Chapter 1

chapter1

Everyone in the social circle knew Roseanne Cole was head over heels for Murray Sherwood. Her devotion was legendary; it was as if she had no life outside of him, her entire world revolving around his whims. Whenever they hit a rough patch, it never took more than three days for Roseanne to come crawling back, begging for a reconciliation. In a world where "let’s break up" was a common refrain, those words never seemed to apply to her—until now.

The room fell into an eerie, suffocating silence for five seconds when Murray walked in with a new woman on his arm.

Roseanne, who was in the middle of peeling an orange, stopped cold. She felt the weight of a dozen gazes. "Why is it so quiet in here? Why is everyone staring at me?"

"Anne..." Her friends offered her worried, pitying glances.

Murray, however, acted as if nothing were amiss. He wrapped his arm around the woman's waist and took a seat on the velvet couch. "Happy birthday, Cliff," he said, his voice smooth and nonchalant.

He was brazen, showing no regard for the woman who had spent years at his side. Roseanne stood up slowly. It was Cliff’s birthday, and despite the storm brewing in her chest, she didn't want to cause a scene.

"Excuse me. I’m going to powder my nose," she said, her voice remarkably steady.

As the door clicked shut behind her, she could hear the muffled conversation picking back up inside.

"Murray, Roseanne's here! Didn't I give you a heads-up? Why would you bring her along?" "Seriously, Murray, you’ve crossed a line this time."

"It’s fine," Murray replied. She could almost see him loosening his grip on the new girl to light a cigarette, that signature smirk playing on his lips. "She's used to it."

Roseanne stood before the restroom mirror, touching up her makeup and reclaiming her composure. She looked at her reflection—the pale skin, the tired eyes—and curled her lips in disdain. "How pathetic," she whispered to herself.

Taking a deep breath, she made up her mind. But the scene that greeted her when she pushed the door back open nearly shattered her resolve. Murray was leaning in, pressing his lips against the new woman’s, their movements cheered on by the crowd.

Laughter and catcalls erupted. "Damn, Murray, you've still got it!" "Look at them go! Give us a real show!"

Roseanne’s hand trembled on the doorknob. This was the man she had loved for six years, and at this moment, the only thing she felt was a bitter, biting irony.

"Hey, knock it off..." someone murmured, gesturing toward the door. The room quieted as heads turned.

"Anne, you're back? Look, it’s all in good fun. Don't take it to heart..."

Murray cut him off, glancing over with a calm, clinical indifference. "Roseanne, since you're here, let’s lay everything out on the table."

Roseanne nodded, her heart feeling like lead. "Sure. Go ahead."

"We’ve been on and off for years," Murray said, cutting straight to the chase. "To be honest, I’m just tired of it. There’s nothing left between us."

Roseanne clenched her fists so tightly her nails dug into her palms, but she felt no pain. Six years of memories, sacrifices, and shared lives, all reduced to: There’s nothing left between us.

"Millie is a great girl," Murray continued, gesturing to the woman at his side. "And I want to make things official with her."

Roseanne gave a numb nod. "Okay."

Murray looked at her, perhaps expecting a tearful outburst. "Even though we’re breaking up, we’re still friends. You can still call me if you need anything in Lumina City."

"No need," Roseanne forced a smile—one that felt as light and empty as air. "If it’s over, let’s end it cleanly. It’s only fair to the lady."

Murray raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by her lack of resistance.

"Cliff," Roseanne turned to the birthday boy, ignoring Murray entirely. "Happy birthday. I hope you all enjoy yourselves. I’m leaving now." She paused, gesturing to the small plate she had been working on. "I peeled that plate of oranges on the table. Enjoy them; don’t let them go to waste."

It was a small, stinging detail. Murray didn't even like fruit, with the sole exception of oranges. But he was incredibly picky—he insisted on removing every single string of white pith before he would touch them. Over the years, to ensure he got his vitamins, Roseanne had meticulously cleaned every slice, arranging them neatly on a plate for him.

He used to hug her afterward, cooing into her ear, "My girlfriend is too good to me. God, what a lucky guy I am!"

Those words felt like a lifetime ago.