why was he keeping another woman in a secluded villa in the Hamptons? He called her his "little songbird." What a cozy, intimate little nickname. 02 The fact that Roman Sterling was head-over-heels for me was common knowledge in Manhattan. Before us, he was the city’s most notorious playboy—clubs, scotch, models, and brawls were his oxygen. But the moment we got serious, he quit it all. Simply because I once said I "hated the smell of booze," he stopped going to clubs and became a teetotaler, even at high-stakes business galas. He asked for my opinion before every social gathering and treated other women like they were a contagious disease. He was terrified of making me unhappy. Once, at a charity gala, a socialite made a snide remark about my background. Roman didn't say a word; he simply had her and her entire family blacklisted from the city’s social register. I never saw her again. To prove his commitment, he went to his father and agreed to give up his reckless lifestyle to study the family business. He took over Sterling Global, something he had always sworn he would never do. For me, he made it look easy. That was when everyone finally realized—Roman wasn't playing. It was me or nobody. It wasn't surprising that his friends were confused. He was the heir to a multi-billion dollar empire, and I was just a rising news anchor. In terms of status, we were worlds apart. I used to fear his parents’ reaction, but when I first met his mother, she was surprisingly gracious. "Roman told me he’s settled on you. He said if he can’t have you, he doesn't want anyone. He practically threatened me not to make things hard for you, or he’d never come home again." "Clara, honey, I should thank you. Without you, I don't know how long it would have taken for him to grow up." I was shy and deeply moved. Moved by everything Roman had done for me. That night, he held me close and kissed my forehead, his voice deep and honeyed: "Clara, I love you." I held him tight, believing I had finally captured a beam of permanent light in my life. But seven years later, this man who claimed to love me was talking to another woman. His tone was dripping with contempt. "Seven years. I’m exhausted. It’s reached the point where I’m just sick of looking at her." "If my mother didn't love her so much, I would have dumped her a year ago. But she’s so obsessed with me; she’d probably go insane if I broke it off. Hahaha." "The one I really want right now is you, my little songbird." Every word was a blade. And every blade drew blood. 03 By the time the dresses were finalized, the city lights were flickering on. Roman drove me home. He brewed me a cup of herbal tea to settle my stomach, his voice sounding a bit distant in the quiet living room: "Clara, I have an emergency board meeting to deal with. I’ll probably be back late. Don't wait up for me." I gently caught his sleeve. "Can't you stay? Just this once?" He froze. I noticed him tapping his left hand—a nervous habit he had when he was calculating a lie. But finally, he shook his head and said softly, "This meeting is crucial. I have to go." I stared at him for a long time, searching for even a flicker of guilt. There was nothing. "Baby, I’ll come straight back to you the second I’m done, okay?" He pulled me into a hug, whispering sweet promises. I masked the bitterness in my eyes and let a silent tear fall. "Okay. Go ahead." He spent a long time soothing me. Before he left, he tried to kiss my cheek, but I turned away. He assumed I was just being pouty and gave a doting, indulgent chuckle. Then he turned and walked out without a hint of hesitation. I watched him go. A few minutes later, I grabbed my keys and followed him. The destination was a luxury villa on the outskirts of the city. I hid around the corner and watched as he punched in the entry code. A woman flew into his arms. She was dressed in a provocative black lace "bunny-maid" outfit, her voice purring with artificial sweetness. "Master, you’re finally here." Roman’s eyes were dark with hunger. He leaned down and kissed her deeply before lifting her up and carrying her into the house. I stood outside that villa for a long time. Until my blood felt as cold as the night air. 04 In reality, I wasn't surprised by Roman’s plans tonight. Their chat history went back three years. It started with: "Mr. Sterling, thank you for the ride home. I guess I can check 'riding in a CEO’s passenger seat' off my bucket list now." "No problem." And it ended yesterday: "My little bird, I’m taking her to pick out wedding dresses tomorrow. I’ll come to you at night. Wear the outfit you bought for me." "Understood, Master~" Attached was a photo of the woman on her knees in that lace outfit. I had only been holding onto a final, pathetic shred of hope. I thought that if I begged him to stay, he might choose me. But he didn't. He didn't even feel a second of remorse. 05 By the time Roman returned home, I was sitting on the sofa in the dark. I wasn't waiting for him. I just felt so suffocated that I couldn't sleep. He entered the house quietly, trying not to wake me. But when he turned the corner, he saw me staring at him, unblinking. He was startled. Seeing my haggard face and the dark circles under my eyes, he looked devastated. "Clara? Why are you still up? I told you not to wait for me." He took my hands and found my fingers were ice-cold. His voice took on a sharp edge of protective anger: "Clara, why don't you listen? Your hands are freezing, and the AC is up too high. Are you trying to get sick?" It was rare for him to snap at me. And even then, it was out of concern for my health. In that moment, a wave of nausea rose in my chest. I couldn't get it out, and I couldn't swallow it down. Especially the scent of her perfume clinging to his coat—a cloying, cheap floral scent that wouldn't dissipate. It felt like a hammer was smashing against my heart. Over and over. Until everything was a bloody, mangled mess. I realized I didn't want to play pretend anymore. I was the victim. I was the one betrayed. Why was I the one enduring the silence? I looked up at him, cutting off his lecture. "Roman, I saw them." "The texts between you and her." 06 I hadn't intentionally snooped through his phone that day. We had been together for seven years. I believed he loved me, and I gave him my trust. But that night, I woke up suddenly for no reason. Roman was dead to the world after pulling overtime, and I saw his phone light up on the nightstand. I was worried it was a work emergency, so I checked it. The first thing I saw was: "Daddy, were you satisfied with last night's service?" Followed by several explicit photos. My hand shook so hard I nearly dropped the phone. My brain went white. My first instinct was denial. I couldn't believe Roman would do this. But my fingers kept scrolling through the logs. Page after page. Month after month. They talked so frequently that it took me over an hour to reach the beginning. It started three years ago. "Mr. Sterling, thank you for the ride. I finally know what it feels like to be the CEO's favorite." "Also, thank you for having dinner at my place." The timestamp was March 25th, 9:10 PM. I remembered that day. It was my birthday. Roman had been three hours late. I had waited for him at home with a cold dinner. He had told me it was a crisis at the office and apologized profusely. Of course, I didn't blame him. I even comforted him and told him to rest. Now I knew. He was driving a female employee home and staying for dinner. That was the "crisis." The atmosphere must have been wonderful. Wonderful enough to make him forget I was waiting for him. Wonderful enough to make him abandon every promise he ever made to me. 07 Since that day, Seraphina had been promoted to his personal assistant. Even though they spent every day together, the texting never stopped. It evolved from professional questions to life trivialities, and finally to a full-blown affair. Roman would drop her off before picking me up from work. He solved her problems at the office and fired the male supervisor who gave her a hard time. Whenever he bought a gift for me, he bought an identical one for her. When Seraphina complained about the commute, Roman bought her a condo right next to the office. She was so "grateful" she offered him "thanks." That was the first time they slept together. "Daddy, I’m waiting for you." "On my way." The location was a hotel just a few blocks from our penthouse. What was I doing at that moment? I remembered. I was packing Roman’s suitcase. He told me he had to fly to London for a week. When he didn't come home that evening, I called him. He told me he’d be home soon. His voice was slightly out of breath. He was probably in bed with her right then. And I had no clue. I was such a fool. Fool enough to notice nothing. Fool enough to keep believing in him. That night, I don't know how long I sat there. I read those logs over and over. Finally, I replied to Seraphina’s message with three words: "I was satisfied." Then I deleted the message. I pretended nothing had happened. But I knew Seraphina saw it. And she knew it was me. That’s why she started texting me their meeting times anonymously. And I went. I saw with my own eyes how this man, who constantly whispered "I love you," looked when he was desperate to get his hands on another woman. 08 The dim light of the living room cast long shadows across Roman’s face. He looked genuinely confused. "Clara? What texts?" I repeated them for him, my voice flat and clinical: "Seven years. I'm bored to death." "The one I want is you." "She'd probably go insane if I left." With every word, the color drained from his face. By the end, he was gripping my wrist so hard he was shaking. He begged me: "Clara, stop. Please, stop." I looked down at him, my tears finally breaking free. "Roman, when you were with her, did you think about me even once?" "If you were really tired of me, you could have just said so. Did you think I would beg you to stay?" "Seven years. We were about to get married. How could you do this to me? How could you lie to me for three years?" My questions, my sobbing, my heartbreak—none of it could match the agony in my soul. It felt like my heart was being roasted over an open flame. Half charred, half raw. It hurt. It hurt so much I could barely breathe. 09 In truth, I hadn't cried when I first saw the logs. Or the photos. Or even when I saw them together. I couldn't cry then. I didn't know what I was crying for. But now, seeing Roman act like he still cared... I knew him. His concern for me was real. And that was what made it so disgusting. My sobs echoed through the quiet penthouse. Over and over. Roman panicked and pulled me into a fierce embrace, his voice cracking: "Clara, I’m sorry. I was possessed. I swear I only love you. She was just a distraction, a mistake. Please, I’ll make it right—" In the past, whenever he messed up, he’d put on this pitiful act, and I would always cave. But not this time. I pushed him away, slowly and firmly. "Roman, it’s over." His eyes went red instantly. He looked like he was about to collapse. "Clara, I don't accept that—" "Don't touch me. You’re filthy." That one word made Roman turn as white as a sheet. He instinctively pulled his hands back. I looked at him for a long time, then gave a cold, hollow smile. "Give this back to your little songbird." "I don't want it anymore." I slid the 5-carat engagement ring off my finger and dropped it into his palm. My fingertips were like ice. He instinctively tried to close his hand, but he was too slow. I stood up, walked into the bedroom, grabbed the suitcase I had packed days ago, and walked toward the door without looking back. I heard his frantic footsteps behind me, but he stopped six inches away. His voice was a broken rasp. "Clara, can’t you forgive me just this once?" I paused. But I didn't turn around. "Goodbye, Roman." 10 After leaving, I moved into my own apartment. My father passed away in an accident when I was young. My mother remarried when I was ten and had my half-sister, who is now seventeen. The apartment I moved into was an inheritance from my father that my mother transferred to me when I turned eighteen. She loves me, of course, but she loves my little sister more. That’s just how it is. I understand it. I’ve always made it a point not to disturb her new life. Our relationship could be described in four words: Civil, but distant. Breaking up with Roman and canceling a high-society wedding was a major event. I made an appointment with her and went over to tell her a few days later. On my way out, I accidentally bumped into a shelf and broke a ceramic figurine. I took one look at the shattered pieces and closed the door. I told her exactly why we broke up. I didn't hide a thing. She was silent for a long time before she spoke: "Clara, you spent seven years with him. You turned him from a bratty playboy into the CEO he is today. Are you really just going to hand all that over to another woman? Does that feel right to you?" I was stunned. She continued, "You have leverage now. He’ll never dare to cheat again. And Roman hasn't announced the breakup yet, which means he still wants you. That other girl is just a toy." "Everything is still salvageable as long as the news doesn't get out." She was analyzing the situation with the cold precision of a computer. But she didn't sound like a mother. I looked at her and suddenly asked, "Mom, if my sister’s boyfriend cheated on her, would you tell her the same thing? Would you tell her to swallow the betrayal for the sake of 'leverage'?" "Of course not—" She stopped abruptly, a flash of embarrassment crossing her face. "Clara, that’s not what I meant—" I knew. I knew she wasn't trying to hurt me. She just… didn't love me enough to be angry for me. Because she didn't care as much, she could be "rational." If it were my sister, she would have been screaming for blood. I should have known this by now. But it still stung. I gave a faint smile. "I get it, Mom." Before I left, she looked at my haggard face, and a flicker of genuine pity appeared in her eyes: "Clara, you need to take care of yourself." I hadn't even responded when a girl’s voice called out from the other room: "Mom! I’m hungry!" My mother’s face lit up instantly. She closed the door and headed back inside. "Coming, princess! Dinner’s already on the table—" Her voice was pure sugar. She didn't look at me again. I blinked my dry eyes and walked away. 11 When I got home, the ceramic figurine was still lying on the floor. Shattered. I picked up a piece. On the bottom, there was an inscription: "Roman loves Clara. Forever." It was a gift from our first date. It was Father’s Day, and Roman had crowded into a "paint-your-own-pottery" shop with a bunch of kids. He looked ridiculous and adorable. Someone had even recognized him and posted a video online. At the time, his reputation was trash. He changed girlfriends as often as he changed shirts. I was immediately labeled "The Sterling Heir’s Newest Toy." I didn't care about the labels. But he did. He immediately contacted the media to have the video removed and created his first public social media account to announce our relationship: "Clara is the boss. I’m her toy." The internet went wild. I went to him and told him he didn't need to demean himself for me, that I didn't care about the gossip. "Clara, this is about respect." "I don't even let myself hurt you; why would I let anyone else? I want you to stand in front of the cameras with your head held high. I won’t let anyone stain your reputation." I still remember his expression then. Focused. Sincere. Devoted. Even though everything was a mess now, I couldn't deny that in that moment, he really did love me.
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