Part 2My Friends Always Said I Treated Him Too Well

My friends always lectured me: "You treat Carter way too well. You can't be like that with men, or they'll push their limits and take you for granted."

At first, I brushed it off.

I always believed that when two people are together, there's no need to keep score of who gives more and who gives less.

As long as the relationship was stable and conflicts were resolved, what did it matter who apologized first?

Until a month ago.

I had gone to a spa with my coworkers after a long shift.

Before going, I texted Carter. He didn't reply.

Half an hour later, he kicked open the door to our private massage room.

His face was like thunder.

He waved his hand aggressively, pointing at the three massage therapists.

"Get out! All of you!"

Then he glared at me. "Are you leaving or what?"

The awkwardness. The sheer humiliation.

I wished the floor would swallow me whole.

My coworkers were baffled. "Your boyfriend? Why would he disrespect you like that?"

Yeah. I didn't understand it either.

"I never embarrass you in public, why would you do something like that to me?" I asked him later.

He just sneered. "You care about your dignity? Hiring a male masseuse—you're really getting wild these days, Harper!"

"I already explained it to you. All the female therapists were booked, so we took whoever was available."

"Oh, so they just happened to run out right when it was your turn?"

"Yes! They just happened to run out!"

"Do I look like an idiot?"

My friends tried to comfort me: "He just cares about you. You know how men are—possessive!"

But I knew that wasn't it.

Over the last six months, the way Carter looked at me had become increasingly critical.

A simple sentence or an innocent gesture could trigger his temper.

He was lashing out at me more and more frequently.

And time after time, I was the one forced to swallow my pride and beg for peace.

I was exhausted. Drained.

So this time, when we fought, I packed a bag, left the house we had bought for our upcoming wedding, and moved back into my own apartment.

What caused the fight this time?

Catching a cheater.

The wife of Carter's childhood best friend came to me, devastated, saying her husband was out partying at a club every night. She asked me to go with her to confront him.

Her mental state was terrible, and I was worried about her, so I went.

Her husband was there.

My fiancé was there, too.

The man who, half an hour earlier, had texted me saying he was working late at the office, was sitting in a VIP booth, accepting a shot of tequila from a woman.

I didn't lose my temper.

Before I even had the chance to get mad, he exploded.

He was absolutely furious.

"What the hell are you doing? Harper, do you physically ache if you don't cause drama for one single day? If you want to act crazy, do it by yourself—why are you dragging other people into it?! Do you have any idea how much of a psycho you look like, running around acting paranoid every day?!"

Under the dim, amber lights of the club, I stared at him for a long time.

I didn't say a single word. I turned around and walked away.

Even then, I was still trying to protect his pride. I didn't want to scream and shout in public, right in front of his friends.

But I had finally had enough of his baseless rage.

It had been a week since I moved out.

We had been in a cold war for a solid seven days.

He hadn't sent me a single text or made a single phone call.

Until today, when he suddenly showed up at my door.

Holding a bouquet of flowers, he said, "Stop being mad. It was my fault!"

He bought a bunch of groceries to make my favorite dishes, claiming he was cooking tonight.

Carter was a great cook.

But aside from holidays and big dinners with friends, he rarely ever cooked.

Watching his back as he stood at the counter deveining shrimp, my heart—which had been a chaotic mess for a week—finally settled.

It was really that simple for me.

As long as he bowed his head just once, everything in the past could be wiped clean.

We had been together for almost ten years; what was there that we couldn't overcome?

But now, you're telling me you didn't come here on your own. You came because someone else told you to.

Be a good boy?

Since when did Carter Hayes ever listen to anyone?