My Girlfriend's Appointed Massage Therapist Was Her First Love

I accidentally saw my girlfriend's chat history.

There were several close-up photos of her thighs and chest, the skin glowing with an enticing pink hue.

The recipient was Dr. Lewis.

They say doctors see no gender in their patients, but this Lewis is my girlfriend's ex-boyfriend, whom she loved for ten years.

***

My mind went blank for a moment, and I didn't even hear my girlfriend, Cynthia Ford, asking me to blow-dry her hair.

She stormed out of the bathroom, threw a towel on the floor, and was about to yell at me when she saw the phone in my hand and quickly snatched it back.

"Who told you to look at my phone?" she snapped before I could even ask.

"Cynthia, can you explain why you sent those photos to Eric?"

My throat felt tight, and I struggled to find the right words to calm her anger.

I just wanted a reasonable explanation.

If she was willing to talk, I would trust her.

"Liam, do I really need to explain my business to you?"

Cynthia's eyes widened, her beautiful face mixing disdain and anger.

She was like a proud peacock; just a slight frown from her would make me bow to her will.

Apologizing was the least I could do, and beyond that, I would have to write guarantees, transfer money, or buy her a bag—anything extra to appease her.

Whether she forgave me or not depended on her mood.

Even if I wasn't at fault, I had to lower myself whenever she was upset.

But this time, I found the courage to push back for the first time.

"Yes, you do!"

I looked her in the eye, my expression serious.

Perhaps my demeanor surprised her, as she paused.

A moment later, she exploded, "What problem could I possibly have with Eric? What's wrong with sending him some photos? I was sick and needed him to see!"

"You were sick? What's wrong with you?"

Hearing she was unwell made me grab her shoulders, checking her over carefully.

She shrugged off my hands, her voice gaining strength, "Yes, I'm sick! You didn't know? You're always busy with work; when do you ever care about my health? If it weren't for Eric, I might have died, and you wouldn't even know!"

She spoke as if the fault lay with me.

"But what kind of illness requires sending such private photos?"

After a brief moment of panic, I regained my composure.

A flicker of guilt crossed Cynthia's eyes. "It's an allergy to essential oils! You didn't know? I felt unwell, and Eric helped me with an essential oil massage, but my chest and thighs turned red, so he asked me to send him a photo to see what was wrong!"

I let out a bitter laugh, feeling a mix of emotions I couldn't articulate.

Even if it was an allergy, her actions felt hypocritical.

After we got together, she would reluctantly take some couple photos, and there was no way she would ever send revealing pictures.

She had once tearfully told me, "Liam, I'm a very conservative girl. I'm scared my photos might end up on some websites, so please don't force me."

She had spoken with such sincerity that I never dared to cross that line, not even taking pictures of her fully clothed without asking first.

But now, she was willingly sharing such intimate photos with another man, especially her ex-boyfriend.

As a man, I knew how a normal guy would react to those photos.

Just thinking about it felt like a knife twisting in my heart.

On the surface, I appeared calm, but inside, I was falling apart.

We stood there in silence, the atmosphere growing colder.

After a while, Cynthia's tone softened unexpectedly as she wrapped her arms around my neck.

"Liam, do you want me to go to the hospital and let another man examine me? Eric is the most convenient and reliable choice!"

"If you don't like it, I won't ask him again," she said, her lips almost brushing against my cheek.

In the past, I would have been taken aback by such affection.

With someone as warm and lovely as her in my arms, any man would struggle to resist.

But at that moment, I realized her affection was merely a diversion.

Love can resolve misunderstandings, but this situation was far from a simple misunderstanding.

I refused to delude myself any longer.

I released her hands and turned towards the bedroom.

"Cynthia, let's just take a moment to cool off!"

Cynthia stomped her foot behind me, furious. "Liam, don't say I didn't give you a chance! You're just getting too demanding!"

This was my first time engaging in a cold war with her, but it wasn't the first time I felt uneasy about her closeness to Eric.

When Eric came to our city to pursue his medical doctorate, Cynthia drove my car to pick him up from the train station, leaving me to squeeze onto the subway during rush hour.

The subway was packed like sardines, and I lost a shoe in the crowd, having to go to work with one foot bare.

I texted her about it, but it took ages for her to reply.

Finally, I received a message from her, mocking me for being unable to handle a little hardship.

Initially, I thought Eric was just a close classmate of hers, but during a class reunion, someone let it slip that Cynthia had been entangled with Eric for many years.

After that, I made it clear, both directly and indirectly, that I wanted her to keep her distance from Eric.

Yet, she continued as if nothing had changed.

Whenever I expressed even the slightest dissatisfaction, Cynthia would look at me with her enchanting eyes, as if I were a disappointment.

"Eric is a doctor; connections like that are hard to come by. When our family has health issues, who else will we turn to but Eric?"

I told her that we could see a doctor through proper channels and that she didn't need to compromise herself for someone like him.

Cynthia had once confessed to me how deeply hurt she was when she broke up with Eric, losing seven pounds in a week.

I didn't want to see her suffer because of his presence again.

Cynthia looked at me with indifference. "Liam, have you lost your mind? In this day and age, if you don't have some connections, which doctor is going to take you seriously at the hospital? If it weren't for our past relationship, we wouldn't even have the chance to know someone like Eric!"

Her argument was too solid for me to counter.

But when my dad suffered a brain hemorrhage and was hospitalized, the usually proactive Cynthia fell silent.

I tentatively suggested she ask Eric for help in reviewing the scans, but she quickly grew impatient.

"Liam, aren't you making things difficult? Eric is a massage therapist; he can't possibly look at brain scans!"

"Cynthia, didn't you say Eric was doing well at the hospital? Can't he help find someone who can?" I nearly begged her, thinking of my father's condition.

"Ugh, are you annoying me? Eric hasn't graduated yet; he wouldn't dare ask those big-shot doctors for favors. Just take a leave and go home to find a doctor there!" Cynthia's tone was icy, her refusal unwavering.

I turned over in frustration.

She claimed Eric wasn't a cardiologist, so he wouldn't help with my dad's scans.

But he wasn't a dermatologist either—why could Cynthia send him intimate photos?

Deep down, I already knew the answer; I just didn't want to face it.

When all possibilities are ruled out, the remaining possibility, no matter how cruel, is the truth.

I sighed heavily, feeling a wave of despair wash over me.

The next morning, I broke my routine and didn't make breakfast. I left early, something I'd never done before.

In the past, I would prepare breakfast and coax Cynthia to wake up.

She had a terrible morning mood, and I had to tread carefully, half-pleading and half-begging her to eat.

I would wait until she finished before eating her leftovers.

But not this time.

At work, I enjoyed a nutritious breakfast and started my day calmly.

Not long after, I received a call from Cynthia.

She was furious, accusing me of not waking her up and making her late for work.

She demanded I transfer her 5,000 dollars as compensation for her tardiness.

After listening, I paused and simply replied, "Next time, remember to set your own alarm."

Then came the silence.

One minute, two minutes, three minutes. Finally, Cynthia, growing impatient, shouted into the phone, "Liam, are you even listening? Are you mute? Transfer the money, or I swear I won't forgive you!"

Her voice was loud, drawing the attention of a few colleagues.

I quickly hung up.

How could Cynthia say such things?

She hadn't even explained her situation with Eric but was quick to blame me.

I pressed my fingers to my forehead, trying to calm my emotions.

A colleague nearby chuckled, teasing, "Your girl is like a thorny rose; not everyone can handle her! But, to be fair, she has her charms!"

I laughed it off, but inside, I felt bitter.

My hometown in the northwest was barren, where roses couldn't even grow in the desolate desert.

I understood that loving someone was like nurturing a flower, so I took great care of my girlfriend, this delicate bloom.

She was like a rose—beautiful, spirited, and sharp.

If she were just a girl with a bad temper, I could accept that.

I understood that the prettier the girl, the prouder she was.

From the first day we started dating, I had prepared to pamper her for life.

But what if she wasn't loyal?

What if she betrayed our love? Could I still accept that unconditionally?

I felt restless, barely making it through the workday.

Before heading home, I texted her, but the reply was a glaring message: [Sorry, you are not on the other person's friend list.]

Cynthia had deleted me unilaterally.

Whenever she was upset, she would delete me.

I would plead with her, thinking that if she deleted our chat history, everything would be forgotten.

I couldn't bear to lose those little moments.

If she really couldn't stand me, she could just block me.

So, she would block me, waiting for me to transfer money before unblocking me.

But this time, she had been so ruthless.

Blocked on iMessage, and she wouldn't answer my calls.

I opened Eric's chat, wanting to ask if he knew where Cynthia was, but accidentally clicked on his social media.

Moments ago, he had posted a video.

The lighting was dim, with a sultry red glow.

The camera shook wildly, and in the last few seconds, Cynthia reached out to cover the lens, her face flushed and shy, "Stop filming!"