His Success Dies With Me

I sat before the dressing table, my fingertips brushing the edges of the gilded gift box; the cold metal pressed against my skin, numbing the flesh slightly. Last month, when I was browsing this skincare product at the counter, the salesperson said, "This is a limited edition from the anti-aging series." I smiled and shook my head. Joseph Charles stood behind me silently but quietly took note. He handed me the gift box: "Sherry, you can stay beautiful at 35—this suits you even better than when you tried it at the counter." Clutching the gift box, I kept saying, "This is too expensive," but he ruffled my hair and said, "You're worth every penny." Many people came to my 35th birthday party, all are colleagues who had started up with us from the garage. John raised his glass and walked over, patting Joseph on the shoulder: "Joseph, you and Sherry are the ones we're rooting for. This year, you two must get married!" Those around began to jeer, and Joseph tightened his arm around my waist, smiling as he interjected, "John, don't be impatient; I must wait for Sherry's nod—she is the boss." I laughed along, but felt hollow inside—he has been saying that for almost five years. Someone pushed the cake toward us. Joseph looked at me and said, "Sherry, make a wish." I closed my eyes, silently wishing, "May the Southern City Project go smoothly." When I opened them, he was already typing on his phone, a smile tugging at his lips. The banquet had just ended shortly after ten when Joseph's phone suddenly rang. He glanced at the screen; his tone immediately softened: "Celine? What is it?" The voice on the other end of the phone came through faintly, tinged with sobbing; he frowned and said, "Don't panic, I'm coming over immediately." I asked him, "Do you want me to come with you?" Without looking back, he grabbed his coat and said, "No need, just tidy up the living room. I'll handle Celine's side." I crouched on the floor picking up balloon fragments when my phone vibrated in my pocket and a notification from the City Forum popped up. I opened the post and suddenly paused when I saw the words "Southern City Project" — it was the project I had been following for half a year, and only Joseph and I knew the details. "You can't fill out a dress," he said. I thought back to last week—trying on that new beige dress, asking if it looked good. He never looked up from his files. "Looks fine," he said. Just a brush-off. He said, "A 22-year-old assistant is like a little sun." Suddenly, I recalled a few days ago in the office, when Celine Frank handed a coffee to Joseph; his eyes curved into crescents as he smiled. When he received it, his fingers brushed lightly against the back of her hand. I clicked on the profile of the thread's author; it was a photo—Joseph's office. On the desk sat a pot of succulents that Celine had brought last week. I remembered when I mortgaged my parents' house, the agent said, "This home represents a lifetime of their sweat and tears. Mortgaging it is an enormous gamble." At that moment, I confidently declared, "Joseph is someone I trust; we will succeed." I remember the third month of staying up late to finish the proposal. I cooked instant noodles, and Joseph snatched the egg from my bowl: "Sherry, you have the ham; the egg is mine. I've got strong shoulders to carry things." Now he has become the CEO of the Charles Group, while I have turned into the washed-up old hag. The sweet scent of cake still lingered in the living room. I picked up a piece and put it in my mouth, only to find it bitter and astringent. The streetlight outside streamed in, illuminating the gift box. The gilded light dazzled my eyes, and my entire body felt encased in ice, cold to the bone.