The air in the opulent apartment hung thick with betrayal, a suffocating perfume of deceit. Amy stood, a ghost at the threshold of her own ruin, the sounds from beyond the closed door carving fresh wounds into her birthday. Her fiancé, Delvin, the man who had vowed eternal love, was in there, with someone else. The laughter, the moans—each sound a hammer blow to her heart.

She had come here, worried when his calls went unanswered, seeking a birthday wish that never came. Instead, she found the sordid truth. Three years of devotion, six months of engagement, all reduced to this disgusting spectacle. A bitter laugh escaped her lips, hollow and self-mocking. She, Amy, daughter of Sabastian Wilson, had been a fool.

With a strength born of pure, unadulterated disgust, she flung the door open. The sudden noise startled them, a tangled mess of limbs and sweat. "Amy," Delvin stuttered, scrambling off the woman, Mira, his face a mask of pathetic shock. Amy’s gaze swept over the scene, a cold, hard disgust settling deep in her stomach. The stench of their infidelity filled the room, making her nauseous. This wasn't anger she felt, but a profound, chilling contempt.

"So this is what you've been busy with, Delvin?" she asked, her voice surprisingly steady, laced with a mockery that cut deeper than any scream. She watched, a silent observer, as the drama unfolded, his weak excuses, Mira’s indignant snaps. They were pathetic. When Delvin, at Mira’s urging, began to throw her belongings out, Amy simply watched. A part of her hurt, a deep ache for the years wasted, but a larger part was already detached, observing the final, ignominious end of a lie. "When you are done with whatever you are doing," she said, turning to leave, "let's have a chat."

She walked out, the air outside the room a blessed relief. She couldn't breathe in that toxic space another second. She had only one question for Delvin, one simple, agonizing question: Why?