After the breakup, I developed severe PTSD from the attack.

Insomnia. Nightmares. Panic attacks. I obsessively reviewed our chat history, searching for proof he'd loved me. The more I looked, the more my heart broke, until hatred took over.


At 4 AM, I deleted his contacts, gathered every trace of him, stuffed it all into a garbage bag, and hurled it into the dumpster behind our building.

I thought I'd feel relieved.

Instead, it felt like killing a mosquito that had been tormenting me, only to discover all the spilled blood was my own.


A chunk of my heart had been carved away.

That space where Julian had grown had rotted. To survive, I'd cut away the infection with my own hands. But I'd forgotten—with such a gaping wound, survival was impossible anyway.


My emotions ambushed me when I saw him at an all-hands meeting.

Julian looked unaffected—even more vibrant than before. As if losing me had only improved his life. Sienna sat beside him, failing at discretion as they exchanged glances, her cheeks flushed.

I stopped sleeping. Started vomiting everything I ate.

Until I collapsed at work from low blood sugar and exhaustion.

Julian deigned to visit my hospital room.

Twenty-nine days after our breakup.

He wore a perfectly tailored Tom Ford suit, casually twirling our Cartier LOVE ring on his finger. "You've lost weight."

I stared blankly, my mouth wooden.

"I'm sorry."

Julian's lips curved into a smug, satisfied smile.

Just like that, we were back together.

Dr. Evans called it Trauma Bonding. After severe trauma, victims sometimes unconsciously return to their abusers, seeking familiar territory as a dysfunctional safe harbor.

My "peaceful withdrawal" began under Dr. Evans' guidance.

Keep him physically present, but gradually withdraw all expectations.

Slow-cooking the heart.

The process wasn't difficult. The ending wouldn't be painful.

After six months back together, my self-rescue started working.

I truly became what Julian had always wanted.

When he stayed out all night, I asked nothing. Whatever happened with him and Sienna, I stopped caring.

Before I knew it, that rotted piece of my heart fell away like overripe fruit.

I paused, stunned, then smiled.

I immediately accepted the transfer to Paris—an opportunity I'd previously declined to stay with Julian.

Thankfully, the offer still stood.

Departure: two weeks away.

I had no intention of telling Julian.

I grew increasingly "reasonable," while Julian seemed increasingly unhappy.

I thought I was imagining it—until last night.

He embraced me from behind, his breath hot on my neck. His whispers were gentle as feathers, but his grip felt like an interrogation.

"Sienna's been making your life hell, forcing you to work overtime constantly. Why didn't you tell me?"

My stomach knotted. I couldn't understand his anger, so I stammered: "W-work is work. Personal is personal. I'll handle it."

Previously, when Robert Jones had targeted me, Julian had publicly humiliated me: "Even an intern wouldn't make such a basic mistake."

At home, I'd tearfully asked why he wouldn't hear my side.

His face remained blank. "At work, I'm your boss, not your boyfriend. I judge results, not excuses. I can't play favorites."

Yet days later, Robert was demoted for his "attitude toward Sienna." And Sienna—still on probation—was exceptionally promoted to become my supervisor.

Now I was keeping things in perspective, separating work from personal matters.

His body suddenly stiffened. He turned me around, staring into my eyes, his tone stubborn: "You used to look me in the eyes."

I didn't understand what had gotten into him, so I impatiently met his gaze.

In that moment, irritation flashed in Julian's eyes. He suddenly panicked, covered my eyes, kissed me, and called my name over and over.

"Aurora... Aurora..."