A Vow Lost to Time

The night I confessed my love to my girlfriend, she wept so hard she could barely breathe. She said she had seen the future, and she wanted to make a promise with me.

I asked her why. She only shook her head and said, "I don't remember… all I know is that in the future I regret something terribly. Frank, no matter what happens, you must give me three chances. Will you?"

I was deeply in love with Agnes Grey, so I agreed without hesitation.

But later, it was as if she had forgotten all about that night—forgotten it when she clung so intimately to her male assistant.

Only then did I understand why she'd made me promise that all those years ago.

Because the moment I signed my name on the divorce papers, I heard a familiar voice. It was Agnes at nineteen.

Through her sobs, she pleaded, "Frank… you promised me, didn't you? You said you'd give me three chances."

[Frank, I know this must be painful for you. But what Agnes and I have is real. I hope you can find it in yourself to let her be happy.]

The message lit up my phone. It was from Nicholas Morgan, Agnes Grey's assistant.

Aside from that message, the rest were videos and photos.

An impassioned embrace beneath the famed Tower of Love.

Whispers of affection before the murals of one of the most famous museums in the world.

Naked bodies tangled on the sands of a tropical paradise.

And even images of their unrestrained pleasure against a floor-to-ceiling window.

Only in that moment did I fully understand that Agnes was no longer the woman I had once loved.

We had met when we had nothing. For the sake of her acting career, I worked day and night, pouring every cent into her performances and running errands for her film crews.

For seven long years, I toiled until I slept on subway rides home, drank so hard at business parties that my stomach bled. Piece by piece, I built a company from nothing.

And in those same years, Agnes rose to fame, her name celebrated across the nation.

Everything we once dreamed of achieving together—she chose, in the end, to share with her assistant.

I didn't hesitate. I drafted the divorce papers.

Just as I was about to sign my name, a sudden voice echoed at my ear.

"Frank, don't! You promised me, remember? You said you'd give me three chances."

The familiar voice struck me like lightning. My body trembled.

I turned… and there stood Agnes at nineteen, delicate and ethereal, wearing the 30-dollar dress I once bought her with money from a part-time job.

In that dress, she had always been the most beautiful in my memory.

I stared blankly at her apparition, then unexpectedly, I laughed.

"All right. Three chances it is."

At that very moment, my phone rang again.

"Frank! How many times have I told you? Stop picking on Nicholas! He's only my