He Spent Three Years Hating the Woman He Loved Chapter 03

He Spent Three Years Hating the Woman He Loved Chapter 03

I clicked into Chloe’s burner account, titled [TraceofWind.]

Her profile had only two posts. The first was from seven years ago:

[Elena just told me she likes Senior Julian.]

[I didn’t say anything.]

[But…]

[Didn’t I meet him first?]

[I was just testing him, waiting to see if he’d confess to me again!]

The second post was from three years ago, posted on the exact same day Julian wrote “The one I love has always been you.”

She had replied:

[Julian.]

[Don’t do this.]

[Elena is my best friend.]

[It’s impossible between us.]

Beneath it, Julian’s burner account had responded:

[The only reason I’m staying with her…]

[Is to punish you.]

[Do you regret it now?]

Chloe replied:

[I do regret it.]

[But Elena is my best friend.]

[I can’t betray her.]

I stared at those exchanges.

I felt as though I had been plunged naked into a frozen lake.

Seven years. They had known each other for seven years. They had been mutually pining for seven years.

And I? I was nothing but a pawn from the very start. A tool for Julian to exact vengeance on Chloe, and a prop for Chloe to validate her own “righteous loyalty.”

With trembling fingers, I scrolled further.

The last update on that account was from three months ago. Chloe had replied to a tweet that Julian had since deleted.

She wrote:

[Julian, how many times do I have to tell you?]

[Elena is my best friend.]

[Stop harassing me.]

[I’m going to marry my boyfriend.]

[You should treat Elena well, too.]

My hands shook violently.

Boyfriend? Three months ago, Chloe didn’t have a boyfriend. She only introduced Nolan to me last week.

I opened Chloe’s main Instagram account and scrolled back three months. Her posts back then were entirely about being single:

[Eating barbecue alone is therapeutic.]

[Rejected by another blind date today, ugh.]

It was all an act.

When did she and Nolan actually start dating? Or rather… was Nolan even her boyfriend at all?

I recalled the dinner from last week. Nolan barely spoke a word. He just mechanically fed her, poured water, and wiped her mouth like a well-programmed robot. Like an actor. An actor hired to play a part.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I searched Nolan’s name online, targeting the tech firm Chloe claimed he worked for.

No such employee existed.

I checked his phone number—it was connected to a newly minted messaging account registered exactly one month ago.

I felt entirely numb. Chloe had hired a fake boyfriend.

Why put on such an elaborate performance in front of me?

Her first public display of affection was last week, right before she insisted on bringing him to dinner with us.

She did it to provoke Julian. She wanted to drive him to total madness, forcing him to break up with me.

Chloe was using a staged romance to force Julian out of the closet. She wanted him, but she refused to bear the social stigma of being a “homewrecker who stole her best friend’s man.”

So she orchestrated this farce, waiting for Julian to crack and break my heart first. That way, she could “reluctantly” accept his affection later, keeping her reputation flawless. And I would probably still thank her for being so considerate of my feelings.

I started laughing, tears streaming down my face.

Ten years of friendship, and she had been calculating against me for seven. This final play was the most lethal.

I stared at her Instagram feed, my eyes locking onto that cozy photo of her and Nolan. My own like was still sitting right beneath it.

Back then, I had been genuinely, blissfully happy for her.

I remembered gushing to Julian, cheerfully telling him, “Chloe finally met someone.” I had even scolded him, telling him not to overthink things.

I wiped my face and took a deep, steadying breath.

“Chloe, I’m done playing my part in your script,” I whispered.

I stood up, pulled a massive suitcase from the closet, and began packing. My clothes, my skincare, my laptop, my savings ledger from the past three years—everything.

In the bottom drawer, I found a small red velvet box. I opened it. It was the “ring” Julian gave me last Valentine’s Day.

I had thought it was a promise ring, and my hands had shaken with joy back then. But inside was just a cheap silver band without a single stone. He had smiled and said, “Let’s not buy into commercial traps. I’ll upgrade it when we have real money.”

I had been deeply moved, believing he was a practical man looking toward our future.

I tossed the ring straight into the trash can. It made a sharp, clinking sound as it hit the plastic liner—the sound of the last string of my patience snapping permanently.

Midway through packing, the front door clicked. Julian was back, holding a bag of takeout.

Seeing me kneeling on the floor surrounded by luggage, he froze.

“Elena, What on earth are you doing?”