Seven Years In A Romance Novel Chapter 1

Seven years after I got sucked into a trashy romance novel, my best friend finally gave up and divorced the story's secondary male lead.

I spent weeks taking her to wild night clubs, bungee jumping off snowy peaks, and holding her hand until we ended up at the beach. She finally wiped away a tear as she hurled her platinum wedding ring far into the ocean waves.

"Fine. That's it," she muttered, her voice raw. "He and that golden female lead can torture each other for the rest of their lives. I am done playing the sacrificial wife. Come on, let's go home."

She paused, staring at my hand with a puzzled frown. "Wait, why are you still wearing yours? Don't tell me you still have feelings for Matthew?"

I casually slipped off my diamond band and gave it a soft toss into the foam.

Unlike her dramatic gesture, mine was completely effortless. "I just realized there is no point in wasting my energy on this person or any of his drama anymore. It's completely meaningless."

True moving on happens without a sound.

Mackenzie’s explosive anger only proved she still cared deep down. Me? I simply didn't love Matthew anymore.

Mackenzie froze at my words, then burst into uncontrollable sobs. I turned around with a sigh, stepping forward to wrap her in a hug.

That was when I noticed Matthew standing right behind us.

The notoriously cold, stoic billionaire stood under the moonlight, his thin lips trembling almost imperceptibly. "Is that so?" he whispered, his voice cracking. "Am I truly that meaningless to you now?"

* * *

Getting caught talking trash behind someone's back is usually embarrassing.

Yet, as I met Matthew’s pitch-black eyes, every trace of awkwardness simply died inside me, replaced by a hollow calm.

I pulled my stone-drunk best friend up by her arm and started walking toward the coastal hotel.

It was past midnight. The ocean breeze blew sharp and cold, carrying the dark hum of the tide. Moonlight washed over Matthew as he leaned against the door of his sleek sports car.

As I brushed past him, the faint scent of tobacco hit my nose.

I used to hate it when he smoked, so he had quit for years just for me. But the night the novel's female lead, Betty, returned from abroad, he had stood on the balcony puffing through an entire pack. When dawn broke, he turned to me after I had stayed awake all night and whispered a quiet, "I'm sorry."

Sorry for what? Back then, I didn't dare dig deeper.

I didn't truly understand until Betty pulled strings to steal the prime news anchor position I had poured three years of sweat into. She even came to my house to gloat, casually throwing the rescue cat Matthew and I had raised together right out of the second-story window.

When I lost my mind and reached out to slap her, a massive surge of force pinned my wrist and shoved me down onto the hardwood floor.

Matthew had shielded Betty, looking down at me like a stranger. "No matter what happens, you have no right to touch her."

That was the moment I finally understood his apology.

He was telling me he had chosen Betty, completely discarding my seven years of devotion.

"Let me drive you," Matthew called out behind us. His voice was raspy from the sea wind.

Sensing I was about to refuse, he added quickly, "You two have been drinking. You can't drive, and walking back to the hotel at this hour isn't safe."

I couldn't read his shadow-draped expression, but Mackenzie was still weeping against my shoulder, muttering nonsense.

"Fine," I said softly. "Thanks, Mr. Crawford."

Matthew’s hand froze as he reached for the door handle.