The Ring Buried Under Dried Succulent Soil

1 I came home late after working overtime on Valentine's Day, only to find that the succulent Brooke and I had planted together three years ago was dead. She used to say it symbolized our love. Low maintenance. It didn't need much care to thrive. I knelt on the balcony, staring at the shriveled, blackened green leaves. Suddenly, I felt an urge to take a photo and send it to her. I tapped send. A bright red exclamation mark popped up on my screen. And then, I remembered. Two weeks ago, Owen, her childhood best friend, had brought over a cactus. He claimed that cactus symbolized his bond with Brooke. I had told her we didn't have any spare pots and that we shouldn't keep it. Brooke had simply pointed to the balcony. "Why don't we just empty the succulent's pot?" she'd said. "Why are you getting so worked up over a plant?" I thought she was just joking. But now, the cactus was sitting right there in the custom ceramic pot we had painted together. It took up half the space on the balcony. I opened Instagram and saw Owen's latest post. "The one who loves you will always take care of your cactus. Happy Valentine's Day." The attached photo showed two hands with fingers tightly locked together. The background was my balcony. … By the time I carried the dead succulent to the dining table, a local courier arrived with a cake. Brooke hadn't replied to my messages, but the cake did. "Happy Valentine's Day, Owen." I stared at those words for a long time. I didn't cry. I didn't throw a tantrum or smash anything. I just felt that a lot of things over the past seven years finally made sense. It turned out she wasn't incapable of planning surprises. I was just the one who wasn't worth the effort. I knelt down to clean out the flowerpot. The succulent had died quietly, its leaves shrunken into a dusty, moldy gray-green clump, the roots rotted, the soil cracked. As my trowel scraped the very bottom, a ring rolled out. It made a soft clinking sound, light but heavy enough to shatter something inside my chest. Engraved on the inside of the band were two letters: GB. Reid and Brooke. Next to the ring lay a small card, soggy and ruined by the damp soil. "When it blooms, I'll marry you." I laughed. Succulents rarely bloom. We had been together for seven years, and she didn't even know that. Or maybe she did, and she just didn't care. To her, I was just like that succulent. Low maintenance. Left alone in a corner, I would somehow survive. The front door clicked open. I knew it was Brooke. She walked in carrying a bouquet of white roses, her shoulders damp with rain. Seeing the ring and the cake on the table, she froze. "You found it?" I pointed to the trash bag. "I didn't dig it up," I said, looking up at her. "It spat itself out before it died." Brooke frowned. "Reid, don't talk like that." I looked at the white roses in her arms. "Are those Owen's favorite?" She looked down, as if she had just noticed them. "The florist must have mixed up the orders." I slid the cake box toward her. "Did the florist mix up the cake too?" Brooke's expression shifted. She stayed silent for a moment before speaking. "Owen had some trouble at his shop this afternoon. Some customers left terrible reviews, and he was having a breakdown. I just ordered a cake to cheer him up." I nodded slowly. "So the ring is mine, the flowers are his, and the cake is his too." I looked at her, my voice quiet. "Brooke, who exactly was this proposal for?" An irritated look flashed in her eyes. "Do you have to make everything sound so ugly?" I opened Owen's post on my phone and held it up to her face. "He has no boundaries. But do you not have a voice to speak up?" Brooke bit her lip. "He's been in a bad place lately. I was just trying to help him feel better." "So blocking me was also just to make him feel better?" She gasped. I showed her the red exclamation mark. Panic finally crept into her face. "He told me you were using a burner account to harass him, that you were driving him to the edge. I was just angry in the moment..." A hollow chuckle escaped me. "I never did that." Brooke closed her eyes. "I know that now." A single tear slipped down her cheek. It fell quietly, like the sound of that ring hitting the dirt. Two weeks ago, Owen had stood on my balcony crying the exact same way. He had held that cactus, his fingers slightly red from the prick of a thorn. He told me it was a plant they had bought together from a street vendor back in high school. "Back then, she always said I was like a cactus," he said, smiling at me. "Prickly, but she loved me anyway." Then he added softly, "Reid, don't get me wrong. I'm not trying to take anything from you." But the moment he turned to Brooke, his story changed. "I have nothing left now. I can't even keep a cactus alive." The look Brooke gave me back then made me feel like I was the villain driving him out. Some spaces aren't stolen. They are willingly given away. I slid the ring back to her. "Then marry him instead." Brooke's face went pale. "Reid, stop acting out." She reached out to grab my hand. "Tonight is Valentine's Day. I was planning to take you down by the river to propose." The river. That was where we first held hands seven years ago. Back then, she had said, "Reid, stay with me, and I promise I'll never let you suffer." Nearly every ounce of pain I suffered after that came from her. Her phone buzzed. Caller ID: Owen. Brooke declined it. It rang a second time, then a third. Finally, he sent a voice message, sobbing hysterically. "Brooke, can you please come over? Someone is banging on my shop door... I'm so scared..." Brooke's expression tightened. She grabbed her car keys. I watched her hands. The fingers that had just been holding mine had already let go. "Are you leaving?" She paused, keys in hand. "It's an emergency, Reid. It's a matter of life and death." I stared at her. "Did he call the police?" She frowned, as if my question was heartless. "He's terrified. How could he think straight right now?" I didn't say another word. I simply laid our pre-marital health screening report on the table. The date on it was this morning. We had agreed to do the checkup today, sign the marriage license at City Hall tomorrow, and then go for our final wedding attire fittings. She had forgotten. Because she had spent the entire afternoon helping Owen repair the drip irrigation system for his cactus. Brooke looked at the report, the color draining from her face. "Reid, I..." Her phone rang again, cutting her off. "Wait for me to come back," she said, her voice tight. "What if I don't?" I asked. She looked at me with that familiar, patronizing look, as if waiting for a child to get over a tantrum. "You will." The door slammed shut, plunging the apartment back into silence. A single petal fell from the white roses. I sat at the table, staring at the cake with Owen's name written on it. Seven years ago, Brooke promised I would never suffer. Seven years later, she made sure I was used to it. I called the bridal boutique. "Hi, I'd like to cancel tomorrow's fitting appointment." The representative asked for a reason. I stared at the ring on the table. "There isn't going to be a wedding." After hanging up, I opened my chat with my boss, Rachel. Two weeks ago, she had asked if I wanted to take on an overseas project. Three years abroad, and I would return as a partner. I hadn't given her an answer then. Now, I typed: "I'll take the overseas assignment." Rachel replied almost instantly. "Are you sure?" "Yes." "How soon can you leave?" I pulled open my drawer and took out my passport. "Tonight." When Brooke returned at three in the morning, her sleeve was stained with yellow-brown antiseptic. It wasn't hers. It was from Owen's scratch, a tiny wound that hadn't even broken the skin. I was still sitting in the living room. The cake hadn't been touched. Neither had the roses. The ring sat exactly where she left it. But now, there was a suitcase by my feet. The moment she walked in, she scanned my face. "Is your stomach hurting?" Without waiting for an answer, she walked to the kitchen to pour a glass of warm water, then grabbed my stomach medication from the drawer. The water was the perfect temperature. I used to fall for this every single time. She knew exactly where my medicine was, knew the water shouldn't be too hot, and knew my stomach flared up when I was stressed. So I always lied to myself, thinking she still loved me, that she was just too busy. But tonight, I finally understood. Being remembered out of habit is not the same as being chosen. "Is Owen okay?" I asked. Her hand froze. "He's fine." "Did his shop get vandalized?" "No." I nodded. "So he lied." She frowned, looking like she wanted to defend him, but eventually she just lowered her gaze. "He was just really scared." A notification popped up on my phone. Owen had posted again. In the photo, Brooke stood outside his flower shop, her shirt damp from the rain, holding a broken piece of cactus. The caption read: "She said whenever I'm scared, she'll always be there." Someone commented: "Is this your girlfriend?" Owen replied: "Not my girlfriend, but someone even better." Brooke saw the post, and her expression darkened. "I'll make him delete it." I looked up at her. "Just delete it?" Her frown deepened, her face growing colder. "What else do you want him to do?" "A public apology," I said calmly. "No, that's too much." She answered too quickly. The room went dead silent. I smiled. "See? You don't even have to think about it." Brooke closed her eyes. "He is in a very fragile state right now, Reid. Stop pushing him." "I'm pushing him?" "Reid, you're the mature one. You're stronger than him." There it was again. You're mature. You're strong. You can handle it. So you're the one who always has to yield. I stood up and reached for my suitcase, but Brooke slammed her hand down on the handle. "What are you doing?" "Moving out." Her brow furrowed tightly. "Over an Instagram post?" "Because I don't want to live in the background of Owen's life anymore." I pulled open the closet doors. "There are slippers for him at the door, a mug for him in the kitchen, and his cactus on the balcony." I paused, placing the boutique cancellation slip on top of my suitcase. "He even wore the wedding suit I was supposed to try on tomorrow." Brooke's face drained of color. I handed her my phone. Owen had posted a video thirty minutes ago. He was wearing my white groom's suit, spinning in front of the mirror at the boutique. The caption was: "Not my suit, but she paid for it." At the end of the video, the camera panned to the receipt on the counter. It was charged to Brooke's platinum card. Brooke stared at the screen, her face turning pale. "He said he wanted to take promotional photos for his shop... He borrowed my card to book the venue. I didn't know he would do this." I nodded. "Of course you didn't." I looked at her. "Because every time you needed to know, you chose to look the other way." Three days ago, the bridal shop called me to confirm my measurements. Owen had tagged along. He claimed he was delivering flowers nearby and wanted to drop by. As I stood in the fitting room while the tailor adjusted the shoulders, Owen spoke through the curtain. "Reid, do you mind if I try on the best man's suit? I've never worn a suit this expensive before." The clerk had politely corrected him. "Sir, the appointment today is strictly for the groom's primary attire." Owen smiled weakly. "Oh, sorry. I was just curious. I know I don't deserve something like this anyway." His voice trailed off. Brooke, who had been looking at her phone on the couch, looked up. "If he wants to try it, let him." The clerk looked uneasy. "Ms. Brooke, this is the groom's actual suit for tomorrow's fitting." Owen pulled his hand back, his eyes instantly turning red. "I'm sorry. I forgot I'm not the groom." Brooke frowned. "Reid, what's the big deal? Letting him try it on won't ruin it." I stared at her. "This is my wedding suit." Brooke stood up and handed her platinum card to the clerk. "Charge the dry cleaning, the venue fee, and any wear-and-tear to my card." Then she turned to me, as if I were the one making a scene. "Don't make this more difficult than it needs to be." That day, I stood in front of the three-way mirror in my white suit. But outside the curtain, she was shielding Owen as if he were the groom who had been wronged. Coming back to reality, Brooke wrapped her arms around me from behind. "Don't leave," she whispered, her voice cracked. "Reid, I was wrong." "I'll reschedule the fitting. I'll buy a new ring. I'll take back his card and cut off his shop's funding." She was always good at apologizing, and she was always good at taking care of me. Which was why her betrayals always cut so deep. "Brooke, do you even know what tomorrow is?" I asked. Her body went stiff. I showed her the City Hall marriage appointment confirmation text. "Your appointment is scheduled for tomorrow at 9:30 AM. Please bring all necessary identification." Brooke froze. A Valentine's Day checkup, followed by signing the papers the next day. Then the suit fitting. She had promised me we would make up for all the missing milestones. But today, she chose to fix Owen's cactus instead. As if stung, Brooke spun around and ran to the balcony. "I'll throw it out right now." She reached for the drip system, then stopped. "Wait, we can't just yank it out, it'll leak." "And the needles will die." She instinctively protected the cactus, just like she had protected Owen a thousand times before. I opened the balcony cabinet, looking for my birth certificate copy. It wasn't there. Eventually, I found it under the flower stand. Our marriage appointment slip had been stuffed beneath the cactus stand. Water from the drip system had leaked onto the paper, soaking the edges and running the ink. I held it up. "Did you put this here?" Brooke stared at it, stammering. "Owen said the stand was uneven. I... I just grabbed something to prop it up." A prop. The day we were supposed to start our lives together was nothing more than a piece of scrap paper to stabilize his cactus. My phone buzzed again. It was a screenshot from Owen. "Reid, don't blame Brooke." "It's not that she doesn't love you. It's just that she knows I need her more." "You're so strong. You can handle being second best once, right?" A second later, another photo arrived. A wrist wrapped in thick gauze, with a utility knife lying next to it. "If I disappeared, would you guys finally be happy?" Then a text. "You can get married any day. I only have today." Brooke's face shifted instantly. I looked at her quietly. "Are you going to leave this time too?" Her breathing grew shallow. "I'll call 911. But I need to go see him, just to make sure." I let out a soft laugh. "Brooke, tomorrow at nine-thirty is our appointment." I spoke slowly, making sure she heard every word. "If you walk out that door right now, don't bother coming back." She looked at me. In that split second, I saw the scales in her mind tilt yet again. "Reid, we can always reschedule a wedding," she said. "But a life is on the line." I nodded. "Go ahead." The moment the door slammed, I messaged the landlord. "Please reset all the door codes immediately. I want the locks changed tomorrow." The reply came instantly. "Of course, Mr. Reid. The title deed and transfer documents have been left in your lockbox." Next, I messaged Brooke's mother. "Don't worry about lunch next week. The wedding is off." My phone rang immediately. "Reid, honey, I know you're feeling hurt," her mother said. "But Brooke is a young woman, and young women sometimes have friends who don't know their place." "Owen has been fragile since he was a kid. Brooke is just used to looking after him." "You're about to be her husband. Fighting over this with him is beneath you." "He wore my wedding suit," I said. "Is that beneath me too?" The line went quiet for a moment. "It's just a suit. It's not like he ruined the fabric." "What about this apartment?" The silence on the other end became wedding-silent. Three years ago, Brooke's family business was on the verge of bankruptcy. I emptied my savings to pay off their remaining debts and secure the deed to this place. Her mother had personally promised me that the apartment would be transferred into my name. She lowered her voice. "Reid, you have to leave people some dignity." I smiled. "Did you leave me any dignity when you took my money?" Her tone hardened. "Don't forget, Brooke doesn't know about that arrangement. If you blow this up, both our families will look ridiculous." "I have spent the last seven years looking ridiculous." She grew frantic. "I'll talk to Owen. I'll make sure he backs off." "For now, just record a quick video apologizing to him. Tell him it was all a misunderstanding." "If he actually does something to himself, you'll have to live with that guilt forever." "And what about me?" I asked. The line fell silent. "But you're fine, aren't you?" she said. I didn't answer. I just watched the recording light on my phone screen turn from red to black. At five in the morning, Rachel's black sedan pulled up downstairs. She stood by the car door in a dark trench coat, holding an umbrella. "Do you have your documents?" "Yes." "Your stomach medicine?" "In the suitcase." Her brow furrowed. "Keep a pack in your coat pocket." Once she saw me do it, she took my suitcase. "Reid, once you walk away, don't look back to see if the fire is burning bright enough." I smiled slightly. "Rachel, your pep talks sound like military retreat orders." She glanced back at me, a brief smile breaking through her serious expression. "That's because you look like you just crawled out of a war zone." The highway lights flashed past as we headed toward the airport. My phone buzzed constantly. First Brooke, then her mother, then Owen. Finally, a voice note from Brooke came through. "Reid, Owen didn't cut his wrists. It was just a scratch, it didn't even bleed." "I'm heading home now. Wait for me." I didn't reply. I boarded my flight. On the other side of town, Brooke rushed back to the apartment, only to find the door code had already been changed. In the lockbox by the door, she found a manila envelope. A sticky note on the front read: "Ms. Brooke, your things are inside. Mine are gone." She tore the envelope open. The first page was a copy of the property deed. Owner: Reid. The second page was a record of the bank transfers from three years ago. Recipient: Brooke's mother. Purpose: Final mortgage payment and debt clearance. The third page was an agreement signed by her mother. "I hereby agree to transfer the deed of this property to Reid. The payment has been received in full." "This matter shall remain confidential from Brooke." The color drained completely from Brooke's face. She had always believed this apartment was her family's contribution to their marriage. She thought I was living under her roof. She thought I was the one desperate to marry her. But three years ago, the man her mother had called "cheap" and "calculating" had used his life savings to save her family home. When she flipped to the very last page, her entire body went rigid. It was a police report from three years ago. Reporting Officer: Reid. Suspect: Owen. Under the notes section, there were two lines: "Case closed at the request of the reporting party." "Reason for withdrawal: To avoid impacting Ms. Brooke's company funding and upcoming marriage. Voluntary settlement reached." Brooke gripped the paper so hard her knuckles turned white. Three years ago. What on earth did Owen do to me back then?