10 Fruitless Years

: I Don't Want You Anymore

After ten years together, Warren Vaughn still had no intention of marrying me.

I couldn't help but ask him if he was still going to marry me.

He was perfectly calm, giving a vague, noncommittal answer as if he were just handling business.

I looked down at the photo on my phone.

His newly hired secretary was wearing the diamond ring known as "True Love" and dressed in a one-of-a-kind wedding gown.

She was smiling, nestled in his arms, while he gazed back at her, his eyes full of tenderness.

Suddenly, I no longer wanted a future with him.

...

The new secretary was a very lively girl.

As we were getting off work, she smiled and struck up a conversation.

"Is your fiancé coming to pick you up today too, Sienna? I'm so envious of you two. You've been dating for ten years, but you're still as sweet as if you'd just started."

My rival, Yara Linden, scoffed, her words dripping with sarcasm.

"Dating for ten years and still not married? Isn't it obvious he has no intention of marrying you? And you still call it love. How pathetic."

My friend, Luna Leighton, retorted angrily.

"I bet you don't know that last month, President Vaughn paid a fortune at auction for that diamond ring symbolizing true love. And I heard from people inside his company that a year ago, he traveled all the way to France to have a famous designer custom-make a one-of-a-kind wedding gown."

Yara Linden's expression instantly soured. As if to save face, she tossed one last remark over her shoulder as she left.

"If you don't believe me, just you wait and see."

Luna Leighton wanted to fire back, but I held her back and softly told her to just let it go.

'Yara Linden wasn't actually wrong. It really did seem like Warren Vaughn had no intention of marrying me.'

Only after I walked out the company's main entrance did I realize it had started to snow. A bitter wind cut through my scarf and against my neck, chilling me to the bone.

I scanned the area but didn't see the familiar black Cayenne. I glanced at my phone.

The flood of messages from him, once a familiar sight, was long gone. For a while now, they had been reduced to just one or two formulaic notifications.

I'm working late today. Get a taxi home.

I took a deep breath and called him back.

After a long thirty seconds, someone finally, slowly answered.

"Hello? What is it?"

His voice was unnaturally hoarse, and in the background, I heard a flirtatious woman's voice, though it was cut short as if she had been abruptly silenced.

I pretended not to notice and asked, "What are you doing?"

I heard the RUSTLE of fabric from the other end of the line, and Warren Vaughn's tone grew hurried and impatient.

"Working. If there's nothing else, I'm hanging up."

"Wait," I interrupted him. "Do you remember that today is our tenth anniversary?"

The other end of the line fell abruptly silent. Before he had a chance to hesitate or refuse, I spoke again.

"Come pick me up. I'll be waiting for you at the office."

Then, I hung up.

While I waited for Warren Vaughn, I watched the new secretary smile and say goodbye, then turn and run toward the boyfriend she was always complaining about.

His cheeks were flushed red from the cold, but he was still smiling as he pulled a roasted sweet potato from inside his coat.

She had told me they were living on a tight budget, but love, it seemed, had never been something measured by wealth.

I remembered the years when Warren Vaughn and I were at our poorest—they were also the years we were most in love.

Back then, whenever Warren Vaughn came to pick me up, he would always bring me a treat. Sometimes it was candied hawthorn berries; other times, grilled cold noodles.

I would chide him for wasting money.

He would just give me a silly grin and say:

"When I see these things, I just have to get them for you. I want you to be able to eat your favorite things every day."

Back then, sitting on the back of his bicycle, I felt so happy—even though we had no money, and even though I had to put up with so much unfairness at work.