The Turncoat's Downfall

On a weekend afternoon, sunlight streamed through the car window onto Simon Foster's black sedan. I was sitting in the back seat, just about to grab something. My fingertip suddenly brushed against a cold plastic case — it wasn't my lipstick, nor the car charger. I hooked my finger around the thing and lifted it up—it turned out to be a breast pump. My breath caught instantly. "What is this?" I held up the breast pump, my voice tight, the words trembling at the end without me meaning to. Simon was backing up the car, and at my words, he glanced through the rearview mirror; the steering wheel paused for half a second before he casually shifted gears. "It's my colleague Quinn Williams borrowed the car to go to the hospital and left it behind." "Borrowed the car and left a breast pump?" I pressed on. The tips of his ears quietly flushed red—a telltale sign whenever he lied. A wave of unease surged through me. I kept asking, "She just got back from maternity leave last week, she doesn't have to bring the baby to work, so why was she going to the hospital?" Simon frowned impatiently. After stopping the car, he turned around and reached out to snatch the breast pump from my hands. "Why are you asking so many questions? She just had a baby. If she's feeling unwell and needs a checkup, what's wrong with bringing a breast pump?" I suddenly pulled back. Quinn Williams was his assistant—I'd seen her a few times. The first time was at the company's annual party. She came over with a bright smile, holding a glass of wine. "Ms. Thomas, Mr. Foster always says you're gentle, and meeting you today, I see he's right." The second time was last month. She delivered some documents to my home and casually mentioned, "Mr. Foster has been working late a lot recently, so I made some white fungus soup to help nourish him." At the time, I just thought she was a subordinate trying to curry favor with her boss, but looking back now, those words were dripping with hidden flirtation. The next morning, I went downstairs ten minutes early and noticed the passenger seat was pushed way back, the backrest almost flat, and on the floor mat was a long light brown hair—not mine. Quinn was holding a baby, standing by the car. When she saw me, she smiled with a completely innocent look: "Ms. Thomas, good morning. Last night Simon said it would be inconvenient for me to sit in the back with the baby, so he told me to sit in front today to watch over the baby more easily." Simon came over from the trunk and casually added, "Quinn just got back to work and has no one to take care of the baby. I'm giving her a ride to the daycare near the company. Sorry to make you sit in the back." I looked at Simon, seeing a tenderness on his lips I had never seen before. My heart felt like it was being pricked by needles—sharp, overwhelming pain. As we drove out of the neighborhood, Simon turned on some music—a soothing piano piece. I used to say this song helped me sleep, but today, all I could hear was how grating it felt. Less than two kilometers out, a heavy truck suddenly barreled out from a side road on the right, smashing straight into my car door. With a loud bang, the airbag exploded open instantly, slamming hard into my face. A sharp pain shot through my nose bridge. The car window shattered with a crash, shards cutting my arm, blood dripping from my fingertips. I was dizzy for a long time. When I struggled to push open the car door, I crawled out, covered in blood. The truck driver was long gone; only the truck remained, parked crooked by the roadside, its front still smoking. Not far off, Simon and Quinn sat in a taxi. Quinn was wiping the dust off Simon's face with a tissue, while Simon looked at me from a distance, his eyes cold and piercing, completely lacking any hint of concern. I gritted my teeth against the pain and took it one step at a time, heading home. As I neared my apartment building entrance, a gust of wind blew, and Quinn's voice floated into my ear: "Simon, your little accident was way too convincing. I nearly jumped when it happened. She definitely won't dare meddle in our affairs again." Simon's laughter followed, piercing my heart like an ice pick: "What choice do we have? We can't let her find out about us. Once her leg heals, I'll persuade her to have a baby. With a child tying her down, she won't be able to cause a stir." I froze in place, feeling as if my blood had turned to ice. So this car accident wasn't an accident at all—it was a carefully orchestrated lie. Later, I asked Henry, a great assistant of my father, to check the surveillance footage at the community entrance. The footage captured his deal with the truck driver. The image wasn't very clear, but I could distinctly see the ruthless expression on Simon's face. At that moment, I knew it was completely over between him and me.