Chapter 7
Leaving the parking garage that morning, I spotted Alex waiting by the roadside.
He’d always said he disliked driving, which explained why our car rarely left the garage except for occasional weekend trips.
Moments later, a black Range Rover pulled up. A chauffeur emerged, bowing slightly as he opened the door for Alex.
The car didn’t head toward Alex’s supposed workplace. After entering the inner ring road, it drove straight to a secluded residential area.
Blocked by “No Entry” signs, I could only park at a distance, watching his car disappear inside.
Sitting in my car, I remembered desperately helping him polish his resume years ago.
Each application was meticulously crafted – from career objectives to work experience and personal strengths rather than mass–sending the same version everywhere.
Almost every resume passed the initial screening, but despite nailing 80% of the predicted interview questions in our countless practice sessions, he’d always fail at the interview stage.
Finally, only this unremarkable company would take him. At least they offered full benefits, even if the salary was modest.
Alex rarely spent money. His monthly salary went straight to my card, from which I’d give him spending
money.
What I once saw as acts of love now revealed themselves as things he simply didn’t care about.
I drove to our regular bistro, where the owner greeted me warmly: “The usual? Where’s your other half today?”
I’d loved this place since college and brought Alex here almost weekly after meeting him.
“He’s busy. Just the bolognese please, with all the toppings.”
Halfway through my meal, I asked casually: “Didn’t they clear this area for redevelopment two years ago? How are you open again?”
The owner glanced at me, wiping sweat with his kitchen towel.
“To be honest, I’m as confused as you. One day they just told me to reopen. Truth is, with my current
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Seven Years of Love, Seven Minutes &
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Chapter 7
assets, I don’t even need to run this place anymore.”
I finished my pasta in silence.
So that’s why we “happened” to find that surprisingly affordable apartment in a nice building, despite its creaky floorboards and flickering hallway lights.
That year when my grandmother needed emergency surgery, the blood bank was mysteriously restocked overnight, and she was moved to a special research ward.
Back home, I dug out several handbags hidden at the bottom of my closet.
Now, I had no doubts about their authenticity.
When Alex first gave them to me, I thought he was just naive, buying what he saw others having.
To spare his pride, I’d proudly carry one to work, even twirling in front of him to show it off.
Seeing my joy, he’d raised an eyebrow, missing my point entirely and giving me more.
At work, someone examined one closely: “This bag’s impossible to get – it’s nearly $200,000 with the full set. Are you secretly loaded?”
I’d casually adjusted the strap, saying confidently: “It’s just a replica, nothing expensive.”
Later, I’d hint: “Even replicas aren’t cheap. Don’t waste money on these, I don’t need them.”
Alex had glanced at me, smiling: “Keep them. They might be useful someday.”
Indeed they were what took me five years to save for a house could be covered by just two or three bags.
I blinked, finally understanding the emotion that had been gnawing at my heart since last night.
Resentment. I realized how deeply resentful I felt.
Alex, if this had been pure deception and manipulation, I wouldn’t feel this bitter.
But you mixed just enough genuine feeling into your endless lies – who were you trying to trap?
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Chapter 8
