When I was seven, my father brought home a beautiful lady who gave me a box of mangoes.

That day, my mother watched me happily eating those mangoes while she signed her name on the divorce papers. After that, she jumped off the roof of our building.

From then on, mangoes became the nightmare of my life.

So on my wedding day, I told my husband, Alan Holt, "If you ever want a divorce, just give me a mango."

Alan pulled me into his arms, quiet.

From then on, mangoes became off-limits for him, too.

On Christmas Eve of our fifth year of marriage, Alan's childhood sweetheart, Larissa Fennimore, left a mango on his desk at the office.

The very same day, Alan announced he was cutting ties with Larissa and fired her from the company.

That day, I truly believed he was the man I was meant to be with.

Half a year later, I flew back from overseas, having just closed a partnership deal worth about 200 million dollars.

At the celebration dinner, Alan handed me a drink.

After I had finished half the glass, his so-called childhood sweetheart, the woman who had been kicked out of the company, stood behind me with a big grin and asked, "Does the mango juice taste good?"

I stared at Alan in disbelief, and he was trying hard not to laugh.

"Don't be mad. Larissa insisted I played a little joke on you. I didn't actually give you a mango; I just gave you a bottle of mango juice. But I think she's right. The fact that you don't eat mangoes is a real problem. You were really enjoying that juice just now."

My face went cold. I lifted my hand and threw the rest of the mango juice in his face, then turned around and walked away.

Some things are never a joke.

I wouldn't kid around with mangoes or divorce.
Chapter 1
"Ms. Mendez, your stomach condition flared up again because of stress and emotional triggers.
"If there's something you really don't like to eat, you mustn't force it down again. The next time might not just be a stomachache. We might have to remove part of your stomach."
"Stay in the hospital for observation for one day, and contact your family as soon as you can."
When I heard the doctor say that, I went completely quiet.
For the sake of a new project, I had been overseas for 39 straight days, working day and night, and I finally made it back in one piece. I never expected that at the celebration dinner, one glass of mango juice from Alan would land me right in a hospital bed.
Out of habit, I tapped open my pinned chat on WhatsApp, typed two words, and then realized something felt off.
Looking closely, I confirmed that it was Alan Holt.
He had just changed his profile picture. Now, it was a green mango.
While I was staring blankly at the chat window, Alan's call came through. He sounded cold.
"I'm already home. Where are you?"
I said nothing.
Any other time, I would soften my voice and act like a spoiled little girl with him. But tonight, I honestly didn't know what to say.
Alan sounded annoyed. "Myra, how long are you planning to keep this up?"
"I'm at the hospital."
Alan went quiet. He had never shown much interest in my health.
He would never have guessed that one glass of mango juice from him would send me straight to the emergency room.
"Stay put at the hospital. I'm coming over right now."
I didn't want to deal with him, but my body was so weak that I didn't feel like moving at all.
Time dragged by. The doctor came in to check on me three different times, and Alan still didn't show up.
Right before I went to sleep, I glanced at my phone one last time and saw Larissa Fennimore's new post on her social feed.
[Every time I get hurt, my knight in shining armor shows up. I'm so lucky!]
The picture under it was a shot of Alan putting a bandage on her.
Larissa's profile picture was a yellow mango.
It was pretty, but it made me sick.

Chapter 2
Alan and I had known each other for ten years, and he had always known exactly where my bottom line was.
After so many years in business, he also knew perfectly well how to keep a proper distance from other women.
But now, he kept crossing that line again and again.
In that case, our marriage and the newest project I had negotiated no longer needed to exist.
I had closed a 200-million-dollar deal in Westarken that could've changed the company's future, but at that moment, it didn't matter anymore.
When I woke up the next morning, Alan hadn't sent a single message or made a single call.
I wasn't even angry.
After the follow-up check confirmed I was fine, I went straight home to a 5,300-square-foot luxury villa that Alan and I had bought the previous year.
Seven years ago, when we graduated, we squeezed into a basement room and shared one cup of instant noodles.
Five years ago, when we registered our marriage, we ate at a street food stall and went home with a tiny four-inch cake.
Now, I was alone in a huge empty house, nursing my wounds by myself.
I figured I would get used to it eventually.
I was reviewing the divorce papers the lawyer sent me when Alan finally came home.
With him came a strong wave of rose perfume. It hit me so hard that I blinked in surprise.
Alan had extremely sensitive skin and was allergic to most cosmetics. He hated perfume more than anything.
Because of that, all these years with him, I never used skincare products. I picked shampoo with the same care people use when choosing a wedding dress.
As it turned out, he was only strict with me.
When he saw me lying on the couch with my tablet, he froze for a second.
"Larissa drank a little too much at the celebration dinner last night and fell, so I took her home first. Later, it got really late, and it's far out there, so I grabbed a random hotel nearby and didn't make it to the hospital to pick you up."
I nodded, terminated another partnership agreement on my tablet, and casually replied, "Okay. Got it."
Alan opened his mouth, but he got stuck for a moment.
It seemed my reaction wasn't what he expected.
After hesitating, he stepped closer and lowered his gaze.
"It's Saturday. You shouldn't be working today. I'm planning to take Larissa on a trip to Presia. Do you want to come with us?"
Seven years ago, on my birthday, Alan and I took a five-dollar photo at a night market. The backdrop was a cheap cardboard cutout of the Presian Tower.
He promised that one day, when we had money, he would take me to Presia and take the exact same photo in front of the real tower.
Later, our homes got bigger and our business thrived, but he got busier. He kept coaxing me gently.
"Myra, this is a critical time for the company. As the head of the company, I can't just drop everything and fly overseas whenever I feel like it. You're the most understanding person I know. You get that, right?"