The shop is empty. I've just locked the front door when I notice the phone on table six. Someone left it behind. The screen lights up with a notification. I pick it up to take it to the lost-and-found box behind the counter.
Then I see the video.
It's trending. The caption says: *Seattle Tech Founder Eli Morgan Weds LA Heiress Paloma Gibson in Stunning Ceremony*. My thumb hovers over the screen. I don't mean to press play. But I do.
The video is three minutes long. A five-star venue with white roses everywhere. A string quartet. Eli stands at the altar in a charcoal tuxedo I've never seen. His hair is perfect. His smile is wide. The woman walking toward him wears a gown that probably costs more than my shop. She's tall. Beautiful. Her veil trails behind her like a cloud.
Eli takes her hand. The officiant speaks. Eli says, "I do." The woman says, "I do." They kiss. Everyone claps.
I watch it again. Then a third time. My face doesn't move. My hands don't shake. But something inside me cracks. It doesn't make a sound.
I set the phone down on the counter. I finish wiping the tables. I turn off the lights. I lock the door behind me and drive home.
Eli isn't there.
---
Three days later, he comes back. I'm chopping garlic at the kitchen counter when I hear his keys in the door. He drops his bag by the coat rack and walks over. He kisses my forehead. His lips are warm. He smells like expensive cologne.
"Hey," he says. "Miss me?"
I look at him. The scar above his left eyebrow catches the light. He got it when we were twelve. An older boy at the group home shoved me against a wall. Eli threw himself between us. The boy's ring split Eli's skin open. There was so much blood. Eli didn't cry. He just stood there with his hand pressed to his face and told the boy to leave me alone.
I believed in that scar for twenty years.
"How was your trip?" I ask.
"Exhausting," he says. He opens the fridge and pulls out a beer. "Investors are brutal. But I think we're close to closing the next round."
I set the knife down. I wipe my hands on my apron. "Eli," I say. "Let's go to the courthouse this week."
He pauses. Just for a second. Then his smile comes back. "What?"
"Let's get our marriage license," I say. "We've been talking about it forever. Let's just do it."
He takes a sip of his beer. His thumb brushes the scar above his eyebrow. "Babe," he says gently. "I want to. You know I do. But the company isn't stable yet. I want to give you a real wedding. Not something rushed."
"I don't need a real wedding," I say. "I just need the paper."
"Soon," he says. He steps closer and cups my face. "I promise. Just let me get through this next funding round. Then we'll do it right. Okay?"
I look into his eyes. He looks back. His expression is warm. Sincere. Loving.
I nod. "Okay."
He kisses me again and walks into the living room. I hear the TV turn on. I go back to chopping garlic. Each excuse lands in my chest like a stone.
---
I start watching him. Not obviously. Just quietly. I notice the bathroom door stays closed now when he checks his phone. I notice his "investor trips" always last exactly four days. I notice the way his thumb traces that scar every time he tells me he loves me.
I don't say anything. I just note it all.
Two weeks later, he tells me he has a meeting downtown with an investor. He kisses my forehead and leaves at six. I wait ten minutes. Then I follow his car.
He drives to a hotel. Not just any hotel. The kind with a valet and a marble lobby and chandeliers that cost more than I make in a year. He hands his keys to a man in a uniform and walks inside.
I sit in my car across the street for twenty minutes. My hands rest on the steering wheel. I don't feel nervous. I don't feel angry. I feel nothing.
Then I get out of the car and walk through the glass doors.
The lobby is all white stone and gold light. There's soft music playing. A few people sit in leather chairs near the windows. I scan the room and see him.
Eli is sitting in the lounge area. There's a woman next to him. She's wearing a cream silk blouse and tailored pants. Her hair is dark and glossy. Her nails are perfect. Eli's hand rests on the armrest between them. He's leaning toward her, smiling.
I walk over.
Eli sees me. His face goes blank for half a second. Then he stands up fast. "Kiara," he says. "What are you—"
The woman looks up at me. She doesn't stand. She just tilts her head and smiles. It's a small smile. Polite. Amused.
"Oh, sweetie," she says. Her voice is smooth. Expensive. "I'm Paloma. Eli's wife."
I look at her. Then I look at Eli. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.
Paloma's smile doesn't move.
