She Always Said No Until I Left

My ex-girlfriend always had to be contrarian. I’d crave a slice of pear, and she’d shove an apple in my face. I’d bring up marriage, and she’d declare herself a devoted non-committalist. She used to say that sparring was her way of flirting, that she only pushed back because she found me adorable. It took me nine hundred and ninety-nine pleas, but she finally conceded to having a wedding ceremony—just to fulfill the dying wish of my critically ill mother. My mother, frail and already suffering, endured a grueling cross-country bus and train journey just to be there. She arrived, only for the bride to be a no-show. When I called her, Gigi’s voice was sharp and accusing: “Brooks’s fiancée bailed on him, so I’m stepping in to save his day! Your mother couldn’t be sick any other day, could she? The one day Brooks is celebrating, she’s demanding a wedding? How tasteless! I’m not going anywhere, Callan. I’ll come to your wedding, just wait!” But my mother, holding on by sheer willpower, never saw the bride. The guests cleared out at midnight, and my mother finally slipped away, heartbroken. Meanwhile, Gigi’s social media status had been quietly changed to “On Honeymoon,” with a geotag for Bali. “I’ll be back in ten days, maybe two weeks. Just tell your mom to hang in there, and we’ll go sign the papers then.” She didn’t know that the moment my mother died, I decided I was done with her.

1 A week after the funeral, the company sent me a notice: violating policy due to unauthorized absence, report for termination proceedings. As I boxed up my belongings at the office, the whispers followed me: “Isn’t that the guy who tried to force Miss Winslow to marry him? Unbelievable nerve. Firing him isn’t enough; he should be blackballed from the industry!” “I heard he shot himself in the foot and actually drove his own mother to her grave with the drama. Serves him right.” I paused, a half-packed file box in front of me. My ex, Genevieve “Gigi” Winslow, was the company’s CEO, my direct superior. She’d claimed I was just a supervisor and didn’t meet her mother’s standards for a suitable fiancé, which was why we had to keep our relationship a secret. To avoid suspicion, she constantly undermined me in the office. She’d dump the coffee I bought her or tear my meticulously prepared proposals to shreds. My colleagues considered me a pathetic, bootlicking annoyance. They treated me like a human dumping ground, constantly passing off their tasks to me. After my mother’s death, my tear ducts were dry, and their venomous whispers simply couldn’t touch me. A slow, cold smile spread across my face. “Apologies, but my absence wasn’t for a vacation,” I said, my voice empty of warmth. “I was scouting locations. I’m starting my own company.” Their jaws dropped. I got home just as Gigi called. The sound of the ocean wind howled through the phone, painfully scraping my eardrum, forcing me to hold it away from my ear. “Callan, get home right now! I need you to mail the gift box in my dresser drawer to the address I sent you—expedite it, overnight air freight! It’s Brooks’s birthday tomorrow!” Even when I had a hundred-and-four-degree fever, she wouldn’t let me call in sick. But now, she was ordering me home immediately to ensure her childhood sweetheart, Brooks, got his present on time. The dresser was right beside me. I pulled open the drawer, and there it was. Inside the ribboned box was a Patek Philippe watch, subtle yet devastatingly expensive. A month ago, I had pointed at a billboard on the street and casually mentioned how much I liked that particular model. Gigi had just given me a dismissive side-eye, asking if I even thought I was worthy of such a timepiece. I hadn’t asked her to buy it for me. I just liked it. I wasn’t worthy, but Brooks apparently was. It wasn’t the first time. A year ago, she gave him a luxury sports car the day he returned from overseas. For my birthday, she’d gone to the discounted section of the grocery store and gifted me a bag of snacks that were about to expire. She’d said: “You shouldn’t compare yourself to Brooks. My intention is so much more valuable than some ridiculous five-hundred-thousand-dollar car.” I had let her lead me by the nose until this latest stunt: Gigi skipping our wedding to stand in for Brooks at his, and then going on his honeymoon. The memory of my mother, fighting for every last breath, closing her eyes in final, silent despair because she never saw me with a wife, brought a sharp, clarifying pain. I bit down on my tongue. The pain grounded me. I tossed the gift box back into the drawer. “I won’t mail it.” Gigi was silent for a beat, then her voice spiked in rage. “Callan, do you have any humanity? Brooks is sick with culture shock, and he just wants to cheer up on his birthday!” Brooks’s gentle, understanding voice came over the line. “It’s okay, Gigi, really. No gift could compare to you being here with me.” Gigi immediately refuted him. “No! If you want it, I’ll pluck the stars out of the sky for you!” I was speechless. I had only ever asked for a pear. She’d insisted on the apple. She’d told me apples were cheap and filling—suitable for a man like me. In ten years, she had never once considered what I truly wanted. For Brooks, she was ready to move heaven and earth. Gigi huffed, indignant. “I will be good to him! You dare defy me?” Brooks sounded resigned. “As you wish, my little princess. I just worry Callan will get upset.” Gigi scoffed. “Who cares about him? The man has zero empathy! You were sick, your fiancée ran off—I just stepped in as a temporary fill-in and came on a quick trip to help you relax. And he throws a fit!” “I told him I’d marry him once I got back and make him the ideal son-in-law, but he’s still being petty and relentless. Honestly, he’s such a headache.” I lowered my eyes, utterly numb. Gigi treated Brooks this way because she was certain I would never leave her, no matter what. “Alright, I have to take Brooks to the clinic now. Just mail the package. Hurry.” She hung up after her perfunctory order. A minute later, I saw a new post on Brooks’s social media. A single, simple photo. The two of them building a sandcastle at sunset. Their hands were overlapped, and the brilliant sparkle of matching commitment rings on their fingers was blinding. This was their trip to the “clinic.” I couldn’t even summon the energy to confront her. If I did, I would only be berated for being small-minded and for questioning their “pure, platonic friendship.” Now, all I wanted was to leave this soul-crushing city, return to my hometown, and build something of my own. At my mother’s funeral, I’d reconnected with my old friend, Marcus. He had the capital and the location for a new business, and all he needed was a strong operations person—me. I had promised him three days to wrap up my life here before joining him. Thinking of this, I texted Marcus. We chatted until the sun set, and a genuine smile finally touched my lips. Just then, a different friend messaged me. “Callan, Gigi posted you for sale on that used-goods app! What is going on?!” 2 I clicked on the link my friend sent. The product photo showed me wearing an apron, focused intently on cooking. “Used-up Boyfriend for Sale. 90% New. 99 cents to the first bidder.” The comment section was flooded by Gigi’s friends, turning it into a group event. “Gigi, you’ve had this product for ten years; you can’t call him 90% new! He was a looker when he was young, but now he’s just old bark.” “Not the prettiest accessory, but buying him means a free housekeeper. Pretty good ROI.” The friend who’d sent me the link weakly commented: “Gigi, won’t Callan be mad if he sees this?” Immediately, everyone swarmed him: “If Callan gets mad, he can’t take a joke.” “Give it a rest. Callan’s just a country boy clinging to Gigi, hoping to cash in on her family’s wealth. He’s pretending to be a great lover!” My heart was like a stone in my chest. I felt nothing. I already knew Gigi’s friends looked down on me. They even had a private group chat where they constantly urged her to break up with me. Everyone assumed I was a gold-digger, never realizing that for ten years, I’d never spent a dime of her money. I’d handed over every paycheck and worked extra shifts just to buy her gifts and help with expenses. I was so broke that I had to borrow the money for my mother’s funeral from Marcus. I meant to close the app, but I accidentally hit the “Make an Offer” button. I watched, frozen, as a private message popped up: “Fine, you win. Offer accepted. Final price: 97 cents.” While I was still reeling, trying to figure out how to delete the transaction, Gigi called, sounding completely unconcerned. “It was just a game of Truth or Dare, Callan, don’t take it seriously. I’ll take it down tomorrow.” The background noise was a roar—she sounded like she was in a crowded club. Brooks’s voice, loud, cut through the din: “My bad, Callan! It was supposed to be me she put up for sale, but Gigi was afraid someone would actually bid on me, so she used you instead. But hey, that picture is great! Everyone in the group chat said you look so domestic and competent!” My grip tightened on the phone. Before the wedding, Gigi had seen me cooking and said my focused look was handsome, impulsively taking a picture. I’d been so touched, happily posing. I’d been nothing but a source of entertainment for her. Gigi sounded slightly chastened, a rare moment of weakness. “Look, I’ll be back in a few days. I’ll bring you a souvenir.” “You don’t have to. I’m leaving in two days—” —I’m leaving. The words caught in my throat. She had already hung up. I suddenly felt a profound, overwhelming sense of futility. The next morning, I received a call from a repair center. “Mr. Han? Ms. Winslow’s tablet is ready. She’s out of the country, so she asked us to contact you for pickup.” The tablet. After my mother fell ill, I had desperately begged Gigi to set a date. She ignored me, glued to her tablet, refusing to commit. I had snapped, asking her if her reluctance to marry me was because of Brooks. She’d immediately thrown the tablet, shattering the screen, then her face went cold and she mockingly agreed to my request. Now I knew. She hadn’t been angry; she had been guilty. Snapping back to the present, I decided not to make things difficult for the repair guy and headed to the center. The technician handed me the device. “Just the screen was broken. The data is all intact!” I idly swiped the screen twice and realized she hadn’t logged out of her messaging app. I looked closer. It was her burner account. Brooks was pinned to the top of her contacts. They shared matching pink-themed avatars. His nickname was “My Prince.” Hers was “The Prince Is Mine.” I swallowed hard and opened Gigi’s profile. The tablet froze for a moment. Then, a dense, unending stream of posts—all visible only to her, or Brooks—an archive of photos, messages, and every piece of information about him, erupted onto the screen. 3 I scrolled for what felt like an eternity before reaching the first entry. “October 29, 2015. Brooks’s first month abroad. I think I’m going through withdrawal. I saw someone in the cafeteria who looks just like him…” That was the day Gigi and I met. My family was poor; I was eating instant ramen in the school cafeteria. She suddenly sat down next to me, slid her full tray of expensive food toward me, and begged me to eat it. She added my contact info and asked me to tutor her for her finals. “January 1, 2016. Brooks’s third month abroad. I confessed to Callan. He was so happy, so shy. I feel a strange sense of guilt. He’s not Brooks, after all.” … The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow. The account Gigi gave me, the one we used for ten years, wasn’t her real account. It was the placeholder, the cover, maybe even just her work number. Frowning, I tapped on Brooks’s chat history. January 15, 2025. Brooks: “I’m craving a slice of watermelon.” I remembered that day vividly. It was a snowstorm, ten degrees below freezing, with strong winds. Yet, Gigi had agreed without hesitation and had driven all over the city to find one. Brooks had responded: “Winter watermelon isn’t great after all. Gigi, can you just take it and toss it?” That afternoon, Gigi came home holding half a watermelon, her nose raw and red from the cold, her eyelashes speckled with melting snow. She smiled as she handed the fruit to me. I was nearly in tears, vowing to devote my life to her. It had all been a performance. I had been a fool. In a self-destructive trance, I continued to read every thread. The patience, the encouragement, the gentle sweetness—the things I had always been denied—were all lavished on Brooks. I had always thought Gigi’s venomous tongue was just the result of a cold, elite education, that she was socially awkward and didn’t know how to be kind. Now I understood. It was simply because of two words. Not worthy. I took the tablet and left. When I reached my apartment building, a delivery guy was waiting for me, holding a battered, worn package that required a signature. Inside, resting on a bed of crumpled paper, was a thin gold chain. The delivery guy hesitated. “The sender said she wasn’t qualified to be your girlfriend and asked you to take back this family heirloom necklace. She insisted you verify the contents right here.” Gigi knew exactly how to manipulate me. Whenever we argued, she would return the necklace, our only meaningful token of commitment, claiming my temper was too much and she couldn’t handle me. It was her ultimate threat to end things. And every time, I would panic. I would refuse to sign for it, sobbing and begging her forgiveness, asking her to put it back on, desperate in my humiliation. But this time, I slipped the gold necklace into my pocket, took the pen, and signed my name. Just as I stepped out of the coffee shop, Gigi called, sounding triumphant. “Callan, did you see the package? That’s what you get for not mailing Brooks’s watch! I bought him a five-million-dollar villa as a birthday gift and promised to vacation with him there every year. Didn’t you just shoot yourself in the foot?” The next second, she shrieked. “You signed for it?!” “Yes.” She frowned, displeased. “Why did you sign for it? You said it was your family’s heirloom, to be worn only by your wife, only me, for life!” I simply asked, “Didn’t you send it back?” Gigi choked on her words. Before I could speak again, she spoke, her voice ice-cold: “Callan, you are despicable! You can’t take a simple joke. Fine, keep the damn necklace and wear it until you die!” She didn’t just hang up; she blocked me on every platform. I knew she was genuinely angry this time. But all I felt was silence. And peace. Two days later. I was planning for my long-haul flight and stepped out to buy some energy bars. When I returned, the front door was ajar. A thief? I peered through the peephole. Inside, Brooks was holding a fork and a slice of cake, licking the metal with a look of pure satisfaction before forking another piece and feeding it to Gigi. “Gigi, this cake is amazing. Only you would go all the way across town to get it.” “You were with Callan for ten years, though. Maybe you should talk things out when he gets back? Don’t stay angry.” Gigi, who was normally a germaphobe, tilted her head slightly and bit the cake off the fork, her eyes fixed on Brooks. “To be honest, ten years with him doesn’t compare to ten days with you.” Brooks froze. Gigi laughed, playfully punching his arm to mask the sudden intimacy. “Just kidding! Didn’t your mother line up another potential match for you? Let me vet her for you. We’re best friends, right?” In matters of the heart, everyone has insecurities. Even Gigi, normally so arrogant, feared rejection or disdain. A draft blew through the gap, slamming the door shut. I took out my key, ready to open it. Gigi beat me to it, yanking the door open. She launched a preemptive strike, demanding an explanation. “Callan, you’re not at work. Why didn’t you meet me at the airport?” 4 I put the keys back in my pocket and held up the snack bag. “I didn’t know you were coming home today.” Gigi frowned. “I posted the flight information on my socials!” “I was blocked.” “Well, couldn’t you ask your friends? Couldn’t you call my secretary? Your girlfriend was gone for two weeks, and you weren’t worried at all? What are you holding, anyway? Not only are you absent from work, but you were out spending money?!” When did she become so verbose? I nodded toward Brooks. “Worried about what? You clearly had company.” Brooks intentionally licked his fork again, offering the cake toward me. “Callan, why are you so tense this morning? Want some cake?” I felt a surge of nausea. “Apologies, I don’t share food, especially not saliva-laced cake.” Gigi’s body trembled. She stepped toward me to argue, knocking into the large shopping bags at her feet. Coffee pods and high-end wellness supplements spilled out. She angrily kicked a plastic bag toward me. “I even brought you and your mother souvenirs! Callan, you are utterly heartless!” I knew Gigi was lashing out because she felt guilty and was trying to deflect from the ambiguous intimacy she shared with Brooks. But there was something far more important on my mind. “Gigi, keep the souvenirs. Just hand over my payroll card.” I needed the money. I still had to repay Marcus for the funeral expenses. Brooks feigned shock. “Callan, what kind of man asks his girlfriend for money? I know you’re still angry about Gigi standing in as my replacement fiancée, and I’m sorry, okay?” The familiar manipulation. The old me would have lunged at him, demanding he drop the pretense. Now, I was too tired. Gigi was shaking with rage. “We agreed you’d hold all your savings with me so we could buy a house together! What do you mean, you want it back?!” “I always knew you were vain, always wanting to spend money or beg for a promotion. I’m the one who signs your paychecks, so what right do you have to ask for it? I’ll demote you if you keep this up!” I gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Gigi, a person with my skills would get a starting salary of twenty thousand a month at any other company. You pay me six thousand. Should I thank you?” Gigi looked at me, her eyes wide with disbelief and disappointment. “Callan, don’t be ungrateful! Do you think you would have gotten your foot in the door at a massive company like ours if you weren’t my boyfriend?” “You’re so shortsighted, a total simpleton. Why do you think I was marrying Brooks? It was to secure our networking, for our future! My mother finally agreed to hand over the company to me soon, and then I would have married you. Do you really need this paltry salary now? Are you really giving me the cold shoulder over this small amount of money?” Who was giving whom the cold shoulder? I said, cold and hard, “Gigi, I only want the wages I earned. And, we should—” Break up. The two words wouldn’t come out. Instead, Gigi pulled the card out and slapped it against my face. “Callan, everyone told me you were just after my money, and I was stupid enough to defend you. Now I see I was wrong. A provincial man like you is completely unworthy of my sacrifice!” The sharp edge of the card cut my cheek. I felt a sudden coolness on my right cheek. I touched it with my finger and saw the wet, crimson smear. She was right. I was unworthy. This toxic, broken relationship should never have started. Gigi looked momentarily panicked but quickly hardened her voice. “Serves you right.” Brooks gently patted her back, then looked at me with smug satisfaction. “Callan, just apologize to Gigi before you hurt yourself more! She waited for you at the airport for ages. It’s just a girl’s temper. A man needs to be the bigger person.” My attention was drawn to the familiar timepiece on his wrist. My pupils contracted. If they were in the living room, what about my mother’s portrait? I rushed into the bedroom. A sigh of relief. It was still on the bedside table, untouched. I picked up the portrait, ready to leave this disastrous place for good. Gigi snatched it from my hand and slammed it face down on the table. “I’m talking to you! Why are you in the bedroom? I told you, you can’t run away. You have to apologize! Otherwise, I won’t go through with the wedding, and your sick mother can just keep waiting!” Brooks walked over, ostensibly to mediate, but his eyes narrowed, and he suddenly knocked my mother’s portrait onto the tile floor. Smash! The frame hit the tiles, and glass shards flew. Brooks yelped. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to!” The world seemed to recede, focusing only on the portrait lying on the floor. I crouched down, eyes stinging, and started picking up the glass. My fingers were immediately sliced open by the tiny fragments. Gigi only cared about Brooks, checking him up and down. “Brooks, are you okay? Did any glass hit you?” She turned and cursed at me. “Callan, are you blind? Why do you keep such dangerous things in the house? Apologize to Brooks now, or I swear I will never marry you!” Seeing me stubbornly picking up the glass, my hands dripping with blood, she kicked me in frustration. “I’m talking to you! Stop picking that up! Aren’t you the ultimate filial son? Don’t you want to grant your mother’s wish?” Then her eyes landed on the black-and-white photograph. She froze. “Who… who is that?” I wiped the blood, my blood, from the photo with my shirt sleeve. My mother’s loving, gentle gaze was still looking up at me. Thankfully, the picture itself was undamaged. I looked up at Gigi and finally, finally finished the sentence I had started so many times. “Gigi, my mom passed away. There won’t be a wedding.” “We’re done.”