I Quit My Job Twenty-One Times And He Packed Her Shirt Chapter 04

I Quit My Job Twenty-One Times And He Packed Her Shirt Chapter 04

I shut her down coldly. “He’s not my father. If you want to be a dutiful daughter, don’t drag me into it.”

Glancing sharply at Julian, I added with heavy sarcasm, “Besides, you’ve already got Julian wrapped around your finger for everything else anyway.”

“I’m going to bed. Keep it down.”

I turned on my heel, walked into the bedroom, and clicked the lock shut.

The apartment rustled with quiet noises for a long time. My phone vibrated continuously on the nightstand.

This was the first time I had ever given Julian the silent treatment. I drifted into a heavy sleep, and when I finally woke up, Julian was standing in the living room.

I pushed the door open to find his face completely rigid with anger.

Ignoring him entirely, I walked over to the fridge and pulled out a package of cheese tortellini.

“Rachel, you’re being incredibly petty,” he snapped.

“An old man is sick and just wanted a bowl of your soup, but you couldn’t care less. Are you seriously that exhausted?”

His interrogation ignited every spark of rage I’d been burying.

“Yes, Julian. I am exactly that exhausted.”

“Today is my birthday,” I said, my voice shaking with fury. “Is it really too much to ask that I get one moment of peace?”

Julian froze, his expression blanking out.

Clearly, even though I had given him a blatant hint just days ago, he still hadn’t remembered.

I let out a bitter laugh and ripped open the tortellini packaging. As I did, my eyes fell on a receipt on the counter. It was a delivery order from a gourmet bakery.

Noticing where I was looking, Julian cleared his throat. “Chloe said sweets make her feel better when she’s stressed. I ordered them for her.”

“I thought you said stuff like that was pure junk?”

“When did I ever say that?”

“The night my dad was hospitalized, and you threw away the cake I bought.”

Back then, I hadn’t slept for days out of pure emotional exhaustion. I had ordered a tiny slice of cake for comfort, but just like my spicy takeout, he had tossed it straight into the trash.

Julian scowled and pulled out his phone. “If you want cake so bad right now, I’ll order you one.”

“Don’t bother.”

“I’ll get you a birthday gift later this week.”

“No need.”

His face darkened, his jaw clenching tightly. “Then what the hell do you actually want from me?”

“Nothing.”

I dropped the tortellini into the boiling water. Julian glared at me for a final beat, then slammed the front door behind him.

At four in the morning, I opened Instagram and saw Chloe’s latest post.

[It’s so reassuring to have someone by my side when everything is falling apart], her caption read.

The second slide was a photo. Beneath an elderly man’s frail hand, Julian and Chloe’s fingers were tightly intertwined. Her caption read: [Dad said we look perfect together. It’s just a shame I came into his life so late.]

I scrolled down and saw Julian’s comment right at the top: [Not too late. Just in time.]

I stared at his words for a long, quiet minute, then dialed his number.

“What’s wrong?” he picked up, his voice groggy.

“I saw the post.”

He gave a dismissive grunt, clearly not thinking anything of it. But my mind was flooded with memories.

“Julian, the day my father passed away, you were out exploring a tourist spot with Chloe. Do you remember that?”

“My phone died that day, Rachel.”

“I know. That’s what you told me.”

My thoughts crystallized. He had been completely absent for every single moment I had ever needed him. Looking at that photo, my gut reaction wasn’t just pain—it was an overwhelming sense of relief.

I finally didn’t have to make excuses for his busy schedule anymore.

“Before my dad passed, he was still calling out your name,” I said softly.

“He told me he was heartbroken that he never got to meet you properly, that he couldn’t vet the man I was going to marry.”

“Julian, how long have we been together?”

The line went dead silent for a moment. “Seven years?” he guessed, his voice uncertain.

Yet I knew for a fact that his phone tracked the exact number of days down to the second since he met Chloe.

“It’s been six years and three hundred days,” I corrected him.

“That’s basically seven years. What’s the difference?”

“There won’t be a seventh year.” I sat up straight in bed. “Julian, we’re done.”

By then, I had already packed my life into two bags and arrived at the airport terminal.

“Last week, I accepted a four-year corporate relocation assignment from my company. I’m done waiting for you.”