Love Better, Love Yourself

The air conditioning in the conference room was turned up high. The cold air seeped down my collar, chilling me to the bone, yet I gripped the fountain pen tightly, my fingertips damp with sweat. The metal plating on the pen's barrel was slick with sweat; instinctively, I clenched my fingers tighter. Yulia Smith's proposal was displayed on the projection screen, the data riddled with errors like a child's scribbles. The axes on the bar chart were reversed, and the conversion rate formula even incorporated parameters from the gross profit margin. "There is an error in the calculation of the user conversion rate here." I pushed up my glasses, my voice carrying through the microphone across the room, "The qualifications of three partners have not yet been verified; rushing into contracts would be risky." My gaze behind the lenses swept over the gilded name "Yulia Smith" on the curtain, a bitter taste rising in my throat. Whispers broke out from the audience below. The department managers in the front row exchanged glances, some quietly flipping open the paper documents in their hands. Yulia Smith's face instantly flushed a deep liver red, her eyes reddening as she leaned toward Yasser Gabriel. Her fingers gently tugged at Yasser Gabriel's suit sleeve, her knuckles whitening with the effort. Yasser Gabriel is my husband. He frowned, tugging at his tie, not meeting my eyes, quietly reassuring Yulia Smith, "Calm down, it's just a minor mistake." The diamond on his tie clip caught the light and sparkled; it was the gift I gave him last year on our wedding anniversary. That night, I slept soundly. Perhaps it was the exhaustion from the day's meetings, or perhaps my subconscious refused to confront certain truths. When I opened my eyes again, the biting cold made me shiver. My nostrils were filled with the damp scent of earth, mingled with the fresh aroma of pine needles. All around me stretched pitch-black mountains and forests, the sound of pine waves roaring like wild beasts. The wind slipped through the gaps in the tree trunks, producing a whistling sound, as if someone were weeping beside my ear. The watch on my wrist showed that it was now three o'clock in the morning. The hands jumped on the luminous dial, each tick striking like a blow to my heart. The mobile phone's signal bar was completely empty. I repeatedly pressed to light up the screen, but the line representing the signal stubbornly remained glaringly blank. It took me two days to get out of that mountain. On the first night, a torrential rain struck, and muddy water seeped down my pant legs into my boots. By noon on the second day, the scorching sun left me dizzy and disoriented. The blisters on the soles of my feet mingled with the scratches from branches, scabbing over only to crack open again. Every step felt like treading on a blade; my pant legs stuck to the wounds, and pulling them caused pain so sharp my vision blurred. When I arrived home, the light in the entrance hall was glaringly bright. Warm yellow light spilled eagerly from the door crack, stretching my shadow into a crooked shape. Laughter and noise echoed from the living room. The sharp clinking of glass, mingled with the playful laughter of men and women, pierced my ears like needles. Paul Bell, a friend of Yasser's, was jeering: "Yasser, you threw Helen Hill to the back mountain—aren't you afraid she'll find out it was for Yulia Smith's sake?" His voice brimmed with drunken excitement, each word dripping with malice. Yasser's tone was casually mocking: "She can't live without me." "She only plays up to me." Those last words struck my eardrums like ice picks. My heart felt as if it had been cruelly pierced by an ice pick. It was as if my blood froze instantly, a chill coursing through every limb and bone. It wasn't an accident after all; he did it deliberately. I remembered the milk he handed me just before sleep, and his gentle words, "Get some rest, we have a meeting tomorrow." Those images now shattered into venomous shards, stabbing me until I could barely breathe. The moment I pushed open the door, the laughter abruptly stopped. The air seemed to freeze; every gaze turned sharply toward me in unison. Yulia Smith sat on Yasser Gabriel's lap, her fingertips tracing his Adam's apple as she smiled coquettishly: "Yasser, thank you for loving me..." She wore my silk nightgown, and the calves revealed beneath the hem still carried the scent of the body lotion I had just bought. Yasser suddenly stood up. His knee struck the edge of the coffee table with a dull thud. Yulia lost her balance and fell onto the carpet, red wine spilling all over her, the wet hem clinging damply to her skin. The wine trickled down from her neckline, leaving dark red streaks across her pale neck. He looked at me, his brows furrowed into a tight knot: "How did you look like this?" His eyes held nothing but contempt, not a trace of concern. I tugged at the corner of my mouth, the metallic taste of blood spreading in my throat: "It's all because of you, right?" My chapped lips cracked slightly, tasting the salty bitterness. His gaze flickered briefly before he turned his face away: "Who knows why you've been messing around?" His fingers anxiously scratched at his hair, the gelled style becoming somewhat disheveled. Yulia Smith covered her mouth, laughing with a voice as sharp as nails scraping glass: "Helen, what happened to you?" "Your skin is as rough as sandpaper; Paul Bell would be disgusted if he saw it." She deliberately pushed out her chest, the neckline of her nightgown slipping lower to reveal her delicate collarbones. Paul Bell and the others laughed along: "Helen Hill, if you keep that scar, Yasser could not love you any more." "Exactly, Yulia Smith has smooth, tender skin—nothing like you, who look like a rugged woman." "Yasser, you really need to keep a close eye on Helen." Obscene words surged like a tide, yet I remained eerily calm. I stared at Yasser, my nails digging into my palm: "Don't you have anything to explain?" The skin on my palm broke, blood beads oozed out, but I felt no pain. He suddenly exploded in rage, kicking over the coffee table: "Helen, that's enough!" The glass shattered on the floor, the sound piercingly sharp. "Why you making things difficult for Yulia Smith at the meeting? Someone had to stand up for her." "Now you apologize to her, and this matter will be over." His chest heaved violently, veins bulging on his forehead. I laughed until tears streamed down. Tears traced down my cheeks, carrying away a trace of warmth, leaving behind a chilling coldness. Married for three years, it was the first time I realized that she steals my husband,and I'm supposed to apologize. "Yasser Gabriel," my voice trembled, "she was sitting on your lap, and you want me to apologize?" Each word felt like it was squeezed out from between my teeth, tinged with the metallic taste of blood. Smack! The slap landed on my face, burning with fiery pain. My cheek went numb instantly, followed by a burning, searing pain. Yasser Gabriel pointed at my nose and scolded, "Yulia Smith is innocent; don't use filthy thoughts to judge her!" "Kneel down and kowtow to her." His spit splattered on my face, and the cruelty in his eyes was alien to me.