Making Peace with the Past

My name is Mason Collins, and I am a designer. That afternoon, I cut my out-of-town project short and rushed home, wanting to surprise Stella Scott—tomorrow marks our third wedding anniversary. I slid the key into the lock and turned it, but the usual greeting was absent; instead, faint rustling drifted from the living room. My heart tightened as I gently pushed the door open, and a startling scene instantly met my eyes. Stella stood with her back to me, hurriedly unbuttoning her shirt, her long hair tangled over her shoulders, a flushed look still lingering on her face. By the sofa stood a man, dressed in my silk robe, slowly tying the belt. His profile looked somewhat familiar—it was Daniel Lewis, the deputy general manager of Stella Scott's company. Hearing the noise, they both turned their heads simultaneously. Stella's face drained of color in an instant, the shirt in her hand dropping to the floor, her voice trembling, "Mason Collins?" "Why are you back?" But Daniel remained calm, tugging at the corner of his mouth with a provocative smile. "Mr. Collins, you've arrived at quite a timely moment." The blood in my body froze instantly; my fingertips went icy cold, and my throat tightened, blocking any sound. No yelling, no questioning. I quietly turned around, gently closed the door behind me, and walked downstairs with heavy steps. Stepping out of the neighborhood gate, the evening breeze brushed my face; the biting cold was the only thing that pulled me back to reality. Hatred grew like a wild vine, spreading through my veins to every limb, tightly coiling around my heart, aching until I could barely breathe. I leaned against the wall and crouched down, my nails digging deep into my palms. "Stella Scott, Daniel Lewis." Clenching my teeth, I ground those names harshly in my mind, silently vowing: they must pay. Over the next six months, I felt like a completely different person. The man who once had eyes only for Stella Scott began spending his nights in bars and clubs, cycling through girlfriends. The first girl was named Lily—lively, cheerful, always clinging to me and telling stories about her past. When I held her, my mind was consumed by the image of Stella betraying me. "What are you thinking about?" Lily poked my chest, her voice laced with playful affection. I shook off the thought, forcing a half-hearted smile. "Nothing. Just thinking about where to take you for dinner tonight." But the emptiness inside me could never be filled. In less than two weeks, I broke up with Lily, citing personality differences. The second, the third... up to the tenth girlfriend left. She looked at me, exhausted: "Mason, you never really let go of the past. Being with you, I was just a stand-in." I said nothing, just watched her disappear around the corner. Yes, I never let go. Those attempts to replace someone were just lies—to fool myself, and to fool Stella—that I didn't care about her anymore. But each ending left only a deeper void and numbness. The night I sent away my tenth girlfriend, I sat in the car, watching the lights of our neighborhood, knowing the time had come. It was time for me to bring this rotten marriage to an end with my own hands. I pushed open the door to find Stella Scott curled up on the couch, scrolling through her phone, legs tucked in, her expression lazy, as if the betrayal had never happened. On the coffee table, there were unfinished snacks and a steaming cup of milk tea—her favorite flavor that I used to make for her every day. "Let's get a divorce." I stood at the doorway, my voice so calm that even I was surprised. Stella raised her eyes, glanced at me casually, and said with a careless tone, "Divorce?" Mason, have you made enough of a scene already? She didn't put down her phone, her fingers tapping rapidly on the screen, a faint, elusive smile lingering at the corner of her lips. I know her too well—that was the look she has when she's flirting and chatting with someone. Without a doubt, she was talking to Daniel. "I'm not making a scene. I'm serious." I stepped forward, my voice firmer, locking my gaze tightly on hers. Stella grew impatient under my stare and switched her phone to speaker. The next second, Daniel's gentle voice came through: "Stella, who made you upset?" "Was Mason causing trouble again?" "Who else could it be?" Stella pouted teasingly, deliberately glancing at me with a tone full of pride, "Come keep me company, he's bothering me here." Anger instantly clouded my mind, and all the resentment and hatred that had built up over six months exploded at once. I clenched my fists until my knuckles went white and yelled at her, "Stella, don't you have any shame?" Stella raised an eyebrow, put down her phone, stood up, and looked me straight in the eye, her voice dripping with mockery, "What does that have to do with me? Mason Collins, I didn't question your wild escapades these past six months, yet you come here looking to pick a fight?" I was about to respond when the doorbell suddenly rang. Stella instantly put on a smile and hurried to open the door, completely ignoring me, her husband. Outside was Daniel Lewis, dressed in a designer suit, holding an exquisite gift box. When he saw me, the challenge in his eyes was clear. He reached out, wrapped his arm around Stella's waist, pulling her close, and looked down at me condescendingly. "Mr. Collins, please don't bother Stella anymore. She's mine now." That sentence was the last straw, utterly breaking my sanity. I couldn't hold back anymore and landed a hard punch on Daniel Lewis's face.