Giving up After 99 Bad Omens

According to the Winslow family's rules that are passed down for generations, anyone who wants to marry into the family must draw a tarot card.

But I have drawn 99 times, and every single card is a bad one.

Before the 100th draw, I see Clara Winslow replace all the Lovers cards in the deck.

She says, "No matter how many times he tries, he will only draw the worst cards."

I finally realize that she does not love me at all.

That is fine because I no longer want to marry her either.

I toss the cards aside and call my parents. "I accept the arranged marriage with the Shaws."

I ran into Clara Winslow again on my way out of the tarot studio. Her gaze paused on my swollen eyes for a couple of seconds before she looked away, her expression as calm as ever.

Lylia Moss, who was standing beside her, was the one who broke the awkward silence. "Mr. Quinn, are you heading back?"

My throat was still raw from crying, and it hurt too much to speak, so I merely nodded. Then, I walked to the ticket counter, planning to take the cable car down the mountain.

Behind me, Lylia sounded confused. "Are you taking the cable car? Aren't you going to make your way down on foot?"

I turned around and met the confusion in both her and Clara's eyes. A bitter feeling rose in my chest.

For three years, I'd come here 99 times to draw a card.

Every time, I'd dragged myself up the mountain step by painful step, then limped all the way back down, hoping God would see my sincerity and finally allow me to draw the Lovers card.

Only now did I understand that sincerity had never been enough.

If Clara herself didn't want me to have the Lovers card, no amount of devotion would get it for me, so why was I still making myself suffer?

I scanned the code, bought the ticket, and answered casually, "I'm tired. I don't feel like walking."

My hoarse voice had barely faded when Lylia raised the keys in her hand. "Clara and I are heading down, too. Why don't we give you a ride?"

Before I could refuse, Clara spoke flatly, "We're picking someone up. We don't have time."

As she brushed past me, she paused. Her eyes moved over my pale face, and in the end, she said, "If you know you're tired, don't do that to yourself again next time."

Clara had always been cold, even in the way she spoke. In the past, no matter how cruel her words were, I'd still thought her voice sounded pleasant.

Back then, I'd imagined that if she ever showed me concern, or if her voice ever softened with affection, it would sound even better.

Now, it seemed that was all there was to it.

…

After I went down the mountain, I headed straight for a barbecue restaurant.

For three years,