My Boyfriend Traded Me to a Stranger

I was scrolling through a local online forum tonight when a post caught my eye. [Giving away my girlfriend of seven years. Free. Slightly used.] [5'5", 103 lbs, D-cup. Total pushover, obeys your every command.] [DM me for her Snapchat.] The comment section was already a thousand layers deep. — "Bro, at least post a picture." — "They all look the same when the lights are off anyway. As long as she has a hot body, I'm down. OP, check your DMs!" — "If she's that good, why aren't you keeping her?" The original poster replied: — "Too clingy. Annoying." My brow furrowed tighter and tighter as I read on. Just as I was about to close the app, a notification popped up on my phone. A stranger was adding me on Snapchat. The request message read: *Hey, you’ve just been traded to me.* 1 Almost instantly, my mind went blank. It was Julian. He had put me up on the internet, giving me away like a piece of used furniture. How ridiculous. Just a second ago, I was actually feeling sorry for the poster's girlfriend, thinking about how heartbroken she would be. Now, with an eerie wave of calmness, I clicked into Julian’s profile. In March, his account posted its very first entry: [Nobody in this world understands me.] In April, he lamented: [My art is trash, just like my life. There is no hope left.] In May, I stared at a photo of a girl's back, my heart sinking. [She finally appeared.] [Daisy understands me, and she understands my art.] [We are soulmates. Twin flames.] [We are two halves of the same soul, meeting far too late.] [The white daisies are in full bloom.] It wasn’t until June that he finally mentioned me. [Accidentally saw a split end in C's hair today. Disgusting. It felt like a smudge on a clean canvas, a misplaced brush, a torn piece of sketch paper.] "C"—the first letter of my name, Chloe. [Basic. Vulgarian.] By July, they seemed to be deeply in love. [I wish I had met you first.] [I’ve painted you, my beautiful Daisy.] I felt like a pathetic clown scrolling through their love story. And then came August. [Giving away my girlfriend of seven years. Free. Slightly used.] *Click.* The bedroom door pushed open. Julian walked in and pulled his favorite white suit out of the closet. I had ironed it right after coming home from my exhausting corporate job. There wasn't a single wrinkle on it. His eyes narrowed slightly in satisfaction. Before leaving, he said coldly, "Go to sleep. Don't wait up for me." He didn't even look at me. He hadn't touched me in two months. The last time we tried to be intimate, he suddenly stopped and pulled away, his face pale with disgust. At the time, I had asked him gently, "Are you feeling sick again?" He had barely nodded, keeping his eyes away from me. Now I knew. He had seen that split end in my hair. It was 11:30 PM, and he was putting on a formal suit to go out. I lay in bed, reading those thirteen posts over and over again. At 1:00 AM, I got out of bed and forcefully broke open the door to his art studio. We shared a 1,200-square-foot apartment. I had given him 600 square feet of it to use as his studio. Yet, I didn’t even have the key to enter it. I flipped on the harsh overhead light. The room was immaculate, dust-free. His paintings were neatly arranged. My eyes swept over them, finally landing on the only framed piece in the corner. Julian had used an expensive, custom wooden frame to show how much he treasured it. The girl in the painting was ethereal, lively, and incredibly beautiful. How long does it take to paint an oil portrait so detailed you can see the pores on her skin? I didn't know. But the portrait he had painted of me years ago was a rushed, messy sketch that took him barely two hours. Yet back then, I was so thrilled. I had danced around that silly sketch for days, completely ignoring the cold, mocking look in his eyes. And that sketch, which I had cherished like a priceless treasure, wasn't even worth a fraction of the painting in front of me. I closed my eyes in pain. I still remembered the first time I met Julian. It was on the rooftop of a sixteen-story building. I had screamed at him, begging him not to jump. I coaxed and lied until I finally dragged him down. When I finally caught my breath, my legs were shaking so hard I couldn't stand. He had just stared at me, silent. He was so fragile back then. I naively thought I could save him. And just like that, I wasted ten years of my life. He wanted to be a pure artist. He painted one piece a month, but nobody ever bought them. So, I secretly bought every single one of them under an anonymous account for $1,000 each. I worked overtime, drank with clients until my stomach bled, and got hospitalized. Yet, on the day I was discharged, I still didn’t forget to buy him a bouquet of fresh roses. He never thanked me. He only posted online: [Basic.] Turns out, he preferred daisies. His beautiful Daisy. I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. I laughed at my own stupidity. I couldn't even see his blatant disgust. I laughed at my naivety. I was thirty years old, and I had absolutely nothing to show for it. Ten years of my youth were summarized by him as "a total pushover." My phone dinged. Julian: *Accept the Snapchat request when you wake up.* Ten minutes later, another text came through: *He’s the new boyfriend I found for you.* 2 My grip tightened around my phone. I snapped a photo of Daisy’s portrait and sent it to him. [Is this Daisy?] The usually indifferent Julian panicked instantly. Julian: *How did you get into my studio?!* Julian: *Chloe, do not touch my painting!* He rushed back home. His pristine white suit was slightly disheveled. The moment he saw the painting was untouched, he let out a massive sigh of relief. Then, his face darkened. "What the hell is wrong with you? Sneaking into my studio in the middle of the night. Are you insane?" My voice was ice cold. "You think I'm insane for entering a room in my own apartment?" "Were you sane when you listed your girlfriend online like a piece of trash?" "Were you sane when you let a random creep add your girlfriend on Snapchat?" A flash of surprise crossed his eyes. But he quickly recovered his cold demeanor. "Don't worry. I filtered them." "The guy who added you is the best among them. He’s 32, 5'10", in good shape, with a stable job. He's perfect for marriage." "After all, we've been together for seven years. I still put some effort into choosing him for you." It was a scorching August night, but a wave of absolute coldness washed over me. Ten years of knowing him. Seven years of loving him. The man standing in front of me was a block of ice that could never be melted. I took a deep breath. Suddenly, everything felt incredibly pointless. "Let's break up. And who I marry is none of your business." This moment came much more peacefully than I had ever imagined. I used to think that a breakup after seven years would be a screaming match, a heartbreaking tragedy. He looked slightly stunned. "Chloe, are you serious?" "Yes." His brow furrowed, and he said softly, "Okay... thank you." I nodded. "Pack your bags and move out tomorrow." My eyes swept over his expensive art supplies. "Take what you need. Whatever is left over, I’m throwing it into the dumpster downstairs." We were speaking so calmly, as if discussing what to have for breakfast tomorrow. He froze for a moment. I rubbed my temples, turned around, and walked toward the door. Suddenly, he grabbed my wrist. "Are you mad at me?" His eyebrows knit together. It was a look of slight panic. In the past, I would have reached out to smooth his brow and whisper sweet words to comfort him. But now, I just felt exhausted. "To be honest, Julian, posting something like that is incredibly disrespectful." "If you wanted to end things, you could have just told me directly. You didn't need to play mind games, you didn't need to give me the silent treatment, and you definitely didn't need to humiliate me like that. I wouldn't have begged you to stay." "Let's just leave it at that. I have work tomorrow. If you're packing tonight, keep it down." He let go of my wrist, his face twisting into a sneer. "You’re still so materialistic. All you care about is your job and money." "Daisy is different. She loves art, just like me." I let out a bitter laugh. "It's 3:00 AM, Julian. Do whatever you want, you 'pure, noble artist'." Whether he wanted to stay and say goodbye to his precious studio, or run straight to his soulmate—I didn’t care anymore. He seemed stung by my words. He nodded rapidly. "Fine. Fine." As I reached the door, he called out again. "Chloe!" I wanted to ignore him, but he yelled, "Why did you ruin my painting?!" I turned around. He was pointing at the wooden frame. There was a tiny, barely visible smudge on the corner of the frame. You would have to stand inches away to even notice it. But he, just like when he discovered the split end in my hair, found it absolutely intolerable. His face was twisted with rage. "You’re jealous of Daisy! So you decided to ruin the painting I worked on for an entire month?!" "No matter how elegant you pretend to be, you can't hide how trashy and basic your soul is!" His words were like sharp knives, aiming to peel my skin off. He called me dirty because I was a victim of an assault when I was eighteen. He called me materialistic because I drank myself to the hospital at thirty just to secure a client contract. Finally, he spat out, "You disgust me." Cold sweat broke out on my forehead. My fingers began to tremble. I walked back over and lightly ran my finger over the smudge on the frame. He demanded angrily, "What else do you want to do?" My lips curled into a cold smile. I reached for a cup of black acrylic paint sitting on the desk and splashed it directly onto the canvas. Daisy's pure, delicate smile vanished instantly. The entire painting became a muddy, chaotic mess. Julian froze, staring in absolute disbelief. Looking at the man whose eyes were now burning with fury, I said word by word, "Get the hell out of my apartment. Now." "Fine! Don't you dare regret this!" "Don't come crying and begging me to come back!" He slammed the door behind him. The deafening bang made my heart shudder slightly. I didn't care about the mess on the floor. I dragged my exhausted body back to my bedroom. But the moment I closed my eyes, that forum post flashed in my mind again. Someone in the comments had asked: *What do you mean by "slightly used"?* Julian had replied: *She's not clean.* Those four words, which I had tried so hard to scroll past and ignore, were now screaming in my head. Julian thought I was dirty. I had always known that. After our very first intimate night years ago, he had locked himself in the bathroom and thrown up all night. I had curled up in bed, pretending to be fast asleep. Maybe he had started hating our relationship back then. Or maybe even earlier. My chest ached with a dull, throbbing pain. I swallowed a sleeping pill, praying for a dreamless sleep. 3 A new intern named Daisy joined our company. She spent her first morning handing out snacks and recommending trendy movies. Within a few hours, she was everyone's favorite. My coworker whispered in my ear, "Ah, to be young. She's so cute and bubbly." I said nothing, pulling my gaze back to my laptop to prepare for the dinner meeting tonight. I never expected my manager to assign the new intern to shadow me. Before we left, Daisy asked me to wait. A few minutes later, she walked out wearing a tight, white sundress. "I am so sorry, Chloe! I accidentally spilled coffee on my shirt, but thankfully I had this dress in my bag." She stuck her tongue out, giving me an innocent smile. At the dinner table, she kept pouring drinks for the client, praising him for being so young and successful. She knew absolutely nothing about our project, and she didn't mention it once. The client, who was an old friend of mine, shot me a puzzled look. I kept my head down, quietly eating. Actually, it was fine. Having someone else drink all the alcohol for me at these networking events wasn't a bad thing. But I wondered... would Julian consider his precious Daisy "materialistic" for doing this? She drank way too much. By the time we were waiting for an Uber outside the restaurant, she was swaying, leaning her entire weight on me. "Chloe, don't worry. My boyfriend is coming to pick me up." "He's a genius painter. He can sell a single painting for a thousand dollars!" "He sells... like, ten paintings a month. I won't even have to work soon." She counted on her fingers, giggling foolishly. Then, she leaned close to my ear and whispered, "Actually, he had a girlfriend of seven years. Well, ex-girlfriend now." "I heard she was a total pushover. So I suggested he list her online as 'used' for fun. Hilarious, right?" "The post went viral. I’ll Snapchat you the link later." Seeing my lack of expression, her lips curved into a sly grin. "Chloe, I know it's you." "You had a pretty long night, didn't you? Look at those dark circles." "Once a woman hits thirty, she ages so fast..." She kept leaning closer. Annoyed, I took a step back. Without my support, the drunk Daisy lost her balance and tumbled onto the concrete sidewalk. "Daisy!" A voice gasped. It was Julian. He was wearing his signature white suit as he rushed over to help her up. When he looked up at me, his eyes were filled with pure rage. "Ruining my painting wasn't enough? Now you're physically attacking her?" "Chloe, I never realized you could be this pathetic and malicious." I didn't hesitate. I nodded. "Yes. Seeing the two of you makes me want to throw up. Get out of my sight, or I will make your lives miserable every single day." "You paint a few pictures and actually think you're some legendary artist? Talking about soulmates and twin flames... you're just a cheating scumbag and a home-wrecking bitch!" His face froze. "What did you say?!" I laughed. "I'm not repeating myself. Figure it out." He wanted to argue, but Daisy tugged at his sleeve. Her eyes were red, and she looked incredibly pitiful. "Julian, my head hurts. I drank too much tonight." "This is my first time drinking. But what choice do I have? I'm just an intern... and I had to deal with your ex-girlfriend." Julian gently kissed her forehead, his face turning incredibly dark when he looked back at me. "Chloe, apologize to Daisy." I felt like I was listening to the funniest joke in the world. I turned to leave, but he grabbed my wrist with a force that felt like he was trying to shatter my bones. The pain made me gasp. He repeated, "Apologize to Daisy!" I remained silent, biting my lip until it bled. My face turned pale, and my body began to shake from the pain. Even if he broke my wrist, I would never apologize. I had done nothing wrong. Julian frowned, a flicker of hesitation crossing his eyes. Daisy noticed it. The anger on her face vanished in an instant, replaced by tears. She sobbed, "The painting is gone, and I drank all that alcohol for you. Chloe, what else do you want?" Tears streamed down her cheeks. She took a deep breath, as if making a grand sacrifice. "Just slap me!" "If it makes you feel better, and if you promise to treat me normally at work, I will gladly take a slap from you!" A surge of hot anger rushed to my head. I raised my other hand, but Julian caught it instantly. "Daisy, you're not the one who deserves to be slapped," Julian’s voice was cold as ice. "She is." Both of my hands were pinned down. I watched as Daisy’s lips curved into a triumphant smirk. She raised her hand. *Slap!* A stinging pain radiated from my cheek straight to my heart. In that fraction of a second, countless memories flashed through my mind. For the first time in ten years, I asked myself: *Why did I save Julian on that rooftop?* Why did I allow myself to end up like this? I suddenly laughed, my voice hoarse. "I regret it so much." A flicker of pity passed through his eyes. But it was quickly replaced by cold indifference. "It's too late for regrets. When you ruined my painting and targeted Daisy, you should have known there would be consequences." I shook my head. "No." "I don't regret ruining your painting." "I regret saving your life." His pupils contracted sharply. His heart seemed to drop into an abyss. He forced a stiff smile. "Well, you already did." He let go of my wrists and stood there, waiting. He probably expected me to scream, throw a tantrum, or try to hit them back. But I did none of those things. I didn’t even look at him. I turned and walked away, my back straight and resolute. A black Porsche Cayenne pulled up beside me. A handsome man stepped out and opened the passenger door for me. I got in. And I never looked back.