Whenever I was with Preston, he always spoke more. Perhaps it was due to my own experiences—I’m not much of a talker, but I love listening to Preston.
I never attended school, so Preston hired a tutor to teach me privately. After school, Preston would run to my house, correct my homework, and review my progress. He would chatter about what happened at school, which classmate was being bullied, which one was annoying, and who went to the principal to complain.
With him around, my life seemed lively.
Even now, he did the same. Every day after work, he told me about his day—what he ate, what he did, where he had meetings, who he met, and he even shared many videos and pictures.
It was this Preston who made me believe in our love.
"Babe, guess what this is?" Preston pushed a beautifully wrapped box towards me.
"What is it? A gift?”At that moment, I seemed to forget about his affair, still responding instinctively and anticipating what was inside the box.
Inside was an evening dress designed by Preston. Light green, my favorite color—full of life.
I don’t go out often and have pale skin. Preston says that when I wear green, I look like a fawn in the forest.
I put on the dress and did a simple, natural makeup. I hired a photography team to take many beautiful pictures at home. Preston was also in the photos.
Today, Preston didn’t go out. He stayed home, painting with me and watching a movie. It felt like we had gone back to the past. We had endless things to talk about and do together.
In the evening, after I took a shower, I saw Preston waiting for me on the bed.
I paused for a moment and then remembered the information from the detective. Preston and Iris did not have a physical relationship yet.
Just for one night, with this man who once loved me deeply. It would be the last night.
Because of my health, we had always been restrained in our intimacy. Preston held me, kissing me gently. I had always wanted to live longer, so I had been restrained.
But this night, I was especially indulgent. It was a farewell and a letting go.
Afterward, Preston carefully helped me clean up and held me as I fell asleep.
"Preston," I wanted to ask him about Iris.
“Hmm, what’s wrong, babe? Are you uncomfortable? Let me give you a massage.” His large hand moved to my lower back, massaging it gently, extremely tender.
I was increasingly unable to understand what he was thinking.
“Preston, if you ever stop loving me, please tell me. I'll leave gracefully.” In the end, I couldn't ask about Iris. Perhaps I didn't want to ruin this moment of tenderness.
“Nelly, I love you. I'm absolutely sure of it. It's been over ten years and it hasn't changed. Wherever you are is home for me. I can't imagine you not being by my side.” Preston held me even tighter.
This night, I didn’t sleep well. The moonlight filtered through the curtains, illuminating Preston’s face. At thirty, he still looked young but had gained some new sharpness.
Tracing Preston’s features, I felt like I was saying goodbye to my youth. I used to wonder, reading about cheating husbands in novels, how I would react if it happened to me. Would I be hysterical, unable to let go?
In reality, from the moment I found out about his affair, I was calm—no anger, no clinging. It was as if the life had been drained out of me, and all I wanted was to leave.