The 17th Time I Stopped Waiting

Arthur Brennan and I had been together for seven years, engaged for five, but we still hadn't registered our marriage.

Tonight marked his firm's celebration for closing their hundredth M&A deal. It was also the seventeenth time he'd promised to take me to City Hall.

But in the private dining room, while some obnoxious client used his drunken courage to insist I drink with him arm-in-arm, Arthur was busy shielding his junior associate Chloe from having to drink.

"Evelyn, come on, you have to drink this one! If you don't, you're disrespecting me!" The client's hand landed on my shoulder, his greasy fingers nearly brushing my collarbone.

Instinctively, I looked up through the crowd of clinking glasses, shooting Arthur a pleading look for help.

Our eyes met for less than a second.

Then he turned away, smiling as he took the glass from Chloe's hand. "She really can't drink anymore. I'll take this one for her. Here, Chloe, sit down before you lose your balance."

Chloe's cheeks were flushed, her eyes hazy as she leaned softly against Arthur's side. Her voice was as sweet as melted sugar: "You're so good to me."

Around us, several colleagues shook their heads.

Their eyes were full of pity.

I looked away, forced a smile, and downed my glass in one gulp.

The moment the alcohol hit my throat, my stomach clenched in excruciating pain.

By the time the banquet ended, I couldn't tell which hurt more—my stomach or my heart.

I forced myself to walk out of the restaurant, thinking of Arthur's earlier words—"After the celebration, we'll go register. This time for sure"—and felt slightly calmer.

The valet brought the car to the entrance.

But just as I reached for the door handle, a hand reached from behind and pressed against the doorframe.

"Chloe took a lot of drinks for me tonight." Arthur's voice was matter-of-fact. "I don't feel comfortable letting her go home alone. I'll drive her. You can take a cab."

"We definitely won't make it to City Hall today." He avoided my eyes. "Let's do it another day."

Another day. Next week. Next time.

In our seven years together, five years engaged, this was the seventeenth time he'd postponed registering our marriage.

In the past, I would have broken down, fought with him, demanded to know who his real fiancée was.

But this time, I just looked at him calmly and gave him a faint smile.

"Okay."

Arthur froze for a moment, seemingly surprised by my unusual composure. But he quickly recovered his cold expression and tossed out: "I'll bring you back a gift to make up for it."

Then he walked away.

Chloe sneezed in the wind. Arthur immediately took off his suit jacket and carefully draped it over her shoulders, helped her into the passenger seat, and even bent down to close the door for her.

He was worried she'd catch cold.

I suddenly remembered that winter when the firm was just starting out.

That night, I drank until my stomach bled trying to help him secure our first round of funding from investors.

At two in the morning, I stood shivering in a blizzard on the streets, while Arthur just covered his nose in disgust and told me to stay away because he hated the smell of alcohol on women. He didn't even offer me a scarf.

The Manhattan evening wind cut through my collar, chilling me to the bone. But what really made me cold was the bitter ache churning in my stomach.

I took a deep breath, pulled out the marriage application form that had been folded and unfolded countless times, and quietly put it back in my bag.

I knew it was time to end this seven-year relationship.

The next morning, I walked into the HR director's office and placed my resignation letter on her desk.

"Evelyn?" Linda, the HR director, looked at me in shock. "Are you crazy? The partner evaluation is coming up, and you're a sure thing!"

"I know," I said calmly.

"Does Arthur know about this?" Linda asked.

I managed a bitter smile. "I'll find a time to tell him. Though he probably... won't care anyway."

Linda sighed, her voice full of regret. "Evelyn, you and Arthur built this firm from nothing. When times were toughest, you were there with him. Those impossible clients, those all-nighters revising contracts—weren't you the one who carried it all? Now that the firm has finally made it to the top tier, you're leaving..."

She paused, then said with certainty: "Arthur will regret this."

I looked out the window, my voice quiet. "That's all in the past. As for whether he'll regret it... probably not."

That evening, I returned to our empty apartment. We'd lived here for five years, but most of the time, I was alone.

My phone pinged with a notification. Chloe had updated her social media.

The photo showed a table of exquisite home-cooked dishes, captioned: "Worked so hard I got a stomachache, but luckily someone made me this thoughtful meal. Instantly cured! ~"

The comments were full of envy. Someone asked: "Is it Arthur?"

She replied with a shy emoji.

I stared at that photo for a long time.

Over these five years, I'd asked Arthur countless times after exhausting late-night shifts if he could just make me a simple bowl of oatmeal.

But he always said impatiently that he was too tired and told me to order takeout.

I remember one time when my ulcer flared up and I was lying on the couch, stomach cramping from hunger, asking Arthur if he could make me some porridge.

He replied: "Order takeout yourself."

He'd told me he hated the smell of cooking, that he'd never cook in his life.

Turns out, it wasn't that he couldn't, didn't have time, or hated cooking. He just didn't think I was worth it.

And I was certain that the man who'd promised to come home tonight wouldn't be walking through that door. After all, this had happened too many times before.

I locked my phone and opened my laptop. The screen displayed over a dozen emails from headhunters, all offers from top-tier firms.

My eyes settled on an invitation from Mexico.

Mexico.

Three years ago, Arthur handled a cross-border commercial dispute case where the opposing party was a connected Mexican family. He was cornered outside the firm's entrance and stabbed seven times in front of my colleagues.

He spent a month in the hospital. His right eye was permanently damaged.

After that, "Mexico" became his forbidden word. He refused to go there himself and never let me take cases from there.

I opened that email and clicked "Accept" without hesitation.

Then I booked a flight to Mexico for two days later.

"Arthur," I murmured, my voice as soft as a sigh, "once I go to Mexico, we really will never see each other again."