He Had Said Forever, Just the Night Before（Lila's POV）

Two Weeks Earlier

Two weeks ago, on a Tuesday evening — back when I still believed that night would end with fireworks — I left the studio two hours early, tried on what felt like every outfit I owned in front of the mirror, and finally settled on a dark emerald dress.

I arrived at The Carlyle Restaurant ahead of time — the kind of place so in demand that I'd had to book a month out just to get a table.

The waiter led me up to the rooftop terrace, and I gave a quiet nod of approval, thinking Ethan would love it here.

Tomorrow was his birthday. The reservation was already half the gift. The other half — the real surprise — was tucked inside my bag.

I reached into my purse and drew out a deep navy velvet pouch. Inside it, a Patek Philippe Calatrava rested in silence, its silver dial catching the warm amber light of the restaurant and giving back a soft, gentle glow.

That watch had cost me two full years of savings. I'd called in favors from several friends just to track down a piece through a dealer in Zurich. But whenever I imagined the look on Ethan's face when he opened the box, I told myself it was worth every cent. This was the most generous thing I'd ever done in our two years together — he would be stunned. Though if I was being honest with myself, there was another reason behind it. A couple of days earlier, I'd caught a glimpse of Ethan's phone screen by accident: his assistant was messaging him about coordinating a venue for an engagement ceremony, the date set for one month from now.

Sitting in my chair on the terrace, I couldn't help the smile that pulled at my lips. I set the velvet pouch on the table and adjusted its angle slightly, positioning it to face the seat where Ethan would be.

By the time he arrived, the other tables on the rooftop had already begun to empty. The entire top floor belonged to just the two of us. He appeared at the top of the staircase in a sharply cut charcoal suit, a single strand of his brown hair sticking up at the crown — the look of a man who'd come straight from the office. His expression was heavy as he crossed toward me, brow furrowed, though it eased a little the moment he saw me, and the corner of his mouth lifted in something close to a smile.

I stood to meet him and reached up to press that wayward strand of hair back into place. He was half a head taller than me, and I wobbled slightly on my toes; his hand came to my waist to steady me.

"How was your day?" He sat down and loosened his tie, his voice carrying the weight of exhaustion.

I settled back into my own seat, took the decanter from the waiter, and poured him a glass of red wine. "Really good," I said.

I nudged the blue velvet pouch toward him along the white linen tablecloth. It sat there in plain view, but he happened to tilt his head back for a sip of wine at that exact moment, his gaze passing right over it as though it wasn't there.

When he set the glass down, the furrow returned to his brow. His eyes settled on my face, carrying an emotion I couldn't quite name. He dropped his gaze to the wineglass in his hands and slowly traced one fingertip around the rim. After a few seconds of silence, he looked up at me with the air of someone who had made up their mind.

"You can ask me for something," he said. "Whatever you want — as long as it's within my power, it's yours."

My hand froze halfway to my own glass.

Ask for something? The first thought that surfaced was: he's going to propose.

I tilted my head and played coy. "Are you trying to give me a present?"

He lowered his eyes to his phone and began typing, as if responding to someone. I watched the downward cast of his face and remembered something he'd said in the first winter we were together — that when he proposed, there would be fireworks.

I couldn't help glancing toward the edge of the terrace. Two figures stood in the corner shadows, holding something I couldn't quite make out — the shape suggested cameras, or maybe phone tripods.

My heart picked up speed. He really was going to do it here. Those two were waiting in the dark to capture the moment — the fireworks, the kiss, all of it.

Nerves moved through me. The whole length of the table sat between us. When the fireworks went up, was I supposed to crane my neck across the tablecloth to reach him? That photo would look absurd. Absolutely not.

I stood, walked around the table, and came to stand beside him. I leaned in slightly, the wind at my back sending a few strands of hair drifting onto his shoulder. I tilted my head to move them aside and turned my face toward his, ready to kiss him.

"It's not a gift." He spoke without warning, his voice flat and measured — the tone of a prepared statement.

"If you haven't decided what you want, I'm transferring a Manhattan apartment into your name. I've already had my assistant start the paperwork. Is there anything else?"

Something went blank in my head. A Manhattan apartment — the kind of sprawling floor-through unit I couldn't afford in a lifetime of saving. And he was just handing it to me?

"For anything going forward, contact my assistant," he continued, still looking down at his phone, still not meeting my eyes. "He'll take care of it. I won't be available."

I won't be available.

The words landed, and everything in my mind went quiet — swept clean, like a room suddenly emptied.

Was he breaking up with me? The day before his own birthday, he was ending things — couldn't even wait one more day. Was it because tomorrow he needed to be free to celebrate with someone new?

I straightened and looked at him. He was still typing.

I let out a dry, hollow laugh and searched his face for any trace of a joke. "Today isn't April Fools'."

He finally looked up. He turned his head away with a scowl, and when he spoke, his voice had the clipped, dismissive edge of someone correcting a subordinate. "Enough. Stop clinging to me like a parasite. You were only ever with me for the money — you know that. In two years, what exactly have you contributed?"

He'd always thought that of me.

He looked me over once, then turned away again with a slow exhale, as though the sight of me was something he had to endure. "I don't even know how to look at you right now. You make me lose my appetite. I've never once brought you around my friends — I was embarrassed. I'm not trying to be cruel. That's just the truth. The only reason I got with you in the first place was because I lost a bet. Now that it's over, don't make this ugly."

I stared down at the table, unable to form a single word. All this time, he had despised me. The entire relationship had been the result of some wager.

I pressed my palms together, feeling the dampness of my own sweat. My face burned. The two figures by the wall — they must have heard everything. They were probably struggling to keep from laughing at me, at how thoroughly I had misread every sign.

I had the sensation of being surrounded — a crowd pressing in from all sides, a thin, scattered sound of mockery threading into my ears. I couldn't tell whether it was real or something my mind had manufactured.

Once again, I was the unwanted one. The burden. The embarrassment.

Even though, just the day before, he had told me he would love me forever.