150 Pills for a Promise

The rain three years ago felt colder than it does today. The wind whipped raindrops against my face, and I instinctively hunched my neck. Clutching my mother's terminal liver cancer diagnosis, I stood beneath the Gray Group building, my fingertips going white. I knew I was gambling—betting that my face, seven parts like Ginny Perry's, could earn some money to save my mother. Before I came, I checked; Cymbal Gray is the Gray Group's top figure and Ginny Perry's public boyfriend. He was the only one who could come up with the massive medical expenses in such a short time. When Cymbal's car pulled up right in front of me, I could even catch the sharp scent of cedar on him. The black window rolled down slowly, his profile sharp and cast against the gloomy sky. He shot me a glance, "One point five million." He sat in the backseat, his voice ice-cold, "Take contraceptive pills 150 times, then I'll marry you." I froze for a moment, not expecting him to be so blunt with his conditions. "Why 150 times?" I couldn't stop myself from asking. "Don't ask too much." He looked up, impatience bleeding into his tone, "Either you agree, or get lost." I didn't hesitate; the moment I nodded, raindrops stung my face sharply. "I agree." My voice trembled in the rain, but it was unshakably firm. He didn't say another word, just had the driver toss me a card and a draft of the agreement. Back then, I thought this was salvation in the depths of despair. I grabbed the card and ran toward the hospital, rain mixing with tears streaming down my face. I thought that if I could just get through those 150 times, I'd not only save my mother but also have a "home" of my own. Until three days ago, when news of Ginny's return to the country went viral. The entertainment headlines ran alongside her airport photos, titled "The young Mrs. Gray returns after graduating abroad." I stared at the screen for a long time, feeling a flicker of unease for the first time. Cymbal pushed open the villa door and dropped a suitcase at my feet. "Pack your things. You're moving out now." His eyes didn't flicker at all, as if the three years we spent together day and night were nothing but a meaningless dream. I looked at him, trying to find even a trace of hesitation on his face, but all I saw was cold indifference. I looked at him, my throat tightening: "Cymbal, our Agreement..." "Agreement's off," he cut me off, his voice full of disgust, "Ginny's back. You should leave." "But I've already taken the contraceptive pills nearly 150 times." I stepped forward, grabbing his sleeve. He yanked his arm away so hard I stumbled back two steps. "That was your choice." He looked down at me, towering over me. "Don't think playing the victim will make you stay." "You said before, once I took enough, you'd marry me." My voice started to shake. He sneered, "Julia, know your place—you're just a replacement." "Replacement" — this word hit me like a hammer striking my heart. I stood rooted to the spot, watching him turn and walk toward the living room, his back cold and resolute. The rain outside kept falling, colder than the storm three years ago.