The Replaced Lover
I sat by the window, staring at Shirley Scott across from me, my fingertips absentmindedly tracing the rim of my glass.
We've been together for four years.
From when she started the business with a 100,000 startup fund to now, with the company's annual revenue surpassing 10 million, I've always been her vice president.
Honestly, half of the clients we have today came because of me, and half of the company's rules and policies were written by me through countless sleepless nights.
Today, Shirley Scott wore an off-white dress, with that delicate pendant necklace around her neck. She always said it was her mother's heirloom and never let me touch it.
Back then, I felt sorry for her.
That pendant was her cherished keepsake. Every time she touched it, I'd gently pat her back to comfort her.
But I never expected that today, someone would expose the lie I've believed for four years, right in front of everyone.
When the door swung open, the chatter in the banquet hall hushed slightly.
A man in a camel trench coat walked in, tall and poised, a casually playful smile flickering in his eyes.
I recognized him immediately—Simon Jones, the man she'd hidden in the farthest corner of her photo album.
When Shirley Scott saw him, the chopsticks in her hand clattered loudly onto the bone plate.
Her eyes lit up instantly, with a brightness I hadn't seen in four years.
Simon Jones didn't glance at anyone around him; he strode straight over to our table, his steps as light as if he were walking on clouds.
He stood beside Shirley and casually took her hand, as if none of us sitting at the table mattered.
"Shirley," his voice was soft but clear enough for the people at the next table to hear, "I've missed you so much all these years."
Shirley's cheeks flushed instantly; she tried to pull her hand back, but Simon held on tighter.
All eyes suddenly fixed on me—some curious, some sympathetic, but most just there for the spectacle.
I raised the glass of liquor in front of me and took a sip of liquor. The sharp liquid slid down my throat, but it couldn't suppress the cold that crept up from deep inside me.
Simon Jones was still talking to Shirley Scott, sharing how he'd spent the past few years abroad, how much he missed life back home—especially her tomato and scrambled eggs.
Shirley kept her head down, a smile playing at the corners of her lips, occasionally nodding in response, completely forgetting I was still sitting right across from her.
Suddenly, Simon's gaze fell on Shirley's neck. His eyes brightened, and his voice rose several tones.
"Shirley, you're still wearing the necklace I gave you!"
That sentence hit my ears like a thunderclap.
The wine glass in my hand wobbled, spilling a little onto my pants, but I didn't bother wiping it off.
Shirley's expression changed instantly; she instinctively tried to hide the pendant inside her collar, but Simon Jones stopped her.
"You told me before," Simon Jones said, looking at her with unwavering certainty and just a hint of pride, "Unless you forget everything about me, you'll never take off this necklace in your life."
The whispers around me grew louder; I could hear people talking quietly.
"So that necklace wasn't her mother's heirloom after all?"
"Vice President Lincoln has had it rough, being deceived for so long."
"No wonder Ms. Scott treats Simon Jones so differently—it turns out the first love has come back."
Those words stabbed at my heart like needles. I looked up and stared at Shirley Scott.
She didn't dare meet my eyes, burying her head even lower, her fingers tightly gripping the hem of her skirt.
In that moment, I suddenly found the whole thing ridiculous.
For four years, I gave up a stable job back home and the chance to study abroad—all for her.
To land a major client, I drank myself to the point of a stomach bleed at a banquet. When I was hospitalized, she only visited once, saying she was busy with the Company.
To help her raise funds for expansion, I invested the down payment my parents had saved for my apartment into the Company. Even now, I still live in the old house with my parents.
I thought I was the person she trusted most, a part of her future.
But in truth, I was just someone she was using temporarily until her first love came back.
Simon Jones seemed to be savoring the spotlight. He took Shirley's hand and added softly.
"Shirley, do you remember? You once said that if you ever started a company, you'd make me Vice President."
The moment he said that, the entire banquet hall fell silent for a few seconds.
Everyone knew that I was the company's Vice President.
Shirley's body tensed. She finally looked up at me, her eyes flickering with a hint of panic.
I said nothing, just watched her quietly, wanting to see how she would respond.
Simon Jones scratched the palm of Shirley's hand with his fingertip, his voice tinged with playful coaxing: "Shirley, you'll say yes to me, won't you?"
Shirley bit her lower lip and glanced at me. Seeing that I didn't react, she seemed to breathe a sigh of relief.
She turned and held Simon Jones's hand, her voice laced with a coaxing tone: "I get it, Simon."
Then, looking at Simon with serious eyes, she said, "Rest assured, the company's vice president position is definitely yours."
The moment she said that, the hushed whispers around us turned into clear, loud discussions.
Manager Ben, sitting next to me, tapped my arm and whispered, "Mr. Lincoln, this... this is just too much, isn't it?"
I smiled faintly at Manager Ben, shook my head slightly, then turned to look at Shirley.
"Ms. Scott," my voice stayed calm, but it slowly quieted the whispers in the banquet hall, "Is this your way of planning to replace me?"
Shirley's expression instantly darkened; she clearly hadn't expected me to be so direct.
She opened her mouth to speak, but Simon Jones beat her to it.
Simon looked at me with a trace of contempt in his eyes: "Shirley, you're terrible at being a boss."
"Your subordinate dares to openly oppose you? That's incredibly disrespectful."
I stared at Simon, sneering inwardly. He didn't even understand the basic facts about the company, yet here he was, acting like an expert.
When Shirley Scott heard Simon Jones' words, it was as if she had found a way out. She turned her head and looked at me coldly.
"Yale Lincoln, Simon Jones is right—you're way too disrespectful!"
"Besides, this company is mine. Whoever I appoint as Vice President will be the Vice President!"
Her voice grew louder, as if to bolster her own courage: "Simon Jones is outstanding; he's handled projects abroad. He's more than qualified to be Vice President!"
"Tomorrow, you report to the Sales Department. From now on, Simon Jones is the Vice President!"
I was momentarily stunned—not because I was surprised, but because of how naturally she took it for granted.
All that I've done for the Company over these four years, it seems there isn't a single word of defense in her eyes.
Suddenly, I felt exhausted—a deep, soul-draining fatigue that left me without even the strength to be angry.
I smiled faintly and looked at Shirley Scott: "If that's the case, Ms. Scott, I resign."
The moment I finished speaking, the entire Banquet Hall fell silent.
Shirley Scott was stunned too; she probably didn't expect me to be so decisive.
All these years, no matter what she asked—whether it was staying up late to revise plans or taking the blame for her—I never once said "no."
She probably thought that this time, like before, I would swallow my pride and accept her orders.
I stood up, straightened my suit jacket, and looked at Shirley Scott. "Ms. Scott, I'll submit my resignation to you tomorrow."
After saying that, I didn't look at her or Simon Jones, nor did I care about the stares around me. I just turned and walked away.
My high heels clicked sharply on the hotel's polished marble floor, each step feeling like I was stepping on the memories of the past four years.
At the door of the Banquet Hall, I heard Shirley Scott's voice behind me. She seemed to want to catch up, but Simon Jones stopped her.
Simon Jones' voice carried a trace of dismissiveness: "Shirley, he's just throwing a tantrum, trying to make you back down."
"Mark my words, within three days, he'll definitely come back and follow your lead again."
Without stopping, I pushed open the hotel door and stepped outside.
The chilly wind hit my face, clearing my head significantly.
I took out my phone, and just as I unlocked it, a message popped up in the company group chat.
It was from Simon Jones, accompanied by a photo.
In the photo, he had his arm around Shirley Scott's shoulders, and Shirley was leaning into him, her cheeks flushed, her eyes shy and coquettish, showing no hint of resistance.
The background of the photo is a corner of the hotel banquet hall, clearly taken after I left.
I stared at Shirley Scott's face in the photo, and the last shred of hope in my heart completely broke.
The woman I loved and poured four years into had ceased to belong to me the moment Simon Jones showed up.
I smiled faintly, slipped my phone back into my pocket, and walked toward the parking lot.
My car was just an ordinary one, bought four years ago.
Over the years, the company made money, Shirley Scott bought a better car, but I never had my car upgraded.
Back then, she said that once the company went public, she'd get me a Mercedes—and foolish as I was, I actually believed her.
I opened the car door and slid into the driver's seat, but didn't start the car right away. Instead, I leaned back and closed my eyes.
Four years felt like a never-ending movie, flashing through my mind.
From the first time I saw her at the startup salon—her eyes sparkling as she spoke about making something of herself—to us eating instant noodles in a cramped apartment while reworking plans, and then the company gradually finding its footing...
Those memories I once held so dear now feel almost like a joke when I think back on them.
I started the car and headed home.
The house we live in is rented—two bedrooms and one living room. The decor is simple, but it was arranged bit by bit by me.
On the living room bookshelf sit souvenirs we bought on trips together, and on the bedroom wall, our group photo still hangs.
I used to say that once we saved enough money, we'd buy a home of our own and bring my parents to live with us.
Looking back now, it seems I was probably the only one who took those plans seriously.
When I got home and opened the door, the house was silent, no lights on—only a faint glow from the streetlamp outside filtering through the curtains.
I didn't turn on the light; instead, I walked straight to the bedroom, opened the wardrobe, and took out a suitcase.
I started packing—my clothes, shoes, skincare products, and my laptop—placing them into the suitcase one by one.
I also pulled out the books on the bookshelf that belonged to me, placing them into the suitcase one by one.
As for the souvenirs related to Shirley Scott and the group photos on the wall, I didn't touch them.
Those things could stay with her—for me, they were the last trace of our four-year relationship.
By the time I finished packing, it was almost midnight.
I put the suitcase by the door, then sat on the sofa, turned on the TV, but couldn't really focus on it.
I'm waiting for Shirley Scott to come back—not to argue, but to say a proper goodbye.
After all, four years together deserve at least a decent ending, even if it's over.
But I waited all night, until the sky outside began to lighten, and Shirley still hadn't come back.
I stood up, walked to the window, pulled back the curtain, and stared at the slowly brightening street.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I took it out and saw a notification from my social feed.
Shirley had posted two photos.
The first was breakfast—a cup of coffee, a sandwich, and a fruit salad, all neatly arranged.
The second photo showed her holding hands with Simon Jones, their hands resting on the tablecloth of a dining table; the background was the window of a Western restaurant, sunlight streaming in perfectly.
The caption read: "Long time no see, still the familiar feeling."
I looked at this post on my Moments, feeling calm inside—not angry, not sad, just a bit bitterly ironic.
I tapped like, then exited Moments, opened my mailbox, and started drafting a resignation email.
The email was simple: "Hello Ms. Scott, due to personal reasons, I hereby submit my resignation. I will arrange the work handover as soon as possible. Yale Lincoln."
After finishing writing, I double-checked everything and clicked send.
When the success notification popped up, it felt like a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders.
A few minutes later, I received a reply in my mailbox.
It was from Shirley Scott, with just a word: "Approved."
No words of hesitation, no explanation.
I stared at it, smiled faintly, and closed the mailbox.
I grabbed the suitcase by the door and glanced one last time at the house I'd lived in for four years.
So many memories here—joyful and painful—and now it was time for it all to end.
I closed the door gently and walked away.
The hallway was silent as I carried my suitcase and walked down the stairs, step by step.
I didn't go home—I headed straight to the airport.
I wanted to escape this city, to go somewhere no one knew me and take a proper break.
At the airport, I bought the soonest flight on the self-service kiosk, heading to my hometown, a small southern city.
My hometown is a place of clear mountains and fresh water, with clean air and a slow pace. My parents still live there.
I used to say that once I'd established myself in the big city, I'd bring them here. Now, it seems I was just wishful thinking.
Ticket in hand, I sat in the airport lounge, watching people come and go.
Some rushed by, others smiled; everyone had their own destination, their own life.
And I was finally about to return to the life that was mine.
Just as I was about to close my eyes and rest, my phone rang.
The caller ID read "Shirley Scott."
I hesitated for a moment, then answered.
On the other end, Shirley's voice was urgent: "Yale Lincoln, where have you been?"
"It's already nine o'clock—why aren't you at work yet?"
I paused for a moment, then smiled. "Ms. Scott, what do you mean?"
"Did you forget that I already told you yesterday I resigned, and you approved it?"
"I'm no longer with the company."
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