The Ex I Can't Forget

At the companys year-end party, my boss tried to set me up on a date.

Id had too much drink.

My eyes were red as I mumbled, I can't get over my ex.

My colleagues, eager for gossip, pressed me for details.

At the head table, our CEO, Charles Smith, looked increasingly intrigued.

This ex of yours his last name wouldn't happen to be Smith, would it?

...

Several managers instantly perked up, exchanging glances.

I slumped onto the table, sinking into a deep sleep.

I completely missed the boss's question.

My colleagues, hungry for the tea, shook me vigorously.

"Wake up, Holly! Dont pass out now! Keep going!"

I lifted my head with effort. "Going where?"

"Was your ex loaded?"

"Insanely, ridiculously rich." I spread my arms wide.

"His kitchen had a whole row of fridges, all full of seafood gifts from others."

"How'd you meet?"

"He was my high school classmate."

I mumbled a reply, sitting there trying to sober up.

My body found the camera lens before my eyes did.

I snapped into professional mode, ready to smile.

Only to discover it was Charles Smith himself, sneakily pointing his phone at me.

"Mr. Smith? Why are you filming me?"

Charles Smith was notoriously handsome, with a string of tabloid romances.

Among the C-suite, he was the favorite subject of office gossip.

He was nicknamed "Prince Charming."

He had an older brother, the "Crown Prince."

But a year ago, the Crown Prince got transferred, and Charles took over the company.

By rank, I shouldnt have been at his table.

But it was the year-end party.

And I was one of last year's top three revenue-generating hosts across all platforms.

Product launches, interviews, corporate broadcasts C I nailed them all.

To show appreciation, leadership let high-performing employees share the table.

Charles pressed his lips together, gesturing for me to continue.

"Nothing, just keep talking. I'm interested too."

"Talking about relationships it's kinda embarrassing."

I instinctively dropped a cherry tomato into my wine glass.

Then I belatedly remembered this wasn't a client dinner.

I fished the tomato out and ate it.

It tasted sour.

Charles hissed through his teeth.

"Embarrassing?"

He looked like he was fighting a laugh.

"Being with your ex was embarrassing?"

I shook my head. "Not him. I was a mess back then."

"That shouldn't be," he prodded. "If you were such a mess, why would he date you?"

I stayed silent.

He shot a look at the people beside him.

A few tipsy managers promptly stood up, saying they needed to mingle at other tables.

Seeing this, my colleagues at the table also started slipping away.

Confused, I decided to follow.

Charles quickly looked up, clearing his throat.

"Leaving? Your performance last year was stellar. Let's discuss a raise."

I jolted and slid back into my seat.

I filled my glass, muscle memory kicking in with the grateful spiel.

"Thank you for the recognition, Mr. Smith. Bottoms up."

"Sit, sit. Stop drinking."

He pressed down on my glass.

"Tell me, Holly how did Ryan Smith...Your ex' mom convince you to break up? Did she insult you or threaten you?"

No.

She was perfectly polite.

I was a senior in college.

Since sophomore year, when Ryan and I got serious,

I'd spend parts of my breaks at his place.

His mom showed up unexpectedly one afternoon.

I was napping on the couch, startled awake by knocking.

I thought it was Ryan coming home.

I opened the door to find a stranger.

She bore a faint resemblance to him.

She saw me, didn't seem surprised.

Didn't seem like she was looking for Ryan either.

I stammered out a greeting. "H-hello, Mrs. Smith."

"Holly, hello."

She smiled. "Shall we talk inside?"

I knew instantly why she was there.

She said her maiden name was Harrington. The Harringtons of East Coast shipping.

Her marriage to Mr. Smith was arranged.

Their industries complemented each other perfectly.

Years of marriage were harmonious. Ryan was their only son.

(Mr. Smith might have other children elsewhere).

But Ryan's position was secure.

Provided he didn't screw up.

Didn't give outsiders a weakness to exploit.

"I trust Ryan's abilities. He doesn't necessarily need marriage for security."

Mrs. Smith adjusted her clutch, shifting gears.

"But," she continued smoothly, "marriage is a way to solidify alliances."

"If he doesn't do it, someone else will."

"And if others perceive his wife's family as lacking, and try to challenge him by forming their own alliances, it could become problematic."

With every sentence she spoke, my back stiffened further.

I was on pins and needles.

Just get it over with.

I kept my head down.

"M-Mrs. Smith, wh-what do you want me to do?"

She watched me nervously picking at my fingers, a flicker of pity in her eyes.

"Holly, I knew about you back in high school."

"Ryan used to mention your name constantly at home."

"I looked into your background. Learned your parents struggled financially, that you got out of that remote mountain village through hardship grants and clawed your way into the city's top prep school on merit alone."

"Quite the journey for a young woman."

"You're intelligent. And quite lovely."

"But to be our daughter-in-law well, one doesn't need to be extraordinary, but significant shortcomings are problematic."

"Honestly, I didn't want to separate you so soon."

"But Ryan is graduating. He refuses to go abroad because you're staying domestic."

"So, Holly, for his sake and your own please consider."

She opened her clutch.

Placed a thin check on the coffee table.

I wiped my face quickly, still not looking up.

"O-okay. I understand. I I won't see you out, is that alright?"

Her soft cashmere shawl brushed against my flannel pajamas.

A faint scent, like temple incense, lingered.

Then it faded.

She closed the door softly, as if she'd never been there.

I went to pack my things.

Only then did I realize how much stuff I had.

Clothes filled a corner of the walk-in closet.

Jewelry, hair ties, expensive toiletries Ryan had casually bought for me.

The plants I nurtured, the cushions, plush toys, decorations I'd bought, the unused tampons.

Far more than what fit in my original suitcase.

I stuffed things into the bag, then pulled others out.

Left behind anything that looked pricey.

Kept the toiletries C I couldn't afford that stuff on my own.

Took extra pajamas.

That cashmere shawl was a celebrity dupe, ridiculously long.

Ryan had laughed when I bought it, saying my petite frame drowned in it, looking like a little stingray.

I took it anyway.

His sound system was the brand I'd obsessed over, supposedly top-tier.

It turned out the hype was overblown.

But I still loved it.

Too bad it wasn't portable.

The plants on the balcony I'd nurtured them for two years. What now?

Start over somewhere else? Spend another two years?

Sitting amidst the chaotic mess of my half-packed life, I finally broke.

The front door opened.

I heard footsteps and the rustle of shopping bags on the counter.

"Holly?" Ryan called from the living room. "Want me to cook?"

I didn't answer.

He muttered in confusion.

Probably spotting the check on the coffee table, his steps suddenly faltered.

The bedroom door flew open.

"Who from my family was here"

Ryan stood frozen, the thin paper clenched in his hand.

I turned, quickly wiping my face on my sleeve.

"Hey, hey, don't cry." He knelt, pulling me into his arms. "Who came? Tell me."

His fingers were cold, his coat chilly.

I pressed my face into the warmth of his sweater.

But his sweater smelled like sandalwood too.

They were family.

Was I supposed to make him choose?

I tried to pull back, gasping, but he held me tight.

His fingers tangled in my hair, pressing my head firmly against his chest.

"Talk. Who came? Man? Woman? How old?"

He bent his head, his nose brushing my temple, his breath hot with anger.

I shook my head.

"We... we need to talk."

"Talk about what? Holly, what's there to talk about? Breaking up?"

His gaze was hard.

"When we got together, you promised you wouldn't just give up."

I wanted to say sorry, but couldn't.

He'd said he'd thought it through when he confessed.

He wanted me to consider the obstacles before saying yes.

I'd promised him I would.

But I was young, underestimating the obstacles.

Facing them head-on, I realized a single sentence was enough to negate everything.

I chickened out.

Would he regret it someday too?

"Maybe... we should just split up?"

I met his eyes, my voice fading.

"I'm scared... scared you'll regret me later... think I dragged you down..."

"Enough!"

Ryan cut me off, swallowing hard.

I rarely spoke in high school.

At first, classmates asked questions.

I stayed silent, just wrote the answers.

They thought I was stuck-up.

The school dubbed me "The Silent Quiz Whiz."

Later, teachers called on me to answer questions.

Eventually, they realized I had a speech thing.

I got a pass on answering aloud.

No one pushed me much.

They'd occasionally encourage me to practice more.

Classes all day, dorms at night, tight schedule for washing up.

I found no time to practice, nor did I want to.

I only started talking more after getting with Ryan.

He always waited for me to finish.

Even if it took ten minutes to get a sentence out.

He'd never cut me off like this.

I clamped my mouth shut.

"Holly," he took a deep breath, cupping my face. "Do you still love me?"

I looked at him and nodded.

"Then don't talk about breaking up. Do it for me. Practice talking. I'll help you here."

His grip tightened slightly. "Hear me?"

I nodded again.

He pulled me close, arms locking around me.

"Good."

After that, we never mentioned the two-million-dollar check.

He hired a live-in housekeeper, spent hours just talking with me.

Sometimes I woke late to hear him on the balcony, phone pressed to his ear.

Whoever was on the other end didn't sound happy.

He'd stay silent for long stretches, murmur short replies.

Usually, he'd apologize the next day, say he had to attend some high-level meetings, be gone a few days.

I saw the papers on his desk.

Meeting notes, industry reports, financial statements.

Confidential level unknown.

I didn't dare look closely.

Just knew I was probably holding him back.

When he was gone, I practiced alone.

I started a voice chat livestream.

Whether anyone was there or not, I forced myself to talk.

Some viewers got spooked.

College friends who saw me in the quad thought I'd lost it.

For a while, screenshots of my "weird stream" even made the campus forum.

I explained in the comments.

Surprisingly, people were kind. They came just to chat.

But it was agony.

The stream got popular.

Some encouraged, some mocked.

Some people baiting me into saying awful things.

I still stumbled.

After accidentally blurting a crude word's homophone, the stream got banned again.

I couldn't take it.

Why torture myself? Why drag Ryan down?

Years of this... it wouldn't fix itself overnight.

I wanted to quit.

This time, I couldn't face Ryan.

I packed only essential clothes.

I checked into a hotel and texted him it was over.

He flew back to San Francisco that night.

Insisted on talking in person.

I opened the door. Ryan stood there.

Eyes bloodshot, standing rigidly.

Neither of us spoke.

I couldn't stop crying.

Just cried and cried.

Finally, the clearest sentence I'd ever spoken: "Ryan, the pressure... I can't do it anymore."

His lips pressed thin. "Can't? Not even try?"

"I'm exhausted."

He set a gift bag down, looked away.

"If it's truly that painful... fine."

I crouched on the floor, watched him turn.

"Ryan!"

He stopped, glanced back.

I saw it then. His eyes were red too.

"Can we... be friends?"

Would we see each other again?

He gave a soft, humorless laugh. "Yeah. Call me if you need anything."

But I knew.

He meant he wouldn't call me.

And he never did.

Over three years now.

If he knew how clearly I speak now...

I wonder if he'd be proud.

Alcohol brings back old memories.

Unreal emotions rush to your head, and you forget about reality.

I slumped on the table, forgetting this was the year-end party.

The man across from me was my boss's boss's boss.

Charles frowned, patting me.

"Holly, Holly, wake up... Good grief, you're not alcohol poisoned, are you? Damn it, Ryan's gonna come after me."

I was shaken awake, tilting my head from the crook of my arm.

Opening one eye to look at him.

"Huh? Mr. Smith?"

Charles let out a sigh of relief. He handed me a napkin, tilted his chin.

"Wipe your face, you're crying so much."

"Sorry. I am drunk and emotional. This whiskey packs a punch. Really feeling it."

I forced a smile, realization dawning. "Oh, Mr. Smith, weren't we going to talk about a raise?"

He waved a hand.

"Yeah, yeah. 50% raise. But tomorrow, no, the day after, you have to come with me to a... hmm, a cross-company networking event."

"My level is high enough to attend with you?"

"Pfft, it's just a casual dinner."

"Oh. Wait, the day after tomorrow is the start of the holiday break."

"Triple overtime pay. The people at this event are rare, high-level contacts. I'm taking you because I see your potential."

Charles sounded utterly convincing.

I didn't doubt him, giving an okay sign.

He breathed out, smiling like a smug fox.

"I'll have the driver take you home. Rest up. I'll pick you up the day after."

I slept off the booze until 2 PM.

I woke up and sat on the edge of the bed thinking for half an hour.

I couldn't remember everything I said at last night's gala.

But Charles's expression, like he was plotting something, was crystal clear.

His reputation with women wasn't great.

Today, he was escorting some starlet to a magazine cover shoot.

And the next day he was having dinner with a freshly debuted ingenue.

While I hadn't heard of him getting involved with female employees at our own company...

I still felt a chill.

Before I could think of a good excuse to refuse, a corporate message popped up.

"Tomorrow's dinner is to celebrate a buddy's birthday. You'd better bring a gift."

"Make the most of it. Maybe he'll casually give you an opportunity, and you'll pay tens of thousands more in taxes."

"5:30 PM, my assistant will pick you up."

Your casual family gathering, I really shouldn't intrude.

I drank too much last night, my mouth ran, Mr. Smith, please overlook it.

There are people with better performance than me, maybe give the chance to them?

I deleted all the excuses.

Weakly, I sent: "Received."

After washing up, I realized I'd forgotten to ask the key info.

How old is this buddy of his? Does he like Western stuff or traditional things? What's his orientation?

I had no clue.

I opened my phone to search for gifts for superiors and the first page showed a few shops I'd bought from before.

Scarves, belts, briefcases.

All moderately priced, price points I wouldn't choose now.

But back then, when I gave them to Ryan, he was always so happy.

I suddenly felt a little dazed.

Soon, it would be Ryan's birthday again.

He was born right around Lunar New Year.

Every year for his birthday, he'd celebrate with me first, then rush home for another celebration.

The next day he'd return, loaded with gifts.

All from relatives, friends, and Smith business partners.

Some knew he was in a relationship, so they'd cleverly gift trendy, new-season luxury items.

He'd pick and choose, packing all the stuff I could use.

And he'd play coy, not just giving them to me.

I had to circle him for ages, stammering in my eagerness.

Then he'd lift his chin, slowly handing over the suitcase.

I'd sit on the floor opening gift boxes one by one.

Ryan would sit leaning against the sofa, slowly drinking water.

"See anything you like?"

I'd hold up my favorite to show him.

He'd look at it, smile.

"Got it. I'll discuss more projects with their company next year."

I'd say, "Y-you're abusing your power for personal gain."

I was born in autumn.

The exact day was unclear.

The gifts he brought piled up beside me, as if I'd had a wonderful birthday too.

In the years since we broke up, I hadn't picked out gifts for anyone else.

And I hadn't received gifts from anyone else either.

Sifting through mountains of items to find something that truly matches someone's vibe, preferences, statusit's exhausting.

I gathered my courage and texted Charles.

"Mr. Smith, what does your friend like? I'll prepare accordingly."

He said, "Anything."

...

Well, 'anything' it is, then.

I asked someone to buy a tea cake for me, specifying expensive one.

Giving tea as a gift couldn't go wrong.

The shop owner said the grade of tea cake I wanted was high, and the only one in the shop happened to be reserved.

Other stock would take time to procure.

Thankfully, it arrived just before the dinner.

I picked out a semi-professional work outfit, grabbed the gift box, and headed out.

It was over.

The moment I decided to use that money, it was a clean break. No looking back.

With that money, survival wasn't an issue.

I got a sales job.

Rejected after the first interview.

I cornered the HR person. Said I didn't need a base salary.

Just give me a platform to practice speaking.

They let me stay.

Every morning, the company made us shout our sales targets like rabid cheerleaders.

If you weren't hyped enough, they questioned your commitment.

I couldn't fake it. Got called out repeatedly.

After the pep rally, back to cold calls.

Good calls ended with a hang-up.

Bad calls involved creative insults about my ancestry.

Whenever a client insulted my parents, Id sincerely say, "Thank you."

Theyd pause, confused, and Id pitch life insurance.

Then theyd call me a dumb bitch and hang up.

On good months, commissions covered rent.

No one mocked my stutter anymore.

I job-hopped, starting as a co-host.

Leveraged my face into a hosting gig. The pressure was brutal, constantly roasted by viewers and producers.

Cried secretly at first.

But after my first five-figure month, the insults bounced right off.

I loved work.

I needed money to replenish the savings I'd spent.

As if hitting two million meant I didn't owe Ryan anything.

Work was all-consuming.

Rarely thought of him.

I missed him terribly.

Charles Smith stared intently at his food.

I stole glances at him.

Picking out key moments, I laid out the past few years honestly.

Nearby, someone slid me a business card.

"My friend runs a new jewelry brand doing a big push. If you're interested, Holly, talk to her about collaboration."

I took the card quickly.

It was a hot new luxury jewelry brand.

Their ambassadors were all famous socialites.

Technically, I couldn't take side gigs without approval.

Charles raised an eyebrow. "Take the compliment. Doesn't count as moonlighting."

I clasped my hands in mock prayer, whispering, "Thanks, boss."

Turning back, I accidentally met Ryan's gaze.

He was looking down at his phone, then stood.

"Excuse me, need to take this. Carry on."

With the birthday boy gone, the atmosphere loosened.

I couldn't keep up with the banter, quietly eating.

Charles turned to me.

"Want me to get you a table next door? Eat there, call my assistant when you're done."

"No need, Mr. Smith. I'll head out on my own."

I grabbed my purse and left.

Just outside the door, the room erupted in loud chatter.

Zhuang leaped up, grabbing Charles by the collar, furious.

"Charles Smith, you snake! I confide in you, and you bring the main character here to stir shit?!"

"Holly clearly still pines for him! They see each other, sparks fly, maybe they get back together! Perfect!"

"Does he look interested? Huh?"

Charles laughed loudly. "Zhuang, you've never been in love, shut up! I say they're meant to be! Wanna bet?"

Unfamiliar voices chimed in.

"Wait what are you guys talking about?"

"Still likes her? That was Young Master Ren's ex?"

"Idiot sets up ex-girlfriend trap, bros accidentally walk the plank. Whoever joked about her earlier, better apologize."

"Looks like the feelings are dead to me."

"Let's hope so."

The chatter faded, replaced by clinking glasses.